CHAPTER VII.
FATE AT WORK.
"And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,
I do desire thy worthy company
Upon whose faith and honour I repose."
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Harrison took Audrey's hand and led her back into the kitchen. For a minute he held her hand, and a curious memory came to him of how he had once picked up a little bird that had fallen from its nest, and how softly the little live thing had nestled in his palm. Then he spoke gently—
"Mistress Audrey, you must not stay here longer alone."
"No," she gasped. "No, I will go speedily. But no one was ever uncivil to me before in all my life. All the folk about here reverence our very name. I will keep down at the cottage with old Molly till I am ready to depart."
"May I ask you what delays your journey, madam?" he asked.
"Faith!" she answered, smiling through some tears, "because I liked my own company too little to travel forth with no better. I have delayed that perhaps I might hear of honest folk, travelling at least so far as Rotterdam, who would bear me company. But I may not tarry much longer or all my money will be spent, so indeed I will now be gone with all speed."
Harrison looked at her. Could any man, with a spark of chivalry in his breast, endure to think of this bright young creature going forth alone, to cross half the world, as ignorant of the perils that might surround her as though she were still the child he had pulled out of the lily pond? Could he forsake his little playfellow?
Richard was not in the habit of hesitating. "Mistress Audrey," he said eagerly, "why cannot you take your journey on Thursday when I do, and let me be as your brother to guard you? God do so to me, and more also, if I bring you not safe to your father's hands. Will you not take me for your brother, Audrey? For the sake of old times, and the memory of those we both did love and reverence, you will trust me?"
"In truth," she answered, "I knew not how sore I needed a brother till this very day."
She looked out of the door across the empty landscape, brown woods and russet fields; nowhere, save in the little white cottage below the copse, was there a friend for her in all the country. Who would burden themselves with a penniless girl? And if her kinsfolk were too careless or too proud to own her, she on the other hand, had been too closely kept in her own circle of well-born neighbours to have any acquaintances among the Nonconformists who were now flying from England. Her gay courage had always made her strive to ignore the difficulties that lay before her; but she knew only too well how difficult, nay almost impossible for a lonely girl, was the journey that lay before her; for those were days when a woman needed a strong arm and a ready blade to protect her among strangers. She had still kept putting off her inevitable journey, telling herself that companions might yet be found to share the perils of a voyage half across the world. But in the bottom of her heart she knew that she might linger in Inglethorpe Hall till she was grey-headed before the desired protector appeared. Now, by a sort of miracle, came a friend of old times, pat to the minute! Would it not be childish, nay wrong, to hesitate? Harrison's kind hand still held hers, his eyes were bent on her face in anxious waiting for her decision. She turned towards him, and he caught her meaning.
"Then shall it be so?" he cried gaily. "And you will be my little sister? I will indeed do all I may to make the rough ways smooth for you, and you will pardon your brother's lack of courtly fashions?"
"I knew not I was so very great a coward," she murmured, brushing away a tear that had stolen down her cheek; "but I am not of a fearful nature, and I will not be burdensome to you on the journey—good brother," she added softly.
"Then, now," he cried cheerfully, "we have no time to lose; we must dispose all for our flitting. What do you propose for our order of march? You are the lady commander."
"Oh, that will give no one a headache to plan. I am but roosting in the corner of this old house by the charity of Sir Frank Cremer, to whom it passed back when my aunt died; so I have but to lock the door, and give the key to old John, and have done with my housekeeping. John hath long desired to spend his savings on buying my cows, so they do not stand in the way of my journey; and what goods I desire to carry over seas can travel to Lynn by to-morrow's carrier, and he will see them aboard your ship. But"—she interrupted herself—"I do not think you should be seen in those clothes."
"Why?" he laughed rather ruefully, as he looked down at his tarnished lace. "I know my suit is too travel-worn for the champion of so dainty a lady; but methinks there is no sign of a Puritan about it to put me in danger. My uncle had no love for a godliness that depended on a plain band or a dingy cloak."
"Nay, 'tis too gay you are," she answered; "so fine a gentleman cannot pass unnoticed. Let me see"—she paused and considered—"I have it! The cowman John goes to-day on my errands to Castle Rising, and I will bid him buy me divers things that my father will need, so no one will wonder if he gets also a suit of country clothes, such as our yeomen wear. Then the ship-men may take you for one of the wool-merchants who are always passing to and fro to Holland, and no questions will be asked."
"Methinks, fair sister," he cried in admiration, "you were born a plotter! I have money enow, but may I trust old John's discretion to buy me fitting raiment?"
"Oh, you seem much of a height with my father," she said, eyeing him critically, "though you are broader in the shoulders. The suit shall fit you as well as fit the times. But I believe in your heart you are loth to change from a fine gentleman to the likeness of a country clown," she added mischievously: then, breaking into a laugh, "I know not what you will think of my father when we get to land! I misdoubt me sorely we shall find him clad like John the Baptist on the tapestries, for what clothes he hath not given away will be falling off him in rags!"
"Is it not strange that Sir Gyles' son should favour him so little?"
"Ah, but he is like my grandfather in that he is wise; only he is wise like a philosopher, and looks at the matters of this world as if he were sitting away high up with Greeks, and Romans, and saints, in the clouds. Grandad used to say father cared more for the laws of Plato's Republic than he did for English Acts of Parliament, and that some day he would be asking if Queen Bess sat still on the throne! While my grandfather was wise for everything, for the constables, and the soldiers, and the poor folks, and the Parliament; so when he died it was as though the sky had fallen, and no one knew which way to turn."
But there was little time to spare, even for such a chatterbox as Audrey to discourse in. She was soon flying round the house, searching and planning, emptying cupboards, and tying up bundles, and Richard found work enough to drive away all thoughts, save how best to defend bedding from salt water, and whether it were possible to carry the great brass warming-pan over seas. Not till evening drew on and the chests and bundles were piled ready in the entry, did the thoughts that had laid in ambush all day spring out and possess him again. The pleasant occupation, the novelty of the girl's bright society and ready sympathy, had charmed them to sleep for a while, but the sickness that lay at his heart was part of himself; it was only the more real that he could turn from it for a while, and come back and find it unchanged.
"Prithee, good brother," cried Audrey, crossing to the chimney corner, where he sat in sudden gloom, "why so sad? Are you already repenting of having chosen a hard task-mistress as a travelling companion?"
He started from his study. "No, truly," he answered; "'tis the pleasantest day I have spent since the troubles came upon us. I reckon I have laughed more this day than I have for a twelve-month past. But, sweet sister, is there not enough to make a man sad nowadays?"
"Yes," she answered gently; "but you must not grieve overmuch for General Harrison. Surely, though the way thereto was hard, now he hath attained to rest from his labours."
"Ay," answered Richard, bitterly, rising and pacing up and down the kitchen, "but do his works follow him? Indeed I grieve no longer for him of whom this land is not worthy. How may I dare to grieve, having witnessed his triumph over a death of agony? But what of the liberties of England for which he gave his life? If our cause had been of God would it not have gone forward? But He hath not owned us, and our labour was spent in vain."
"No, no," she cried eagerly; "not all in vain! I am but a foolish girl, and should not speak of such high matters; but I mind my father often hath said that a great deed hath an immortality in itself and cannot die, even if for a time it seem to perish. He did not justify the death of the king, but doth bewail it yearly as the day comes round, in fasting and humiliation. He held that the cause of Liberty must triumph in the end by men's eyes being instructed to desire her for her beauty, for that she needs not the service of bloody hands. He is of so meek a spirit, he would rather endure to the uttermost than take the sword. Yet have I often heard him say that he did account all that the army had done for the liberty of England was so great, that the names of those who fought in it would, by-and-by, be numbered among the heroes of history."
"You are a kind comforter, my gentle sister, and I trust your prophecies may prove true. Yet, as a man may not read his own epitaph, 'tis but a lesson of patience to say that by-and-by matters may mend, while now they go from bad to worse."
Audrey could not, in the bottom of her heart, grieve as deeply as did the young soldier for the downfall of the Republican cause, but even in that lonely Hall she heard enough of public matters to understand that the new King Charles was not renewing the golden Elizabethan age she had been brought up to revere, and, moreover, she was a born hero-worshipper, and treasured the stories of Blake's victories, and of Cromwell's defence of the Waldenses all the more dearly now that the bones of those great Englishmen were torn from their graves and flung into a shameful pit under the gallows. She could give a good deal of sympathy, and still more of pity to the lost cause, but could she give consolation? She had seen her grandfather preserve his hope of the ultimate triumph of sober liberty through all the storms and tumult of the Civil wars; she knew how old men could sorrow and could endure. But this stranger's mind was still a sealed book to her. How did the young sorrow? What was the comfort that would appeal to him? How could she whisper hope to the man who sat with his head dropped in his hands, as if he feared to let any one see the burning tears of shame that were gathering in his eyes?
"If indeed the Lord spake to the Jews," Harrison went on, "did He not speak to us? Or was that also but a vain imagination, and did men fable when they wrote of the wonders done for the Jews, as they fabled concerning the Greeks and Romans?"
"I have heard my father and other clergymen of our English Church say they feared that some good men were apt to lean too much on the history of the Jews, as though we in England were their doubles, and bound by the same ordinances. He said he feared such reasonings, when they proved hollow, would make men run the other way and fall into unbelief. For he held that God hath His fashions of working, which differ for every nation, as one star differs from another in glory, and that He speaketh not to us in England by open signs, but for the most part, through our reason and our consciences."
Harrison rose with a groan and strode restlessly across the room.
"Ay," he answered, "your father is a wise man. But did not our reason and our consciences approve of that great work? Why then is it cast down and brought to nought, as though it were all folly and wickedness?"
She rose, and laid her hand on his arm; her eyes, too, were full of tears.
"Good brother, may it not be as in the days of the martyrs Mr. Fox tells of? I mind me of the words of Bishop Latimer concerning the flames that consumed him lighting a candle that should never be put out in England. Perhaps in this war you have set going a word of liberty that none may put to silence. Methinks, since the days of old Rome, there can have been no such talk of the government of the people by the people, as we have heard in these days, and as my father says, he beholds in very deed in New England. Mayhap, liberty is but departed across seas to renew her strength, and will come again to gather, not England only, but all the nations, under her wings."
Harrison turned and caught her hand. "In truth I were worse than a Jew did I not believe so fair a prophetess," he cried. "Yet——" he paused, and looked at her curiously, and a sudden impulse came on him to speak out all that was in his heart. "You seem very sure of it all?" he said.
Audrey blushed scarlet. She had grown up among people who were less outspoken on religious matters than the Puritans, and the young girl's feelings were locked in her own little holy of holies; but she was no coward.
"I doubt not I am often too sure of matters," she said. "My father was wont to say I had too much impatience to be a true philosopher; but on this I cannot but be sure."
All shyness was gone. She fixed her large eyes on him with the directness of a child.
"But," he said, leaning forward, "Mr. Rogers and my uncle were very sure, yet hath their Fifth Monarchy not appeared, nor have any miracles answered their faith."
"You will think me very bold," she answered, "but may not men be great saints and yet mistaken in the opinions which they hold within the bounds of our common faith? It seems scarce fitting for me to carp at the beliefs of General Harrison, yet you yourself did say he seemed to you well-nigh crazed concerning the Fifth Monarchy?"
Richard nodded assent.
"Then sure, if his prayers were not according to reason, 'twould be mercy that denied them? But indeed, as touching prayers, I have heard my father say we must be on our guard lest we pray like the heathen, holding our words as a charm that must needs bring an answer according to our desires, for that the prayers of a Christian do consist rather in carrying his matters into the presence of the great God, and leaving them there, for Him to deal with as He lists."
Harrison made no answer, and there was silence a long time; only the fire flickered, and the wind sighed softly without. Then Audrey rose up and wished the young man good night; but as he took her hand, there were tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE QUEEN RETURNS TO HUNSTANTON.
"Yes! I love justice well, as well as you do;
But, since the good dame's blind, she shall excuse me
If, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb."
SCOTT, Old Play.
"I have been wondering," began Audrey next morning, "if there may not be danger of that fellow telling some one he saw a strange gentleman here? If any noise of it should come to the constables, 'twould be tragic."
"That rascal? Oh, he can have no acquaintance with the constables save when they put him in the stocks. I think not we need trouble over him! Yet, if indeed it would ease your fears, 'tis easy for me to go forward to Lynn to-day, and lie close at Master Marshman's till the ship sails to-morrow. I will presently don my new raiment, and when you have admired it, if you counsel so, I will set forth to Lynn in all my glory."
"I do believe 'twould be wise. I have been tormented by foolish fears ever since that man was here. You could lie hid aboard the ship perhaps?"
"Ay, but as to that, I think I had better order me by Master Marshman's counsel. And, methinks, if you do indeed drive me forth, it were well to set us a rendezvous in his house. And yet I know not—'tis scarce fitting to take you there! But you are a brave lady, and count to face bears and wolves in New England; perchance Master Marshman will not make you afeared. But, sweet sister, be warned, I pray you, and when you come there, heed not Master Marshman's looks and address, for his words are oftentimes harsh, but 'tis only the bitter rind of a most noble kernel. He is of a most generous spirit, and spends all his goods in alms, even bestowing his help on Quakers and Anabaptists, though he reproves their errors roundly. For indeed he is so very valiant for truth, or what he holds as such, that he never tempers his warfare with any of the softnesses of peace. Through fair weather and foul he has held fast to his Presbyterian doctrines, and for them did he suffer as much at the hand of Cromwell's men as he did in the old church days when the Bishop of Norwich cast him into jail for holding of conventicles. He doth rage at some for their love of bishops, and at others for heresy, and at others for the killing of the king, and as for his congregation, he holds them in such subjection that the rule of Archbishop Laud was tender to his."
"Oh, I know him well by report," laughed Audrey; "but if he gives my brother safe hiding I will forgive him some hard words. My grandfather never rode into Lynn without bringing back some tale of Master Marshman's supremacy, though, indeed, I think he must have invented the best part of them, for he had a merry wit. He loved above all things to carry such tales to our vicar, and he would always end with, 'Now, Parson Cholmondeley, confess that even a Roundhead spake truth when Mr. Milton wrote, 'New Presbyter is but old priest writ large;' and Parson Cholmondeley always answered pat, 'Ay, ay, Presbyterian and Independent, fight dog, fight cat.' Parson Cholmondeley could not abide Mr. Milton, and when Parliament turned him out of the vicarage and he came to live with us, I hid all Mr. Milton's poems in grandfather's chamber for fear the good man should vex himself to come on them in the study. He always read us the Church prayers morning and evening, and the folks said when Mr. Marshman heard tell—— Ah, see," she shrieked, breaking off, "they are coming! they are coming! my fears were true. Fly, fly to the attic. I will keep the constables at bay a while;" and Audrey rushed to the hearth and, seizing the tongs, she set up such a clattering and rattling among the great logs on the hearth that Harrison's flying footsteps upstairs were drowned as completely as were the repeated knocks at the door. After a while she condescended to notice the thundering blows, and crossing the kitchen leisurely she opened the door, and looked with somewhat contemptuous dignity at a little ferret-faced man in a black dress who stood on the threshold, backed up by a couple of stout constables, who pulled their forelocks and grinned recognition of the young lady.
"What is your will, sir?" asked Audrey, in a lofty tone.
"Mistress Perrient?" demanded the little man. "Ah, yes; I have a search warrant from Justice Tomkins of Hunstanton, to search, seek, apprehend, and bring in custody one Richard Harrison, a regicide and Fifth-monarchy man, accused of sedition, and raising a riot on the 5th of January last against the king's peace."
"How, sir!" cried Audrey; "know you whom you speak to? Methinks you are strangely ignorant of the country, that you dare come here with such papers! This house belongs to Sir Francis Cremer, the High Sheriff of the county!"
"Madam," answered the man, visibly startled, "'tis no offence intended to his honour the High Sheriff; but, as he is not dwelling here, he cannot take order to apprehend suspicious persons found roaming round his premises. And Justice Tomkins hath received a very sufficient description of a suspicious person seen here yesterday forenoon."
"Suspicious person!" broke out Audrey, with fresh wrath. "And do you dare to say that I, Mistress Audrey Perrient, harbour suspicious persons? Doubtless you think I keep a troop of highwaymen in the house, and share their spoils! And you"—turning on the constables—"Jack Catlin and Tom Abbes, you should take shame to come to the house of my grandfather's child on such an errand."
The constables shuffled and looked at each other, and one muttered with a grin—
"The lass is a masterpiece—might be old Sir Gyles himself a rating on us!"
"Come, madam," interrupted the man in black, "you must know a magistrate's warrant cannot be disputed. We would not be uncivil to a lady, but enter we must."
"Oh, come in, come in!" cried Audrey, throwing the door wide. "You can see all there is to see; and there are my keys," flinging them with a clash on the kitchen table, "only if you come on the Inglethorpe ghosts in searching the house, pray take it not as a sign that I am their murderer, neither if you find my father's clothes, hold them for the Sunday suit of a highwayman."
One of the constables picked up the keys with a subdued air, and looked at the leader for further direction.
"Yes, we must not delay. You know something of the house, Catlin; you lead the way;" and he prepared to pass into the front part of the house.
A thought struck Audrey; she could be sure that the constables would be too stupid and too much afraid of the well-known Inglethorpe ghosts to search over-curiously; but this little man with his ferret face and sharp eyes was dangerous; it might be wise to distract his attention.
"Stay, sir," she said, as he was following the men out of the kitchen. "May I ask to whom I am speaking? I see, of course, you are no constable."
"My name is Robert Reed, at your service, madam, clerk to Justice Tomkins," he replied.
He had regained some confidence on observing the shabby clothes of the young lady, and the poverty-stricken air of the house.
"Mr. Reed," she said, making a curtesy, "you are but late come to these parts, so I should ask your pardon for being so warm. 'Tis no fault of yours that Justice Tomkins is wanting in that courtesy due to a lady."
Mr. Reed bowed in some embarrassment. "But, madam, 'tis the duty of every magistrate to be on his guard against the pestilent knaves who are roaming through the land, plotting and contriving against the present happy settlement."
"Oh, doubtless, sir," interrupted Audrey; "and Justice Tomkins has my best thanks. Our hen-roosts have been twice robbed; and a party of gipsies passed last Tuesday se'night who took every rag from our clothes-line, even to my dairy-woman's great aprons!"
"Very sad, very reprehensible; it must be looked to," replied the clerk, pompously, falling at once into Audrey's trap, and laying down the hat he had been twirling impatiently.
"I am so glad to have the opportunity of telling you of it, sir," continued Audrey, artfully. What lawyer's clerk could suspect this affable young lady of double dealing? Yet her mind was only half given to diplomatizing with Mr. Reed; her ears were strained to follow the heavy footsteps of the constables as they creaked up the stairs and tramped from room to room. Would they suspect that the chamber above had been occupied? Had Captain Harrison remembered to close the door leading to his garret? Would they think of rummaging there? She lost the thread of her harangue, hesitated—Mr. Reed opened his mouth to speak, and she hurried to add, "for, indeed, it seemed as though the justices were taking little heed of the honesty of these hamlets."
"It shall be looked to—it shall be looked to! But pilfering is one thing, madam, and conspiracy and rebellion, and raising troops against the present most happy government of his sacred Majesty, is another!"
"Oh la, sir! Who can have told you that I had a rebellion and troops in my house? 'Tisn't likely now, is it?"
"No, madam," he answered, with another pompous bow; "doubtless you disturb the peace of the king's liege subjects after another fashion."
"Insolent little jackanapes!" thought Audrey. "I trust my new brother is not within hearing!"
"But," continued Reed, "'tis sure that this dangerous ruffian Harrison is lurking in these parts, and 'tis fitting a lady dwelling alone should be warned against such a character."
"But who has been so insolent as to say a person of bad character could be seen about my house? (Pray Heaven the person is well hidden among those old flock beds)," she mentally interpolated.
"A—a soldier who was passing on his way to London laid a complaint of a strong rogue who assaulted and beat him, who answers to the description we have received of this fellow Harrison."
"Now is the author of this mare's nest discovered!" burst out Audrey, with fine indignation. "Your soldier, sir, was a sturdy beggar who behaved saucily, and was chastised by one of my household. Justice Tomkins truly picks fair company when he holds conference with such a pick-purse instead of putting him in the stocks!"
"Then, madam," continued the clerk, pertinaciously, "you have seen no sign of the said Harrison lurking in this neighbourhood?"
"If Justice Tomkins had behaved like a gentleman and sent me a letter by his serving-man," she replied, with dignified severity, "I should have been happy to further his search; but when he knows no better than to send the constables and a search warrant to Inglethorpe Hall, he may do his work for himself, I trouble not myself about his business."
"But, madam, you must needs give aid to the ministers of the law; if you will not answer me, you will, no question, be asked to take oath before the justices. Well?" He broke off, as the constables tramped back into the room. "Have you seen any traces of the fellow?"
"Noo; us haven't seen naught, without it be rats," grinned Jack Catlin. "There be a main sight of rats, mistress."
"Very disappointing, very unsatisfactory," murmured the clerk; and Audrey could not refrain from a little gasp of relief which she converted into a prim cough at the constable's familiarity. "The description tallied to a hair. Now, madam, I must ask you upon your oath whether you have seen this Harrison, or have in any wise succoured or comforted him?"
"Nonsense," interrupted Audrey. "I will take no oath about such pure folly. As I told you already, Justice Tomkins hath not behaved him like a gentleman, and I shall say no word about his matters."
"But, madam, if you will not take oath, you put me in a strait," cried the perplexed clerk, divided between his pride in his responsible position and his alarm at this very impetuous young lady. "I shall be driven to cite you for contumacy before the justices."
"Oh, for that matter," answered Audrey, coolly, "I had as lief answer the justices as you. The most part of them are my kinsfolk, and will be as angered as I am at Justice Tomkins' cavalier treatment of me."
The clerk looked more and more distracted. "Madam," he cried, "'tis beyond my power to pass it over. You must needs return with me to Hunstanton and answer for yourself."
"Me! Take me to Hunstanton! Man, you are out of your wits! Do you forget who you are speaking to?"
"No, madam," stammered the unhappy man, "but even ladies are not above the law, and Justice Tomkins hath a hasty temper and I may not venture to go back without I can give him a sufficient answer."
"'Tis impossible—unheard of," she repeated. "You will bring yourself and your precious Justice Tomkins into trouble—he will be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood when this mare's nest gets wind!"
The clerk nearly tore his hair. This young lady was enough to dash any man's courage; but the justice—he was even more alarming. If he came back empty handed, the justice's language would be forcible.
"Madam," he repeated helplessly, "I have no choice; I must needs take you with me!"
Audrey's thoughts hurriedly summed up her situation. If, after all, they did carry her to Hunstanton, it might draw the constables off from Inglethorpe. And there would be at least this satisfaction when she was face to face with Justice Tomkins, she would have her revenge. "A miserable little ranting linen-draper," she muttered wrathfully. "I can tell a tale or two about his love of old Noll in old times, and his preachings and psalm-singings when they were the fashion, that will make him sorry he has ever meddled with me! But, good lack! 'tis to be hoped he is no wiser than his clerk, and does not know that every cousin I have is out of the country, so that I can fright him with their names. If I can but shuffle matters on for to-night, all will be well. Swear a lie I cannot, but by to-morrow Richard will be surely on the high seas, and then I'll swear all they please, and truly say I know not where he is, I must e'en keep my fit of the sulks for to-night. All will be well. I doubt not Richard will wait me at Rotterdam, and will see that my stuff is safe bestowed somewhere. Pray Heaven some maggot do not possess him to hang about here and double my danger! But anyhow I can swear with a good conscience I know not where he is!"
She consoled herself with these thoughts, and signified to the clerk that as he had brute force on his side she was not prepared to resist him; but it was with the offended dignity of a captured queen that she followed the men from the house, when, to her dismay, Reed suddenly turned to one of the constables.
"Catlin, you must abide here in possession. I cannot doubt our quarry hath been here, and 'tis very like that he will slink back to such a safe lair; therefore you must be in readiness to receive him. Mistress Perrient can have your horse to carry her to Hunstanton."
With a blank face the constable heard the order, and with a sinking heart Audrey was lifted on the spare horse as the cheerless winter twilight was falling.
"Now my device is naught," she moaned to herself, "and 'tis too late to change it! If Catlin were not such a very fool I should be clean desperate—but 'tis plain writ in his foolish face that he will think more of the Inglethorpe ghost than of any hunted Roundhead! So I must but go through with it, and hope for the best!"
A cutting east wind lay in wait for them as they came out from the shelter of the buildings, a wind that tore at Audrey's cloak, and wrestled with the black furze bushes on the heath, till they heaved and swayed like chained monsters striving to break loose. In spite of herself, Audrey felt her courage flag. So much of it was merely due to her natural buoyancy of health and spirits, and the sauciness of a petted girl who had seldom known reproof. Now that she had taken such a rash step, she began to doubt and fear. Her defiance had not drawn off the enemy's forces. Had it been of any advantage at all? Was she riding to prison for a mere fancy? Why should she scruple to tell a white lie for once? But the lie would only secure her own freedom; the constables would still hunt the country for Harrison, while now, she at least divided their numbers and their suspicions. But suppose Richard was so mad as to wait for news of her! Suppose he thought it cowardly to fly and leave her in the lurch! Suppose he fell into another of those despairing fits and threw himself into peril out of mere recklessness?
"Ah me!" she sighed, "I know not how to order my own life, and here I have a brother as well as a father to think for too!"
It was not an outburst of vanity; she had so long tended her grandfather, and her father, that the only attitude she could conceive to a new friend, was that of adopting him as some one else to be taken care of. Even while she trusted to his strong right hand to be her guard on her journey, she could not believe he could plan that journey without her help.
The sandy road across the heath was hard with frost, and the little party trotted swiftly on, and before an hour was past, the lights of Hunstanton twinkled before them. At Justice Tomkins' door there was a halt, and the clerk dismounted, and went to seek his employer's instructions; he came back in a few minutes with a perturbed face, and called the constable into the hall to a consultation. Tom Abbes' sturdy voice was audible to Audrey, as she sat outside.
"If so be as his worship won't be disturbed, 'tis no fault of ourn. And us can't put she in the lock-up; all the country would cry shame on us," grumbled the good-natured constable.
"If only I had seen the justice before he dined, and had taken his instructions!" sighed the clerk.
"See now, take her over to the Royal Oak; thee canst doo no wrong that way," councilled Tom. "If justice won't attend to business, why, justice must pay the bill."
A few steps more and the little party came out from the sheltered street, and the full force of the wind met them with a mingled dash of foam-flakes and sand. Half-blinded, Audrey was lifted from her horse, and staggered into the shelter of the deep porch—a porch she knew only too well. The Perrient arms were gone that once presided over the stately entrance to Sir Gyles Perrient's house, and a great signboard, daubed with a gaudy representation of an oak-tree, creaked as it swung in the shrill night wind, but in all else her grandfather's mansion was unchanged. Here was the home where she had reigned queen at Hunstanton—where she had loved and been loved! The house and its mistress had alike fallen on evil times; the mansion was an inn, and Audrey Perrient was a prisoner!
Mr. Reed's summons was answered by the buxom landlady, whose cheerful voice resounded through the house before she appeared at the door.
"Stars o' mine! what's that you say? Justice Tomkins in liquor? That's no new tidings! What! Mistress Perrient without, with Tom Constable! I'll never credit it! Stars o' mine! Justice must have been pretty drunk before he sent you off on such a fool's errand! You should see to him, Mr. Reed! But there! set a beggar on horseback, and we all know where he'll ride to! Come your ways in, Mistress Perrient, my dear, and don't you take on! 'Tis enough to make Sir Gyles get out o' his grave, it is! Why it makes me swimmy like! 'Tis a pity Justice Lestrange is out of town; but, for sure, 'twill be all right in the morning, when our fine new justice is out of his cups, and fine and shamed he'll be, I warrant! Will you please to come upstairs, madam. 'Tis strange to show you the way in your own house as should be; but times do change, and if 'twere your own house you couldn't have a cleaner hearth, nor fairer linen, nor one readier to serve you! And what will you take to your supper, my dear? Just a drop of mulled elderberry wine with a toast in it, to keep out the cold—and a wing of a capon, now, couldn't you seem to fancy? Or anything else you could give a name to, it would just be an honour to my house, Mistress Perrient, my dear—madam, I should say; and here's Sally with a hot posset, and that you shall taste whether you drink it or no. Why, Tom Constable, what are you a-doing of? Turn the key on Mistress Perrient? Do you reckon my house is a lock-up? That's a rare hearing! Not while I am missis here! What's that you are grumbling? Tell justice on me! Tell him and welcome; but stand out o' the way while Molly brings in the feather bed."
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!"
Audrey woke with a start. She could almost hear the echo of the last words in the air—"as tall as the chimney-piece." Was it a dream? "Oh, grandad, grandad!" she cried. "Could you but come back and let me be a little child once more. Never was there a girl so desolate in all the world!" The sweet dream of childhood had broken down her courage—and she burst into tears. And still the dream was with her. How vivid it had been! It seemed like reality. Could it be reality? Was it not a memory awakened by the sight of the old room? Yes—it must be a memory; it certainly had once happened. Forgotten for years, it came back to her now: how she had hidden under the table, and how she had cried when her grandfather had said the pearls must be locked up till she was a great girl, and how grandad had taken her on his knee and told her the tale of Tom Tit Tot, and she had forgotten all about the pearls, and set off next morning to hunt in the gravel pit for Tom Tit Tot and his wonderful spinning wheel.
She lay back lazily in the chair, smiling over the old memories, and her eyes wandered over the fire-lit room. It had been arranged differently in those days: grandfather's table stood by the window, and what cupboard was it he had opened? There was no room on that side for a great standing cupboard. It had been very big—big and black, like a closet. A closet! She started. Could it indeed not have been a cupboard, but a secret closet? What folly! If there had been a closet there she must have known of it! But the impression was so strong on her that she could not sit still. She lit the candles in the great pewter candlesticks and smiled as she stirred the logs to do so, and saw that her head just reached the carved chimney-board. "I am taller, by a head, than when I last lit a candle here," she thought. "Now I am indeed a big girl! But to reach just where grandfather's hand went, I shall need a stool and a tall one at that. Good, I reckon this will serve."
She mounted on the carved footstool, and candle in hand she surveyed the wall, drawing her finger carefully along the lines of the panelling, and pressing every little ornament that might conceal a spring. "I verily believe there was something here," she murmured. "Hereabouts he put his hand, and I have never thought on it from that day to this! It opened like a door," and as she said the words she thought the panel gave way a little, and her heart almost stopped beating. She pressed again, more firmly; there was a creak—the whole side of the room seemed swinging towards her. She sprang off the stool, and saw that a door had indeed opened before her. Audrey raised the candle and peered into the darkness within. The closet was indeed as large as a small room; opposite to her its back was panelled like the bedchamber, but on either side the walls were fitted with shelves and loaded with boxes, papers, and bunches of keys.
Audrey raised the candle and peered into the darkness. [page 135.
She stood gazing, the candle flickered, suddenly she caught sight of the well remembered red leather casket, and with a cry of delight she set down the candle and seized it. Here, indeed, was the long chain of pearls she had cried for so bitterly, and the curiously enamelled Tudor Rose hanging as a jewel from it.
"How strange that daddy knew not of this hiding-place," she cried; "yet, grandad never troubled him with such matters; he were likelier to have told me than daddy. This must be one of the priests' holes he often told me tales of, where the recusant gentlemen hid their priests, but he never said we had one in our own house! Doubtless here lies the record of how our money was lost, but I reck little of that now I have the Perrient pearls safe. Ah, but here is a purse of gold pieces! That will speed me well whether I escape Justice Tomkins' clutches, or he claps me up in jail! More wonders! Money bags! I shall lose my wits for wonder! Four bags! Five! Why 'tis a very treasure trove! And now for the papers. Alack what a many and how dusty! Why, to count them over would be half a night's work! And as for reading this crabbed hand, I doubt I shall make nothing of it, without I ask Master Reed's help, and that I am scarce like to do! Bills—more bills—they will not keep me long. List of ministers to deliver to the Triers, letters from Parliament men, news letters; why, what is this? "Note of monies lent to Master Vonsturm of Leyden," "Note of monies lent to Master Leyds of Amsterdam," "Note of half share in the ship Maria Dirk trading from Rotterdam." "That's where the money is!" she gasped. "Oh, cunning old grandad! You sent it over seas safe from both king and Parliament! Master—what's his name? Von Sturm, must have deemed us all dead! He'll be mightily disappointed! My faith, these papers must not lie hid here! Yet if they take me to jail, they may search me; the papers were safer here than in my pockets in that hazard. I must bethink me. But first I must needs rummage for more treasures. Here is my grandfather's great writing-box and his seal and pens; methinks I may find Master Tom Tit Tot himself next!"
Her smile faded as suddenly as if the imp she spoke of had appeared. In the desk lay only one paper, endorsed in trembling handwriting: "Draught of my letter to Major-General Harrison concerning the marriage of my granddaughter. February ye first 1659."
"My marriage! Grandad never said a word to me of marriage! I was but sixteen! I marvel whom he proposed to marry me to?" And with rather a pale smile she unfolded the letter.
For my loving friend Major-General Harrison, these.
SIR,—As touching the question of the marriage whereof we have more than once held discourse, and whereof you as at this present write to me, my mind being as yours in the matter, I see not wherefor we should not come to a speedy settlement. Seeing that I am now a very old man, I do only desire, if it be God's will, to see my beloved child given happily in marriage, before I say my Nunc Dimittis. Your young kinsman, Richard Harrison, is but now departed from me, and as I judge, he doth in all respects uphold the report you have made me of him. He seemeth a godly and a gallant young gentleman, and a modest, and if it please God to dispose his heart and that of my granddaughter to an understanding, I doubt not but that you and I shall agree concerning the money to be settled. My desire being, to find for this child, who is my chief earthly joy and blessing, not so much a wealthy husband as an entrance into a godly family and one whereto I am so much bound in love as with yours. I desire not to defraud your good wife of any fortune you have gathered, neither any children whom it may yet please the Lord to bless you with, but as my granddaughter will have all that I possess, I do desire that it should be settled upon her and her children. It's no bad division that the man should bear the sword and the woman the purse, so she be one in whom her husband's heart may safely trust. When Captain Harrison is on his return to Scotland, if you will make him your messenger concerning your resolution as to settlements, he can then have speech of my granddaughter and shall understand her mind in the matter, for I do purpose she shall only be joined in marriage there where she is likewise joined in godly affection. I speak not of my son, as in the disposal and ordering of all such matters he doth dutifully submit himself unto me, and I doubt not he will be of my mind in this matter."
Audrey's face grew whiter and whiter as she spelt out the painfully written words, and, as she ended, she staggered back against the wall and covered her face with her hands. Any thought of marriage, save as a vague sort of fairy tale, was so remote from her mind, that this formal negotiating of her destiny struck her like a blow, and she felt absolutely sick with the shock. To her proud and virginal mind it mattered nothing that this was an old story, forgotten for two years past. It was nothing to her that marriages at that time were almost invariably a matter of family arrangement. She had been brought up with so much more personal liberty and independence than most girls of her day, that the idea that she had been talked over, bargained for, was unendurable! And gradually, as the whole plan came home to her, a burning flush crept over her face. She felt outraged, insulted. Wild indignation with every one filled her heart. Her grandfather, General Harrison, Richard, every one was detestable. No one was to be trusted! They had dared to talk of her, to dispose of her, as if she were a mere chattel! Better poverty, neglect, anything, than such an insult. But then there rushed back on her with a sudden revulsion of feeling, all that might have been, all she had once possessed, and she dashed the letter on the ground and burst into a passion of tears. Alone, friendless, she realized her position—she was brought face to face with all she had lost. While she looked on her grandfather as a feeble old man depending on her young strength, he had foreseen how helpless she would be one day, he had known what a woman needed, he had been planning her future for her. A future of wealth and dignity, a gallant and handsome young husband, loving kins-folk, all as gay as a fairy tale, and all vanished like a fairy dream!
Her tears were partly remorseful—that she could have been angered at any thought of his, shamed her! But she could not but give some sorrow to all that was gone—her grandfather dead and forgotten, her father in exile, she herself a prisoner, General Harrison—she shuddered to remember his fate, Richard Harrison—"Alas, I had not thought Captain Harrison was one of those summer friends who forsook us when our wealth was lost! 'Tis pity I should have discovered what he hath made such good speed to forget!" She stood a while sunk in thought, then she shook herself. "Fie, what a peevish maid I grow! This was but talk between grandfather and the poor general; and then grandfather died and the general ran mad on the Fifth Monarchy, and was put in prison, and, most like, Captain Harrison never heard a word of the matter! 'Tis midsummer madness to dwell on it now. Fie! Audrey Perrient, a modest maiden should not waste thoughts on such matters! But 'tis lucky I knew not of this when I found him fainting in the woods, or I protest I should have been too shamefaced a fool to have succoured him?"
CHAPTER X.
ESCAPE.
"Why, now I have Dame Fortune by the forelock,
And if she 'scapes my grasp, the fault is mine."
SCOTT, Old Play.
"Fie! Fie! Have I nothing more pressing to attend to than to weep over these old tales?" cried Audrey, as she looked round the crowded shelves of the closet. "It were more to the point to decide what I am to do with all these treasures. Are they best here, or can I carry the papers at least with me? So much hangs on what awaits me to-morrow. If they let me go free I can tell Mistress Joyce of my discovery, and she will let me have a cart to carry off my plunder! But if they clap me into jail? Good faith, I'll give them some trouble first! Who knows but I might make shift to escape on the road! For that matter, why do I sit mewed up here without making an offer to escape? This dear house is no prison that I should find no way out of it! How did distressed damsels do in the tale books? Methinks the favourite fashion was to make ropes out of the bed sheets. But I should be loath to tear up Mistress Joyce's best linen, and I am not well assured that I could climb down a rope even could I make it. That plan is naught! But I warrant some of these keys will undo the chamber door, and then it is but a small matter to slip downstairs and out of the hall door. But, good lack! if the bolts are as stiff as they used to be, the mighty creaking of them would awake the seven sleepers, and I should look a pretty fool, caught like a schoolboy breaking bounds! Yet forth I must, and will go! I may at least see if the chamber door can be fitted with a key. I suppose there are no more secret doors in this room to match this closet? After so many wonders, I am fit to believe Tom Tit Tot will unlock another panel and let me out! Stay. If this were indeed a priest's hole, surely they would have some fashion of escape if they were close pressed? I am sure grandfather has told me these chambers often led into a very maze of secret ways. Oh, you fool," she almost screamed, "to stand in the very draught of a sliding door and not see the chink! Down on your knees and thank the Lord who hath delivered you from prison as truly as He did Peter!"
It was true. In the back of the closet was a sliding panel that was actually partly open, only in the hurry and excitement of so many discoveries she had not paused to look for the origin of the draught that made her candle flicker. She pushed the panel cautiously, fearing that some dismal creak might awaken the house, but the woodwork was carefully fitted and the door slid back without a sound. Before her a corkscrew staircase wound down in the thickness of the wall. Carefully she stepped through the door, but the stair was of solid stone, and her light foot made no sound on it as she ran down. The bottom of the stair was guarded by a narrow door, locked and barred.
"Now, which of all those keys will help me here?" she wondered as she sped up again to fetch the great bunches that lay on the closet shelf.
One key after another she tried, and then came the turn of a key that hung alone on a slender silver chain. It fitted, it turned; hastily she drew back the bolts and the door swung open. A flood of moonlight poured through a screen of ivy and dazzled her eyes. Her prison was unlocked! The wind had dropped and the weather changed, the snow had ceased, everything seemed in her favour.
"My luck has turned," she laughed as she flew back up the stairs to prepare for her flight. All fatigue and bewilderment was over. She was as joyous and self-possessed as a child planning a new game.
"They must not blame Mistress Joyce for mine escape," she meditated; "nor must they set to hunting for secret passages and spy out my treasure chamber. If I unbar the shutter and leave the window open, they may amuse themselves by inventing how I found wings! Now! That was deftly done, that shutter has made never a sound! 'Tis well my pockets are new and strong. They must carry the principal of the papers. Now I must tie the money bags in my apron, and the pearls shall travel secure round my neck and tucked into my bodice."
With dancing eyes she made her preparations. Then she blew out the candles and pulled the closet door to behind her with a snap. Then she stood a moment and hesitated, and, with a hasty movement, she swept her grandfather's letter from the floor and thrust it into her bodice, and ran down the stairs as if she wished to forget what she had done.
She pushed the little door wide open and looked out. A thicket of leafless thorns helped the tangled ivy to entirely hide the secret entrance, but beyond the bushes lay a wide field of rough grass glistening white with hoar frost in the moonlight, and shut in by miniature cliffs and hills.
"Why, 'tis Tom Tit Tot's gravel pit!" she cried in delight. "How well to bring the stairs out in such a deserted corner! And, just beyond that bank, is the high road to Lynn. But this frost is unlucky; my pursuers will dog me as a hart by my tracks, and I shall betray them my treasure-chamber. What policy can I use to baffle them? Richard said I was fit for plots and stratagems! I have it!"
She slipped her cloak from her shoulders, and flung it from her over the grass as far as she could. Then, locking the door, she put the keys into her pocket, and sprang lightly from the threshold on to her cloak, leaving no sign of a footprint close to the door. The ivy screen fell back over the entrance and Audrey laughed with triumph as she picked up the cloak and shook the frost from it.
"I protest this last stratagem of mine hath crowned the record!" she laughed to herself. "No one will dream there is a door yonder, or that this trampled patch is the mark of my cloak. It looks as if some tinker's ass had made his bed here! And my steps are but those of his master's boy fetching him away! Now I can start forth with no fear of being tracked, and there goes nine on the church clock. I'll warrant the best part of the good folk of Hunstanton are abed by this, so I shall have the road to myself. But whither go I? Straight to Lynn? 'Tis a long trudge. I doubt my feet will carry me so far this night. Jack Catlin is sure to be abed and snoring by the time I reach Inglethorpe. What hinders my slipping into the stable and stealing my own horse? Richard is sure to be off long ago. He could easily drop from a window, or even walk out of the front door without Jack Constable knowing anything of it. Doubtless I shall find him at Master Marshman's, whistling for a fair wind! Had those fools kept me clapped up another twelve hours, I might have lost my travelling-companion."
The triumph of her escape and her recovered riches had raised her elastic spirits to their wildest pitch. Forgotten were her regrets, forgotten her shame-faced resentment, forgotten her vague fears of a cold and cruel world. She had, alone and unhelped, escaped from prison and recovered her fortune; she was once more queen of her own destiny. Gay, self-confident, hopeful, she danced along the hard, sandy path through the heather. The tide was out, no sound broke the silence but her own light footsteps, and soon she found she was singing aloud. She was free, she was rich, she was on her way to a land of freedom, all was delightful and rosy. Poor Richard Harrison! How she had misjudged him in her first rush of resentful surprise on reading her grandfather's letter!
"I must put a curb on this unruly temper of mine," she vowed. "Had any one been near to hear all I was ready to say in my rage, I might have lost my fine new brother. But all's well that ends well, and Westward Ho to-morrow!"
It seemed but a few minutes before her merry heart had sped her over the long miles of salt marsh and moorland, and she saw the tower of Inglethorpe church and the gables of Inglethorpe Hall rising dark against the moonlight. She passed softly in between the shattered gate pillars and crept round the house, crouching in the shadows which completely swallowed up her dark dress and wide dark hat. Then she paused in dismay. A bright light shone through the curtainless kitchen window, and sent a glaring beam across the yard and fell direct on the stable door!
"This is indeed disastrous," thought Audrey. "What possesses Jack Constable to keep such hours. Pray heaven he have not set the old house afire. I must needs peep, and see what prank he is playing."
Cautiously she stole up to the window. She heard a sound of voices, the clatter of pewter, then it was Jack Catlin who spoke—
"Well, young sir, I'm beholden to you for your company, not to speak of your ale. 'Twould have been uncommon lonesome to bide here by myself; and noo, if I weren't afraid of the bogles, I reckon I'd go to bed."
"Oh, surely you can have nought to fear from bogles," answered a voice. Could Audrey believe her ears. Could Richard be so mad as to sit hobnobbing with the very constable who was set to catch him? Yes—no question, it was his voice. "You can have naught to fear from bogles. By all they say, these Cremers have been always on the king's side, so the ghosts in their house are bound to respect the majesty of the law."
"Majesty of the law!" repeated the constable. "'Tis a fine saying! The Majesty of the law! Ay, ay, here I sit to uphold the majesty of the law. I reckon I'll goo to bed!"
"Shall I lend you a hand up the stairs, good sir?"
Richard's voice sounded dangerously demure, and then came a noise of scuffling and grunting that told the task of getting the representative of the law upstairs to be not altogether a light one.
She waited till she heard Richard return to the kitchen, and then she tapped at the window. He started and turned; she tapped again, and with eager hands he flung the casement back.
"In life or death, you are welcome!" he cried.
Audrey's laugh brought him back to common life. "I am no ghost!" she cried merrily; "but I am escaped like a bird from the snare, and I have mighty news to tell. Give me your hand, and help me in by the window, for I fear unbarring the door may awake your boon companion."
His face still white with agitation, Harrison leant out, and lifted her slight form to the window-sill.
"Truly I thought it was your spirit," he began, half apologetically; "your face was so white in the moonlight, and——"
"I am indeed no ghost, as yet," she laughed, as she slid down into the room. "Pluck up all your courage, good brother, for I have such a fearsome and wonderful budget of news to unfold, as is fit to make a fresh chapter to the 'Princess of Cleves!'"
The shamefacedness she had feared had vanished. Harrison's unexpected agitation had put all thoughts of her own feelings out of her head. Her only wish was to laugh him out of the bewilderment that still kept him gazing at her as if he feared to trust his eyes.
"I do solemnly declare to you that neither am I a ghost, nor did I ride hither on a broomstick; witness the mud upon my shoes! But my adventure is marvellous enough for all that. But before I tell it I must inquire into this strange fashion of housekeeping! What hours are these to keep, sir? Such junketings and revellings! Fie, fie! But in sad earnest, how dared you venture on such a wild prank! What blessed dulness was it that kept Jack Catlin from guessing you?"
Harrison's spirits rallied under her jests, and he laughed as he defended himself.
"Indeed, stern mistress, you forget that I am a soldier, and 'tis my profession to use stratagems to gain news of the enemy's movements. I have this night heard such a description of myself as, if scarce flattering, sets me free from all fear of being recognized. That drunken knave, Astbury, painted me very truly from his own looking-glass. But now, thanks to your wisdom in making me cut my hair short and change my clothes, a shrewder fellow than the good fool who snores overhead would not guess my true name. But to make a clear shrift, 'twas more by chance than by craft, that this all came about. When I saw you ride off, I dropped from a front window, and came round to seek for John and find what had happened, and so I stumbled on my friend the constable, who told me you were bound to Hunstanton to appear before the justice. You could not deem I should depart in full content, having got that news! So I patched up my acquaintance with master constable, and sent him over to the sexton's to get some ale, and we hobnobbed right merrily. I have all the news, they seek only for a swashbuckler somewhat like our rascal of yesterday, with curling hair, and a scarlet cloak, that's all they have to guide them! And they are well assured I shall take ship at Brancaster Staith, where all rogues and vagabonds seek to escape by the fishing-boats. And I heard further, what a tantrum the young mistress was in. 'Laws, she did give un a talking to!' I knew not, gentle sister, that you were such a virago."
"Indeed, I think I did somewhat dash them," answered Audrey, complacently; "and they will be yet more dashed to-morrow when they unlock their cage, and find their bird flown! But now, surely we should be on our road to Lynn?"
"No, no; 'tis of no use to reach Lynn before folks are up in the morning. You must rest a while here on the settle, and I will watch lest any of the ghosts should rouse our friend above from his snoring, and by-and-by I will saddle your pony, and we shall be at Lynn by daybreak. Now rest, sister; you must be wearied nigh to death! I will ask nothing of your adventures now. It suffices that you are safe, for which the Lord be praised.
"No, indeed, I must and will tell you my story, and you must see my spoil. Did you not foretell it all when you said grandfather was 'an old courtier of the queen'? Here's the end of the ballad come true—
"'Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his bounds,
And when he died gave every child a thousand pounds!'
Count that, and that, and that!" and she tossed her money bags into his hands in triumph.
Harrison gazed in astonishment when she brought out one after another of her treasures.
"It is indeed like a story of romance," he said, "or a miracle. But, alas, 'tis a pity the Perrient pearls should but come back to you when you are bound for the Plantations. Mistress Perrient should be queening it at court, instead of flying across seas to live among Indian savages!"
"Fie, fie, brother! You should not look so sad over worldly gauds! I must bid Master Marshman deal faithfully with you to-morrow for setting your heart on vanities, to make no mention of drinking strong ale with the parish constable at midnight."
"'Tis the way this fortune has come back to you, seems scarce within the bounds of nature," went on Harrison, in a graver tone; "you mind the old word Mortmain, the 'dead hand' as men called it, that still held the power over lands and goods, so that living men had to obey its will. I could sometimes persuade myself that on a certain evening, when I took General Harrison's hand in pledge of fidelity, that I had indeed given my being into his keeping; for, though I held him mistaken on many matters of religion and government, in every decision that I make, and every chance that befalls me, I do but seem to be following the beck of his hand, such power hath it, and lo! now hath the same fate befallen you, and for all that Acts of Parliament have forbidden Mortmain, a dead hand hath given wealth into your lap!"
Audrey grew suddenly scarlet. With an involuntary movement her hand flew up to her bodice, to guard the letter that lay hidden there. The dead hand had done more than he guessed. She held its last commands, and she knew what road General Harrison had beckoned his nephew on. But never, never should he or any man living, know that she knew.
CHAPTER XI.
A CANDID MINISTER.
"Love is a thing as any spirit free,
Women of kind desiren libertee,
And not to be constrained as a thral."
CHAUCER, Franklin's Tale.
The grey dawn was stealing over the land as Audrey and Richard halted at a cottage outside Lynn, and gave the pony into the care of an old countryman, that they might slip into the town without attracting notice. They stepped briskly on along the frosty road, pleased to feel that they were so near the end of their journey, when they were startled by a man bursting from the hedge and hurrying towards them.
Audrey could not repress a cry of dismay as she pulled up her cloak to muffle her face; but in a moment she was reassured by a call from the stranger which made Richard spring forward and catch him in his arms.
"Good, Mr. Rogers," he exclaimed. "Well met, indeed! What happy chance hath brought you hither?"
"No chance, Dick, but the care of that God who I trust will give us a speedy deliverance from our troubles. Right thankful I am to see thou hast escaped the snares that did beset thee. I have awaited thee here to guide thee to Brother Marshman's house by the garden way, for there is a ship unlading hard by his front door, and idle folk might spy on you did you go that road."
He turned courteously towards Audrey to include her in his words. Richard flung his arm round the minister's shoulders.
"Mistress Perrient," he said, "this is Mr. Rogers, who hath been my good friend since my boyhood, and hardly escaped from London when I was well-nigh taken."
Mr. Rogers bared his head with a courtly bow. "Madam," he said, "I have been familiar with the name of your grandfather and your learned father on General Harrison's lips, and I trust this fortunate meeting may be accounted a sign that the Lord doth intend to make a happy ending to the troubles that have beset this His servant."
Audrey could not repress a smile at this rather enigmatic compliment.
"I fear, good sir," she said, "we have rather added to your troubles, since you have been at the pains of waiting here for us before daybreak."
"Not a whit, not a whit," answered the minister, cheerily; "in truth, I thought not of my own troubles, but of my friend Dick's. Brother Marshman would have come himself to welcome you," he continued, turning to Richard, "but I persuaded him that I should the better recognize you if you should be disguised. Truly, Dick, I take it ill of this government they should be at such pains to seek thee out, and count me not worth pursuing."
Mr. Rogers was in unusually high spirits. Audrey wondered if he found it a relief to escape from the society of his brother minister; but the twinkle in his eye, when he looked at her, seemed to show his pleasure in the present meeting had something to do with his gay humour.
"I pray thee, Dick," he continued, as they walked on, "tell me somewhat of the history of thy journey, and how all hath fallen out so happily. Pardon me, madam, for being so bold. When my wife doth reprove me for curiosity, I tell her 'tis all due to my descent from Grandmother Eve, and therefore a woman should not blame it."
Audrey laughed, and assured him she would gladly listen to the story of Richard's adventures; and it was in a strangely merry fashion that the sad story was told and heard, and it was by no means ended when they entered the garden of the Presbyterian minister, and passed up the trim path to the door.
"Richard Harrison, you are welcome," said the grave voice of Mr. Marshman, as he took the young man's hand in his friendly grasp. "And is this your sister who bears you company? I knew not you would venture to carry her with you."
"This is Mistress Perrient, of Inglethorpe," said Harrison, rather hurriedly. "She is in danger of prison for the fault of aiding me, and is flying to her father in Providence Plantation."
Mr. Marshman stopped and eyed Audrey steadily; then saying shortly, "My housekeeper shall attend her," he ushered her into a parlour, and led Harrison down the passage to his study.
The kind and demure old woman who ruled Mr. Marshman's modest household looked on fugitives as the most usual and most welcome visitors to his house, and the gentle warmth of her reception made up to Audrey for the hardly expected severity of Mr. Marshman's manner. But after a little time the door opened, and the minister returned. His face was stern, but one who knew him would have detected an unusual expression of anxiety on his grave features.