Equally odd and irregular the arrangement inside. An entrance-hall with a wide stairway carried up around it, the oak balusters very beams, with a profusion of carving on them; on each landing, corridors dimly lighted leading off to rooms no two on the same level; some of them bed-chambers, only to be got at by passing through other sleeping apartments interposed between. And, turn which way one would, along passages, or from room to room, short flights of stairs, or it might be but a step or two, were encountered everywhere, to the imminent risk of leg or neck-breaking.
Though such a structure may appear strange to the modern eye, it did not so then, for there was nothing uncommon in it Hollymead House was but one of many like mansions of the day, though one of the largest and most imposing. Nor are they all gone yet. Scores of such still stand throughout the shires of the marches, and in perfect repair, to commemorate the architectural skill, or rather the absence of it, which distinguished our ancestry in the Tudor times.
The owner of Hollymead, Ambrose Powell, was a man of peculiar tastes and idiosyncrasies, some evidence of which appears in the baptismal names he had bestowed upon his daughters. A fancy, having its origin in the fact that from a hill above the house could be seen the two great western rivers, Wye and Severn—poetically, Vaga and Sabrina—themselves in a sense sisters, nurslings from the same breast of far Plinlimmon. From the summit of that “tump” his elder daughter had looked on her name-mother at a later date than she made pretence of when urging the younger up the ridge between Ruardean and Drybrook. It was a wild, witching spot, the grey rocks of mountain limestone here and there peeping out from a low growth of hazel, hawthorn, yew, and holly. But the summit itself was bare, affording on all sides a varied and matchless panorama of landscape. Being within the boundaries of their own domain, Sabrina oft climbed up to it; not for the view’s sake alone, but because it was to her hallowed ground, sacred as the place where she had made surrender of her young heart, when she told Sir Richard Walwyn it was his. There was a pretty little summer house, with seats, and many an hour Ambrose Powell himself spent there, in the study of books and the contemplation of Nature—his delight. Not in a mere meditative way, or as an idle dreamer; but an active observer of its workings and searcher after its secrets. Nor did he confine himself to this, but also took an interest in the affairs of man, so strong as to have studied them in every aspect—probed the social and political problems of human existence to their deepest depths. Which had conducted him to a belief—a full, firm conviction—in the superiority of republican institutions; as it must all whose minds are as God made or intended them, and not perverted by prejudice or corrupted by false teachings. He was, in point of fact, a Puritan, though not of the extreme stern sort; in his ways of thinking rather as Hampden and Sir Harry Vane, or with still closer similitude to a people then scorned and persecuted beyond all others—the “Friends.” It is difficult in these modern days, under the light of superior knowledge, and a supposed better discrimination between right and wrong, to comprehend the cruelties, ay barbarous atrocities, to which were submitted the “Friends,” or, as commonly called, “Quakers.” A people who, despite their paucity of numbers, did then, and since then have done and been doing, more to ennoble the national character of England than all the apostles of her Episcopacy, with her political boasters and military braggarts to boot. If neither the most notorious nor glorious, no names in England’s history can compare in goodness and gracefulness with the Penns of 1640 and the Brights of 1880.
Though not a professed “Friend,” Ambrose Powell was a believer in their faith and doctrines; and in his daily walk and life acted very much in accordance with them. But not altogether. From one of their ideas he dissented—that of non-resistance. Of a proud, independent spirit, despite his gentle inclinings, he would brook no bullying; the last man to have one cheek smitten and meekly turn the other to the smiter. Instead, he would strike back. A scene we are now called upon to record, and which occurred on that same evening, gives appropriate illustration of this phase of his character.
Chapter Nine.
A Right Royal Epistle.
The girls had got home, hard breathing, panting, from the haste they had made. But though supper was announced as set, they did not think of sitting down to it, but instead, entered the withdrawing-room, a large apartment, with windows facing front. In the bay of one of these, their dresses unchanged and their hoods still on, they took stand, with eyes bent down the avenue, all visible from the window. At intervals along the road they had heard behind them the trampling of hoofs, and knew from what horses it proceeded. The sounds, at first faint and distant, had grown more distinct as they reached the park gate, and they had come up the avenue with a run, to the surprise and somewhat alarm of their father, who at the time was outside awaiting their return.
Already in wonder at their being so late, he would have inquired into the cause. But they anticipated him by at once telling him where they had been, what seen, and who, as they supposed, was advancing along the Ruardean road.
This last bit of intelligence seemed greatly to excite him; and while his daughters watched from the window, he himself was also keeping vigil in the porch outside. After hearing what they had to say, he had remained there, letting them pass in.
For a time the gaze of all was fixed on the park entrance, at the lower end of the long avenue, where a massive oak gate traversed between two piers of mason-work, old and ivy-mantled. Only for a short while were they kept in suspense. The flurried girls had barely got back their breath when a grey horse was seen, with head jam up against the gate, his rider bending down in the saddle to undo its fastenings.
In an instant after it was pushed open, and they saw Reginald Trevor come riding on towards the house, for they were now sure of its being he. He was yet at too great a distance for them to read the expression upon his face; but one near enough might have noted it as strange, without being able to interpret it. All the more because of its seeming to undergo constant and sudden changes; now as one advancing reluctantly to the performance of some disagreeable duty, wavering and seeming half-inclined to back out of it; anon, with resolution restored through some opposing impulse, as anger, this shown by the fire flashing in his eyes.
Never had he ridden up that avenue swayed by such feelings, or under the excitement of emotions so varied or vivid. Those he had hitherto felt while approaching Hollymead House were of a different nature. Confident always, or, if doubting, not enough to give him any great uneasiness. Vaga Powell resist him! She, a green country girl; he, a skilled, practised Lothario, conqueror in many a love combat! He could not think of failure. Nor would he have thought of it yet, believing the sole obstruction to his suit lay in the father. But now he had to face that father in a way likely to make his hostility more determined—turn it into very hate, if it was not so already.
In truth, a rôle of a very disagreeable kind was Reginald Trevor called upon to play; and more than once since entering on it he had felt like cursing Sir John Wintour in his heart—the King as well.
As he drew near to the house, and saw the two fair faces in the window—a little surprised seeing hoods over their heads at that hour—he more than ever realised the awkwardness of his errand. And, possibly, if at that last moment Vaga Powell had come forth, as oft before, to give him greeting, or even bestowed a smile from where she stood, he would have risked all, forgiven the insult he had received, and left his duty undone.
But no smile showed upon the girl’s face, no glance gave him welcome; instead, he saw something like a frown, as never before. Only with a glimpse of that face was he favoured; Vaga, as he drew up in front, turning her back on him, and retiring into the shadowed obscurity of the room, whither her sister had preceded her.
It may have been only a seeming rudeness on their part, and unintentional. Whether or no, it once more roused his resentment