Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the vehicle. Nor had she said much to him, but had sat with him holding his hand in hers. Now he spoke to her,—"Where is it that we are?" he asked.
"At Silverbridge, dearest."
"But what is this chamber? And why are we here?"
"We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in the next room."
"But this is the Inn?"
"Yes, dear, it is the Inn."
"And I see crowds of people about." There were crowds of people about. There had been men in the yard, and others standing about on the stairs, and the public room was full of men who were curious to see the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear what would be the result of the case before the magistrates. He must be committed; so, at least said everybody; but then there would be the question of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who would be the bailsmen? "Why are the people here?" said Mr. Crawley.
"I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates are sitting," said his wife.
"They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman," said he;—"and they will not be disappointed."
"Nothing can degrade but guilt," said his wife.