"What, not write to him? When he is poor and in trouble? That is not like you, father," and Maud half-loosed her arm.
Her father quietly put the little rebellious hand back again to its place. He was evidently debating within himself whether he should tell her the whole truth, or how much of it. Not that the debate was new, for he must already have foreseen this possible, nay, certain, conjuncture. Especially as all his dealings with his family had hitherto been open as daylight. He held that to prevaricate, or wilfully to give the impression of a falsehood, is almost as mean as a direct lie. When anything occurred that he could not tell his children, he always said plainly, "I cannot tell you," and they asked no more.
I wondered exceedingly how he would deal with Maud.
She walked with him, submissive yet not satisfied, glancing at him from time to time, waiting for him to speak. At last she could wait no longer.
"I am sure there is something wrong. You do not care for Lord Ravenel as much as you used to do."
"More, if possible."
"Then write to him. Say, we want to see him—I want to see him. Ask him to come and stay a long while at Beechwood."
"I cannot, Maud. It would be impossible for him to come. I do not think he is likely to visit Beechwood for some time."
"How long? Six months? A year, perhaps?"
"It may be several years."