“Come,” he said, with a return of his more familiar tone. “There’s no evidence that he means to die here. I daresay he won’t, if he can help it, poor beggar! The telegraph is as impossible as the post. We are in for it, mammy. Let’s hope he’ll pull through.”
“And if he doesn’t, Markham!”
“That will be—more awkward still,” he said. Markham was not himself: he shuffled from one foot to another, and looked straight before him, never glancing aside with those keen looks of understanding which made his insignificant countenance interesting. His mother was, what mothers too seldom are, his most intimate friend; but he did not meet her eye. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. At last a faint and doubtful gleam broke over his face. He burst into a sudden chuckle—one of those hoarse brief notes of laughter which were peculiar to him. “By Jove! it would be poetic justice,” he said.
Lady Markham showed no inclination to laughter. “Is there nothing we can do?” she cried.
“Think of something else,” said Markham, with a sudden recovery. “I always find that the best thing to do—for the moment. What was Claude saying to you—and t’other man?”
“Claude! I don’t know what he was saying. News like this is enough to drive everything else out of one’s head. He is wavering between Con and Frances.”
“Mother, I told you. Frances will have nothing to say to him.”
“Frances—will obey the leading of events, I hope.”
“Poor little Fan! I don’t think she will, though. That child has a great deal in her. She shows her parentage.”
“Sir Thomas says she reminds him much of her—father,” Lady Markham said, with a faint smile.