The magistrate nodded.
“That’s true,” he said tolerantly, “always supposing that you’ve done no wrong, my girl—no wrong beyond getting into bad company, as I trust will turn out to be the case. Now, Mr. Dobbie, take down her answers. What’s your name, my girl, first?”
Henrietta looked at him steadily; she was trying to place herself in these new conditions. Something like composure was coming back to her flushed and frightened face. She reflected; and having reflected, she was silent.
He fancied that she had not heard, or did not understand.
“Your name, young woman,” he repeated, “and your last place of abode? Speak up! And don’t be afraid.”
But she did not answer.
He frowned.
“Come, come,” he said. “Did you hear me? Where is your home, and what do you call yourself? You are not the man’s wife, I know. We know as much as that, you see, so you may as well be frank.”
“What is the charge against me?” She spoke slowly, and her face was now set and stubborn. “Of what am I accused?”
Mr. Hornyold’s face turned a brick red. He did not rule three parishes through three curates, reserving to himself only the disciplinary powers he was now exercising, to be thwarted by a run-the-country girl; who, in spite of her looks, was, ten to one, no better than the imprudent wenches the overseers were continually bringing before him. He knew at least the company she kept. He raised his voice.