The clerk dipped his pen in the ink, and after casting a last glance at the girl to see if she would still yield, began to write. She watched him with fascinated eyes, watched him in a kind of stupor. The thought throbbed loudly and more loudly in her head, “What will become of me? What will become of me?” Meanwhile the silence was broken only by the squeaking of the pen and a single angry “Lord’s sakes!” which fell from the landlady. The others awaited the end with whatever of pity, or interest, or greedy excitement came natural to them. They were within, and others were without; and they had a delicious sense of privilege. They would have much to tell: For one does not every day see a pretty girl, young, and tenderly nurtured, as this girl seemed to be, and a lady to the eye, committed to the common gaol on a charge of murder—murder, and treason felony, was it, they called it? Treason felony! That meant hanging, drawing, and quartering. Lord’s sakes, indeed; poor thing, how would she bear it? And though it is likely that some among them—Mrs. Gilson for one—didn’t think it would come to this, there was a frown on the landlady’s brow that would have done honour to the Lord Chancellor Eldon himself.
CHAPTER VII
CAPTAIN ANTHONY CLYNE
Mr. Bishop of Bow Street alone watched the clerk’s pen with a look of doubt. He had his own views about the girl. But he did not interfere, and his discontent with the posture of affairs was only made clear when a knock came at the door. Then he was at the door, and had raised the latch before those who were nearest could open.
“Have you got him?” he asked eagerly. And he thrust his head into the passage.
Even Henrietta turned to catch the answer, her lips parting. Her breath seemed to stop. The clerk held his pen. The magistrate by a gesture exacted silence.
“No, but——”
“No?” the runner cried in chagrin.
“No!” The voice sounded something peremptory. “Certainly not. But I want to see—ahem!—yes, Mr. Hornyold. At once!”
Henrietta, at the first word of the answer, had turned again. She had turned so far that she now had her back full to the door, and her face to the farthest corner. But it was not the same Henrietta, nor the same face. She sat rigid, stiff, turned to stone; she was scarlet from hair to neck-ribbon. Her very eyes burned, her shoulders burned. And her eyes were wild with insupportable shame. To be found thus! To be found thus, and by him! Better, far better the gaol, and all it meant!
Meanwhile the magistrate, after a brief demur and a little whispering and the appearance of a paper with a name on it, rose. He went out. A moment later his clerk was summoned, and he went out. Bishop had gone out first of all. Those who were left and who had nothing better to do than to stare at the girl’s back, whispered together, or bade one another listen and hear what was afoot outside. Presently these were joined by one or two of the boldest in the passage, who muttered hurriedly what they knew, or sought information, or stared with double power at the girl’s back. But Henrietta sat motionless, with the same hot blush on her cheeks and the same misery in her eyes.