CHAPTER XVIII.
They did not exchange a word for some time; and when the silence was broken it was by Clare.
“Just before her illness I ventured to suggest to her that we might go for a month or two to England,” she said.
“And then”—
“The look that came to her face was one of fear—of absolute terror. I was frightened, and began to think that there were perhaps graver reasons than I had ever fancied for our exile. It took her some moments to recover from the shock that my suggestion had given her, and then she said, 'You must never think of such a thing as possible. I shall never see England again!'”
“Poor woman! Ah, what it is laid on woman to bear!” said Agnes. “And she would have been so happy if it had not been for her faithlessness. If she had only trusted the true man who loved her, she would have been happy. I fear that she cannot ever have been happy with your father.”
“She never spoke to me of him.”
Clare spoke in a low tone.
“He died when you were a child—so much, I think, was taken for granted,” said Agnes.
“I have always taken it for granted,” said Clare. “Oh yes; I remember asking about him when I was quite young, and my mother told me that I had no father.”