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 against their father; who, still in the porch, received him with a countenance stern, as his own was vexed and angry.
There was a short interval of silence after the unexpected visitor had drawn up, still keeping to his saddle. He could not well dismount without receiving invitation; and that was not extended to him, much less word of welcome. Moreover his presence there, after what had passed, not only called for explanation, but by all the rules of politeness required his giving it before aught else should be said.
He did not, however; seeming embarrassed, and leaving the master of Hollymead no choice but to take the initiative. Which the latter at length did, saying sourly, and somewhat satirically—
“What may you be wanting with me, Mr Reginald Trevor? I take it your business is with me.”
“With you it is,” brusquely returned the other, still further nettled at the way he was addressed.
“Have the goodness then to tell me what it is. I suppose it’s something that can be settled by you in the saddle. If not, you may alight and come indoors.”
Speech aggravating, terribly insulting, as Ambrose Powell intended it should be. He had long ago taken the measure of the man, and wished to drive him to a distance, even further off than he had already done. His last words were enough, without the contemptuous look that accompanied them. But, stung by both, the emissary of Sir John Wintour stood proudly up in his stirrups, as he replied, with a touch of satire too,—“No need, sir, to enter your very hospitable house, or even get off my horse’s back. My errand can be accomplished by delivering this at your door. But, as you chance to be in it, permit me to hand it direct to you.”