Mr. Reed had fled before the good woman was fairly embarked on her harangue, and she talked and worked, bustled about the room, and scolded the maids, and hustled the constable, who stood shame-faced but obstinate in the doorway. But by the time Mrs. Joyce had decked the chamber with every luxury she could invent to do due honour to her guest, her temper had cooled, and her prudence began to revive.
"Lackaday," she lamented, "if I meddle I may but make matters worse! Thou great fool"—turning viciously on the constable, "it would do my heart good to give thee a clout on the head! But I reckon 'tis treason or such like to lay hands on a constable! I be fairly 'mazed! But my dear—madam, I should say, do you take notice I lie in the next chamber, and if you feel a bit swimmy or afeared in the night, if you'll please to give a call, I'll up and serve you, spite of all the constables in creation!"
Audrey could only smile as grateful an answer as her trembling lips could muster, and the constable, catching a moment when Mrs. Joyce had fairly talked herself out of breath, bundled her out of the room without ceremony, and turned the key on the prisoner.
CHAPTER IX.
A PRECIOUS THING DISCOVERED LATE.
"One can't disturb the dust of years
And smile serenely."
AUSTIN DOBSON.
Audrey was left alone! And in what a room was she imprisoned! It was her grandfather's own chamber!
The firelight played on the panelled walls with which she had once been so familiar, and the figures on the tapestry curtains seemed to smile a grim welcome to the daughter of the house. Here she had sat on her grandfather's knee, and heard fairy tales and legends of old days; here she had often watched by him when he grew old, and knelt at his side when the vicar read prayers; here she had seen his good white head laid in the coffin, and kissed the cold lips that had never bidden her farewell. What a strange fate had brought her now back to say farewell to her old home!
She sank back in the great chair that stood in its accustomed place by the hearth, bewildered by the whirl of thoughts that chased each other through her brain. The five years that had passed since last she sat in that room, although they had dragged on slowly enough, seemed now to her only a sort of parenthesis in her life. As she had left her old home she had come back to it—the years of poverty and trouble seemed but a bad dream—it would have been most natural to her to find herself once more the mistress of Hunstanton Place.
In the cloister-like seclusion of Madam Isham's house Audrey had learned little more of real life than she had known as a child; and in that sheltered childhood what had she known? Her duty to God and to her neighbours she had learned, and many wise theories of civil government and of philosophy; but of the rough realities of life, of suspicion, of caution, she knew nothing. Petted by her grandfather, trusted by her father, adored by the servants and dependents to whom her slightest wish was law, she had learned to look with affectionate tolerance on the foolish ways of men, who being mostly old, or poor, or scholars, could not be expected to be as wise or as practical as such a young woman as Mistress Perrient. Now her little throne of feminine superiority seemed tottering. She had been frightened by a beggar, insulted by a jack-in-office, actually locked up by a constable! Her theory of life—if it had struck her to use such long words—seemed inadequate, and she did not see how to reconstruct it. She was tired—she was sad—her musings grew more confused; the grateful sense of being at home once more, the familiarity of her surroundings, the rest after the hurried ride through the storm, the luxurious chamber—so unlike the chilly attic where she had lain for many a winter night—all conspired to lull her into forgetfulness. Half dreaming, she murmured the words of the prayer said so often at her grand-father's knee: "Lighten our darkness we beseech Thee, O Lord, and by Thy great mercy defend us from all the perils and dangers of this night," and suddenly she was indeed a child once more. Such a weary little child, she could not keep her eyes open, it must surely be bedtime! Was that nurse's step on the stairs? She was not tired; she was no longer sleepy—that was forgotten! Nurse should not catch her! Here, under the great table, was a splendid hiding-place. The carved legs rose above her head like pillars, the Turkey carpet that covered it hung all around like a tent—if only grandad did not betray her! She would be quiet as a mouse, and he would never know she was there. He was walking up and down the chamber, with his hands clasped behind him; presently he turned and opened a cupboard, and brought out a leather box, and oh! such a lovely long string of shining beads. "Oh, grandad! grandad! be those for me?" she cried, springing from her hiding-place. "No, sweetheart, not yet awhile," answered Sir Gyles, lifting her on his knee; "these be the pearls good King Harry gave my grandmother; thou shalt wear them when thou art a great girl and goest to London town to see the king. But first thou must be tall—as tall as the chimney-piece!"