“And, Claire, are the clouds between us to pass away for ever now?” he whispered, as he held her hand.
“Clouds?” she said, as she seemed to comprehend him now. “No: they can never pass away. Mr Linnell, I am ill. I hardly know what I say.”
“Then trust me,” he said. “I will take you back.”
“Yes—if you will,” she said vacantly. “I have been so ill. I hardly know—why I am here.”
“But you understand me, Claire?” he said softly.
“Yes: I think I understand you.”
“Then remember this,” he said. “You have shrunk from me, and there has been a terrible estrangement through all your troubles; but, mark this, Claire Denville, I love you. Let me say those simple words again, and let their simplicity and truth bear them home to your heart. I love you, as I always have loved and always shall. You will turn to me, dearest, now.”
“It is impossible,” she said gravely, and she seemed moment by moment to be growing clearer.
“But I love you,” he pleaded.
“And they ask for my love and help,” she said, with a sudden flash back into the full power of her intellect. “My poor suffering father—my sister—my wounded brother. Can you not see that there is a social gulf between us too?”