The tones of the Constable were a deep, slow growl. They were used in a way of such reluctance that it seemed a pain to utter them.
“Wherefore, Sir John, did you send for me?” The half-humorous tones were all of innocence.
The Constable’s reply was a grave stroking of the chin. The stern gaze began very slowly to traverse the culprit as she stood in all her sauciness, in all her defiance. Not a detail of her manners or of her attire escaped those grim eyes. “Why did I send for you? Do you venture to ask the question?”
In spite of her reckless courage the tones sent little shivers through Mistress Anne.
“Yes, Sir John, I do.” She had summoned all that she had of boldness.
“As you dare to ask the question, I will answer it.” It was as if the Constable turned over each word very carefully in his stern heart before it was born upon his grim lips. “First I would say to you, daughter, there is a long and ever-growing accompt between you and me which has begun to cry aloud for a settlement. I ask you, is it not so?”
Mistress Anne was silent. Even her strength of will had begun at last to fail before this slow-gathering vehemence. Once before, and once only, had she heard that tone in her father’s voice. Many years had passed since then, but on hearing it again the occasion suddenly came back to her, bringing with it a kind of vivid horror.
“Is it not so, I ask you?”
The tone was that of a judge.
“Daily have I marked a growing frowardness, daily have I marked a higher measure of your impudency.” The careful words had no unkindness. “It is but a week since these ears heard you mock at the color of the hair of the Queen’s most gracious majesty. Is it not so?”