The time she chose was when she brought down little Henry, who was now always expected to appear, and say, "Dood morning, papa," before Mr. Ascott went into the city.
As they stood, the boy laughing in his father's face, and the father beaming all over with delight, the bitter, almost fierce thought, smote Elizabeth, Why should Peter Ascott be standing there fat and flourishing, and poor Tom dying? It made her bold to ask the only favor she ever had asked of the master whom she did not care for, and to whom she had done her duty simply as duty, without, until lately, one fragment of respect.
"Sir, if you please, might I speak with you a minute before you go out?"
"Certainly, Mrs. Hand. Any thing about Master Henry? Or perhaps yourself? You want more wages? Very well. I shall be glad, in any reasonable way, to show my satisfaction at the manner in which you bring up my son."
"Thank you, Sir," said Elizabeth, curtseying. "But it is not that."
And in the briefest language she could find she explained what it was.
Mr. Ascott knitted his brows and looked important. He never scattered his benefits with a silent hand, and he dearly liked to create difficulties, if only to show how he could smooth them down.
"To get a patient admitted at the Consumption Hospital, is, you should be aware, no easy matter, until the building at Queen's Elm is complete. But I flatter myself I have influence. I have subscribed a deal of money. Possibly the person may be got in in time. Who did you say he was?"
"Thomas Cliffe. He married one of the servants here, Esther—"
"Oh, don't trouble yourself about the name; I shouldn't recollect it.
The housekeeper might. Why didn't his wife apply to the housekeeper?"