"I must go to my lodgings first."

"I will go with you."

She cast on him a look of questioning hate, yielded, and laid two
fingers on his offered arm.

They walked out of the church together and to the cottage where, for
privacy, she had lodged. There he left her for half an hour, and,
yielding to her own necessities and not his entreaties, she took
some refreshment. In the glowing sullenness of foiled revenge, the
smoke of which was crossed every now and then by a flash of hate,
she sat until he returned.

"Before I go with you to the train," said the curate,
re-entering, "you must give me your word to leave young Lingard
unmolested. I know my friend Mr. Drew has no desire to trouble you,
but I am equally confident that he will do whatever I ask him. If
you will not promise me, from the moment you get into the train you
shall be watched.--Do you promise?"

She was silent, with cold gleaming eyes, for a time, then said,

"How am I to know that this is not a trick to save his life?"

"You saw him; you could see he is dying. I tell you I do not think
he can live a month. His disease is making rapid progress. He must
go with the first of the cold weather."