There was something in Frances’ eyes and in her look of mute endurance which startled him, even in the midst of his enthusiasm. “What is the matter?” he said. “I have not forgotten our bargain. I will do much for you, if you will work for me. And you want something. Come, tell me what it is?”
She gave him a look of reproach. Had he, too, forgotten the sick and miserable, the sufferer, of whom no one thought? “Sir Thomas,” she said, “Constance has money; she has stopped at Paris to buy dresses. Oh, give me what is my share.”
“I remember now,” he said.
“Then you know the only thing that any one can do for me. Oh, Sir Thomas, if you could but give it me now.”
“Shall I speak to your father?” he asked.
These words Markham heard by chance, as he passed them to fetch something his mother wanted. He returned to where she sat with a curious look in his little twinkling eyes. “What is Sir Thomas after? Do you know the silly story that is about? They say that old fellow is after Lady Markham’s daughter. It had better be put a stop to, mother. I won’t have anything go amiss with little Fan.”
“Go amiss! with Sir Thomas. There is nobody he might not marry, Markham—not that anything has ever been said.”
“Let him have anybody he pleases except little Fan. I won’t have anything happen to Fan. She is not one that would stand it, like the rest of us. We are old stagers; we are trained for the stake; we know how to grin and bear it. But that little thing, she has never been brought up to it, and it would kill her. I won’t have anything go wrong with little Fan.”
“There is nothing going wrong with Frances. You are not talking with your usual sense, Markham. If that was coming, Frances would be a lucky girl.”
Markham looked at her with his eyes all pursed up, nearly disappearing in the puckers round them. “Mother,” he said, “we know a girl who was a very lucky girl, you and I. Remember Nelly Winterbourn.”