He thanked her somewhat sullenly; for his disappointment was so deep and bitter that small kindnesses almost irritated him.
She sighed. “It is cruel to be angry with me,” she said: “I am not the cause of this; it is a heavier blow to me than to you. Sooner or later you will be free—and then you will not waste a thought on me, I fear—but I must remain in this odious prison without your eyes and your smile to lighten me, yet unable to forget you. Oh, Alfred, for mercy's sake, whisper me one kind word at parting; give me one kind look to remember and dote upon.”
She put out both hands as eloquently as she spoke, and overpowered his prudence so far that he took her offered hands—they were as cold now as they were burning hot the last time—and pressed them, and said—
“I shall be grateful to you while I live.”
The passionate woman snatched her hands away. “Gratitude is too cold for me,” she cried; “I scorn even yours. Love me or hate me.”
He made no reply. And so they parted.
“Will you pledge your honour to make no attempt at escape on the road?” asked the pawnbroker on his return.
“I'll see you d——d first,” replied the prisoner.
On this he was handcuffed, and helped into the dog-cart.
They went up to town by the midnight train; but, to Alfred's astonishment and delight did not take a carriage to themselves.