‘Ay, that’s so,’ acquiesced Will.
The farmer and his wife, all unconscious of wrong, rather bridled at this information, but Hugh Owen looked grave and his dark eyes seemed to question eagerly for more. This last was rather a remarkable young man, both outwardly and inwardly. From a child he had been a student, and now might almost have been termed a scholar, though a self-taught one. His face was so earnest and introspective in its expression, that it made one forget that his features were not strictly handsome. His sallow complexion, dark grey eyes, large nose, and thin-lipped mouth, were far less attractive than his younger brother’s fair skin and Saxon characteristics, but no one looked twice at William Owen, while few could forget Hugh. His tall, gaunt frame, nervous hands, and straight hair, all told the same tale, of a man who had used his intellect more than his muscle, and cared for his brains before his body. From a child Hugh Owen had felt the power within him, and had delighted to mount a rostrum of his own erection, and hold forth to his playmates on any subject which occupied his mind at the moment. As he grew into a lad, he scorned farm work and only wanted to be left alone with his books and studies, until his father, not knowing what to make of him, and fearing he was ‘daft,’ consulted the minister about him. This minister was a Wesleyan, an earnest, devout man, though rather unlearned, who saw in young Owen’s proclivities only a ‘call’ to the ministry, and persuaded his proud parents to send him to school at Newport, whence, after several years of study, he returned to Usk and was elected to take part in the services of the dissenting chapel. But, added to his ministerial duties, Hugh Owen had taken to preaching at the corners of the bye-roads and on the common, or wherever he could collect an audience or obtain a hearing. Some people said he was mad, others, that he was a saint. His parents and friends thought the latter, but he was only a young enthusiast, whose whole heart and soul and mind were filled with one idea, with which he panted to imbue the whole world. As Hetty chattered about Nell, and what she had done and said in London, Hugh’s eyes became strained and anxious, and his attention was wholly enchained.
‘I never heard before,’ he said presently, ‘of maid-servants drinking their tea off silver trays and sitting in the best rooms.’
‘That’s only because you don’t know anything of London life,’ cried Hetty, tossing her little head. ‘Nell says it’s quite different from the country, and anyone can see so for themselves. Why, the gentleman who met us at the play (I forget his name) spoke to our Nell just as if she was a lady, and took off his hat when we drove away in the cab, as if we were duchesses. Oh, it was lovely; I wish we lived in London always.’
‘You’ve had quite enough of town life for awhile, my lass,’ observed her father. ‘Your head would be turned with much more. You’ll be expecting mother to give you your tea on a silver tray next.’
‘Oh, never mind the tray!’ exclaimed Mrs Llewellyn impatiently. ‘If it had been of gold, it couldn’t have been too good for our Nell. But tell me how she looked, Hetty. Is she quite well and bonny? Does she seem happy in this grand place? Does she have plenty to eat, or did you see any signs of fretting after the old home in my girl? for if so, I’ll have her back, ay, if she was housekeeper to twenty lords, or the Prince of Wales himself; God bless him.’
‘Oh, no, mother, don’t you worry. Nell is as happy as happy can be. I’m sure of that. Of course she’d like to come home for a bit. I could see the tears in her eyes when she spoke of you and father—’
‘God bless my lass,’ cried her mother, interrupting her. ‘When you say that, I feel as if I couldn’t rest another night without she came home. What a pretty thing she was at sixteen—you remember her, Hugh, with her bright hair streaming down her back, and her eyes dancing with fun and mischief. The prettiest lass in all Usk, or for miles around. Everybody said so. Didn’t they, Hugh?’
‘Yes, Mrs Llewellyn, you are right; they did so,’ replied Hugh.
‘A bit wild and wilful-like, but no harm in her,’ continued the mother. ‘And might have married well if she had stayed here. Well, I miss her sorely, and always have done so, and shall all the more now that Hetty’s gone and got married. I’ve never seen the girl that was a patch on my Nell.’