CHAPTER VI
THE INQUIRY
"Who is there?"
Henrietta lifted her tear-stained face from the pillow and awaited the answer. Three hours earlier, her head aching, her heart full, uncertain what to do or what would follow, she had fled from the commotion below, and, locking herself in her bedroom, had lain down with her misery. It was something to find in the apathy of prostration a brief respite; it was something to close her eyes and lie quite still. For a while she might keep her door locked, might nurse her wretchedness, might evade rude looks and curious questions, might postpone decision.
For the pride that had sustained her in the morning had failed, as the day wore on. Solitude and the lack of food--she had refused to eat at midday--had worn down her spirit. At last tears had come, and plentifully--and repentance. She did not say that the fault was her own, but she knew it, she admitted it. The man had behaved to her wickedly, treacherously, horribly; but she had brought it on herself. He had laid the snare in vain had she not stooped to deceit--had she not consented to mislead her friends, to meet him secretly, to listen to him with as little heed of propriety as if she had been Sue at the forge, or Bess in the still-room. Her own vanity, her own folly, had brought her to the very verge of ruin; and with shame she owned that there was more in the old saws with which her sister-in-law had deafened her than her inexperience had imagined. But the discovery came late. She was smirched. And what--what was she to do? Where could she go to avoid the full penalty--the taunts, the shame, the disgrace that awaited her in the old home?--even if the old home were still open to her.
Meanwhile she got no answer. And "Who is there?" she repeated wearily.
The reply came muffled through the door.
"You are wanted downstairs, lady."
She rose languidly. Perhaps the time was come. Perhaps her brother was here, had followed, traced, and found her. For the moment she was all but indifferent. To-morrow she would suffer, and sorely; but to-day she had fallen too low. She went slowly to the door and opened it.
Ann stood in the passage.
"They want you downstairs, miss," she said.
The girl saw that the woman looked queerly at her, but she was prepared for such looks. Unconsciously she had steeled herself to bear them. "Very well," she returned, and did not ask who wanted her. But she went back to her table, dabbed her eyes with cold water, and smoothed her hair and her neck-ribbon--she had pride enough for that. Then she went to the door. The woman was still outside, still staring.
"I did not know that you were waiting," Henrietta said, faintly surprised. "I know my way down."
"I was to come with you, miss."
"Where are they, then?"
"They are where you were this morning," the woman answered. "This way, if you please."
Henrietta followed listlessly, and fancied in the sullenness of her apathy that she was proof against aught that could happen. But when she had descended the stairs and neared the door of Mr. Rogers's room--which was in a dusky passage--she found herself, to her astonishment, brushing past a row of people, who flattened themselves against the wall to let her pass. Their eyes and their hard breathing--perhaps because she was amongst them before she saw them--impressed her so disagreeably that her heart fluttered, and she paused. For an imperceptible instant she was on the point of turning and going back. But, fortunately, at that moment the door opened wide, Ann stood aside, and Mrs. Gilson showed herself. She beckoned to the girl to enter.
"Come in, miss," she said gruffly, as Henrietta complied. "Here's some gentlemen want to ask you a question or two."
Henrietta saw two persons with their faces turned towards her seated behind a table, which bore ink and paper and one or two calf-bound books. Behind these were three or four other persons standing; and beside the door close to her were as many more, also on their feet. But nowhere could she see the dreaded face of her brother, or, indeed, any face that she knew. And after advancing firmly enough into the room, she stopped, and, turning, looked uncertainly at Mrs. Gilson.
"There must be some mistake," she murmured. "I have come into the----"
"Wrong room, miss?"--the speaker was Bishop, who was one of the three or four who stood behind the two at the table. "No, there's no mistake, miss," he continued, with exaggerated cheerfulness. "It's just a formality. Only just a formality. These gentlemen wish to ask you one or two questions."
The colour rose to her cheeks.
"To ask me?" she repeated, with a slight ring of hauteur in her voice.
"Just so," Bishop answered. "It will be all right, I am sure. But attend to this gentleman, if you please, and answer his questions."
He indicated with his finger the one seated before him.
The girl, half angry, half frightened, lowered her eyes and met those of the person at the table. Apparently her aspect had checked the exordium he had prepared; for instead of addressing her in the tones which were wont to fill the justice-room at Ambleside, Mr. Hornyold, rector and magistrate, sat back in his chair, and stared at her in silence. It was evident that his astonishment was great. He was a portly man, and tall, about forty years old, and, after his fashion, handsome. He had well-formed features and a mobile smile; but his face was masterful--overmasterful, some thought; and his eyes were hard, when a sly look did not soften, without much improving, their expression. The girl before him was young, adorably fresh, above all, beautiful; and the smile of the man peeped from under the mask of the justice. He stared at her, and she at him, and perhaps of the two he was the more taken aback. At any rate, it was Henrietta who broke the silence.
"I do not understand," she said, with ill-suppressed indignation, "why I am here. Are you sure that there is no mistake?"
He found his voice then.
"Quite sure," he said drily. And he laid down the pen with which he had been toying while he stared at her. He sat a little more erect in his chair. "There is no mistake," he continued, "though for your sake, young woman, I wish I could think there was. I wish I could think there was," he repeated in a more indulgent tone, "since you seem, at any rate, a more respectable person than I expected to see."
"Sir!"
The girl's eyes opened wide. Her face was scarlet.
He leaned forward.
"Come, my girl," he said--and his familiar tone struck her, as it were, in the face,--never had such a tone been used to her before! "Let us have no nonsense. You will not improve your case that way. Let me tell you, we are accustomed to all sorts here. You must speak when you are told to speak, and be silent when you are bid, and in the meantime listen to me! Listen to me, I say!" staying by an imperious nod the angry remonstrance that was on her lips. "And remember where you are, if you wish to be well treated. If you are sensible and tell the truth, some other course will be found than that which, it is to be feared, must end this business."
"But by what right," Henrietta cried, striving to command both her rage and her fear--"by what right----"
"Am I about to question you?"--with a smirk of humour and a glance at the audience. "By the right of the law, young woman, which I would have you know is of some account here, however it may stand in Lancashire."
"The law?" she stammered. And she looked round terrified. "Why? Why? What have I done?" she cried pathetically.
For a moment all was dark before her.
He