"Request for a loan, the King calls this! Beggarly enough in the
beginning--a very whine; but at the end more like the demand of a
robber!"
"Mr Powell!" cried he who had presented it, his back now up in anger,
"though but the messenger of Sir John Wintour, at the same time I'm in
the service of the King. And, holding his Majesty's commission, I
cannot allow such talk as yours. It's almost the same as calling the
King a robber!"
"Take it as all the same, if you like, sirrah! And apply it also to Sir
John Wintour, your more immediate master. Go back, and say to both how
I've treated the begging petition--thus!"
And at the word he tore the paper into scraps, flinging them at his
feet, as something to be trampled upon.
At this Reginald Trevor became furious; all the more from again seeing
two feminine faces in the window above, by their looks both seeming to
speak approval of what their father had said and done.
He might have given exhibition of his anger by some act of violence; but
just then he saw something else which prompted to prudence, effectually
restraining it. This something in the shape of three or four stalwart
fellows--stablemen and servants of other sorts belonging to Hollymead
House--who, having caught sound of the fracas in front, now appeared
coming round from the rear.
No need for Reginald Trevor, noting the scowl upon their faces, to tell
him they were foes, and as little to convince him of the small chance he
and his varlet would have in an encounter with them. He neither thought
of it nor any longer felt inclined to take vengeful action, not even to
speaking some strong words of menace that had risen to his lips.
Instead, choking them down, and swallowing his chagrin as he best could,
he said, in a resigned, humble way,--
"Oh! well, Mr Powell; what you've done or intend doing is no affair of
mine--specially. As you know, I'm here but in the performance of my
duty, which I need not tell you is to me most disagreeable."
"_Very_ disagreeable, no doubt!" rejoined the master of Hollymead, in a
tone of cutting sarcasm; "and being so, the sooner you get through with
it the better. I think you've made a finish of it now, unless you deem
it part of this disagreeable duty to gather up those torn scraps of the
King's letter, and carry them back to the Queen's obsequious servant,
and your master, Sir John."
In the way of insult, taunt could scarce go farther. And he against
whom it was hurled keenly felt it; at the same time felt his own
impotence either to resent or reply to it. For the three or four
fellows, with black brows, advancing from the rear, had been further
reinforced, and now numbered nearly a dozen.
"I bid you good-evening, Mr Powell," said the emissary, as he turned
his horse round, but too glad to get away from that unpleasant spot.
"Oh! good-evening, sir," returned the master of Hollymead, in a tone of
mock politeness; after which he stood watching the ill-received visitor,
till he saw him go out through the gates of his park.
Then over Ambrose Powell's face came a shadow--the shadow of a fear.
For he knew he had offended a Royal tyrant, who, though now weaker than
he had been through the restraint of a Parliament, might still have
strength enough to tear him.
"My dear children," he said, as he joined them in the withdrawing-room,
"the trouble I've been long anticipating has come at last. We will have
to leave Hollymead, or I must fortify and defend it."