Sometimes the inexplicable dread of his
singing was more than she could bear; she would hurry on her
walking-attire, and, stealing like a shadow down the stairs, would
seek refuge in pacing about the streets of the neighbourhood,
heedless of weather or the hour.
Mrs. Enderby never came down to breakfast. One morning, when Paul
happened to be at home, he and Maud had finished that meal in
silence, and Maud was rising to leave the room, when her father
checked her. He leaned over the table towards her, and spoke in an
anxious undertone.
"Have you noticed anything a little--a little strange in your
mother lately, Maud? Anything in her way of speaking, I mean--her
general manner?"
The girl met his look, and shook her head. The approach to such a
conversation affected her as with a shock; she could not speak.
"She has very bad nights, you know," Paul went on, still in a tone
just above a whisper, "and of late she has been taking chloral. It's
against my wish, but the relief makes it an irresistible temptation.
I fear--I am afraid it is having some deleterious effect upon her;
she seemed to be a little--just a little delirious in the night, I
thought."
There was something horrible in his voice and face as he uttered
these words; he shuddered slightly, and his tongue seemed to labour
for utterance, as though he dreaded the sound of his own speech.
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