‘Oh, that’s the bitterness, Carrie; it’s not a shameful death, or leaving the happy world even—and hasn’t it been happy! No; I’d stand that if I left anything behind. But just to go out like a candle—phew!’—he blew into the air as if at a flame,—‘bright one minute, snuffed out the next. ’Tis ghastly. I cannot realise, it, Carrie; I won’t—I won’t, ’tis miserable injustice.’ Phil rose and paced about the cell for a moment, then he came and sat down beside Carrie again, and took her hand in his. ‘You don’t understand, you know, my heart,’ he said with something of his old lightness for a moment; ‘for I scarce think you ever felt thus. You now, if you were to die along with me, would not feel a pang, I believe.’ ‘No, indeed, Phil; I should die gladly with you,’ said Carrie, mystified. ‘Ah, there’s the rub. I cannot die, Carrie; my personality cries out so loud against extinction ere it hath fulfilled itself. Foolish, vain talk; but I’ve thought of no other thing night and day since they passed sentence on me, except of you.’ Carrie, you know, was of another clay; she sat and looked at Phil with such a puzzled air that he fairly laughed aloud, and his ringing laugh struck strangely on the walls of Newgate. The poor old walls had heard many a groan, but so few laughs that the sound was scarcely recognised! ‘Did I puzzle her dear brains with nonsense?’ he said, taking Carrie’s face between his hands and kissing her. ‘Carrie, our jesting days are over, and sweet, sweet they’ve been for all their shortness.’ ‘O Phil, they cannot be over,’ said Carrie; she was only twenty, poor child, an age that has little realisation. ‘Carrie, you must believe this,’ said her husband—he looked into her eyes as he spoke, and let his words fall slowly,—‘I shall be both dead and buried this day next month—dead and buried, Carrie, and you will be a widow. You must face this, must talk with me of what you are to do afterwards.’ But Carrie would only shudder and hide her face in her hands. Phil spoke on—a curious task to set his eloquence this—telling her unflinchingly all that would be, explaining, describing, till Carrie whitened and clutched his hand more tightly than ever. ‘Stop, Phil,’ she said, in a little choked whisper, ‘I believe it now.’ Then with a rattle of the bolts the door fell open, and the gaoler silently signed to Carrie that she must say her farewells. ‘I shall be allowed to see you once again, Phil,’ she whispered, before she turned away. Carrie’s coach had been waiting for her at the prison gate all this time. And when she came out, Peter stepped forward to assist her. Carrie got in, and then sat staring before her in a bewildered fashion. ‘Shall we drive home, madam?’ asks Peter, his voice very husky. ‘To——. Yes—to my father’s,’ said Carrie. CHAPTER XXXIV