Not till she had been in her uncle's house for close upon four weeks did Maud brace herself to speak to him of her mother. She had been on the verge of doing so many times, but always, in his bluff fashion, he had managed to convey to her that the subject was not to be broached.
But for an urgent letter from Mrs. Sheppard herself, she would scarcely have summoned the courage to break through what was almost a prohibition, for Uncle Edward was not an easy man to resist; and even as she did so, she knew with absolute conviction that her effort was foredoomed to failure. She scarcely knew how to make it, so uncompromising was the old man's attitude, and when at last it was made, when in desperation she forced herself to tell him of her mother's pitiable plight, she regretted it almost immediately so curtly was her information received. She saw that Uncle Edward was really angry though he said but little. She also saw that what she said on her mother's behalf made not the smallest impression upon his will. He heard her out indeed, but so grimly that at length, feeling that she was presenting the matter quite inadequately in face of his total lack of sympathy, she gave him her mother's hysterical appeal to read.
He shook his head at first, but finally, as she pressed it upon him almost tearfully, he took and read the letter. Then, while anxiously she watched him, he tore it across and across and flung it back to her over the table.
"Pshaw!" he said. "The woman's a hypocrite--a confounded impostor. I know her. You don't. Leave her alone, and let her sink!"
And with that he stumped angrily from the room with beetling brows and fiery eyes.
Maud sat very still after his departure. She had known in her heart that it was hopeless to appeal to him, but now that the appeal had failed she was utterly nonplussed. There was no doubt in her mind that matters were desperate. Her mother had made her realize that, and she felt she could not write and tell her that she could do nothing. Slight as was the bond of sympathy between them, still were they mother and daughter, and she could not fling her off as Uncle Edward recommended. In a fashion the old man's anger reacted in her mother's favour; for she was conscious of indignation on her behalf. Whatever Mrs. Sheppard's faults might be--and it was quite possible that insincerity was among them--he had no right to abuse her to her daughter. It aroused her own anger, and it aroused also that protective instinct which was never very far below the surface with her. When she rose at length, her face was very pale and determined. She had not wanted to write to Charlie, but it seemed that she had no choice.
It was a still, warm afternoon in October. She went into the drawing-room, a stiff apartment upholstered in gold brocade, and sat down at a writing-table in a window-recess to write.
It was the most difficult letter she had ever composed, and yet she had never experienced the smallest difficulty in writing to him before. She could not express herself freely. Words would not come. She desired to avoid all reference to what had passed between them on that night of witchery on which they had last met. She wanted to blot it out of her mind and heart, to address him, to regard him, as only a friend. Ever since that Sunday evening, now nearly a week ago, she had kept her thoughts rigidly from straying in his direction. Had it been possible she would have put him altogether out of her life. It was not possible, and she knew it. But it was with the greatest reluctance that she set herself to write to him, and her reluctance displayed itself in every sentence.
She sat over that letter for the greater part of the afternoon, and when it was finished at last she felt utterly dissatisfied with it. She had an urgent desire to tear it up. But she could not face the writing of another. With a weary sigh she closed and stamped the envelope.
It was then that there fell a step outside the drawing-room door, and Uncle Edward's discreet, elderly maidservant peeped in.