Agnes pressed her hand tenderly, saying:
“You may trust in me.”
Clare left the room shortly afterwards, and Agnes came upon her later on in the room that she had made her studio. She was standing in front of the easel on which her last half-finished drawing rested. On the small table beside her were a number of memoranda and suggestions for the pictures that were to illustrate the book.
“Who will finish them now?” she said, as Agnes came near and looked at the sketch on the easel. “Will they ever be finished?”
After a long pause she turned away with a sigh.
“I wonder if it is possible that he heard something bad about me,” she said. “I have heard of stories being told by unscrupulous persons—girls—about other girls. Is it possible, do you think, that some one has poisoned his mind by falsehoods about me?”
“No, no; do not fancy for a moment that anything like that happened,” said Agnes. “I am afraid—no—I should say that I hope—I hope with all my soul that you may never know the reason for his estrangement. It is a valid reason—I can give you that assurance; but I dare tell you no more. Now come away, my dear child. Whatever has occurred be sure that no blame attaches to you. Claude Westwood himself would never think for a moment that you are to blame. Oh, my Clare, you are only to be pitied.”
The girl stood irresolute for a few minutes, then she said:
“It is all a mystery—a terrible mystery! But God is above us—I will trust in God.”
In the afternoon Clare went to her room to lie down, and before she had been gone many minutes Sir Percival Hope called at The Knoll.