“I want more—more than you give me now,” he answered; “and if you don’t give it me, I shall not stay here. You had better go to London to-morrow, and look for some money. My uncle will let you have some if you are persistent.”
“I think I will go to-day,” she said, with an odd tone in her voice. “I should be in time for the twelve o’clock train.”
“You will go to-morrow,” he replied decisively.
“Very well, my love”—and she winked quickly to herself. “I will go to-morrow.”
“Unless you bring back some money, I shall not stay here any longer. You must clearly understand that, Anne. I am tired of this business,” he said, in his hard, determined voice.
“It’s not worse for you than it is for me, Alfred. I can bear it with you; cannot you bear it with me?”
He looked at her—at her black dress, her white handkerchief, at the poverty-stricken age of which she seemed to be the symbol; and he shuddered perceptibly as he turned away and answered, “No, I cannot, and I want to go.”
“Alfred!” she said, with a cry of pain, and going to his side she put her hand on his arm; but he shook her off, and went a step farther away.
“Stay there,” he said sternly.
“Why do you recoil from me?” she asked; “am I so distasteful to you?”