“I have not the least doubt of it. That would be the usual distribution of labour, if you remained together. Fan, my mother has sent me to fetch you home.”
Frances drew a little farther away. She gave him a look of vague alarm. The familiarity of the address troubled her. But when she looked at him again, her gravity gave way. He was such a queer, such a very queer little man.
“You may laugh if you like, my dear,” he said. “I am used to it. Providence—always the best judge, no doubt—has not given me an awe-inspiring countenance. It is hard upon my mother, who is a pretty woman. But I accept the position, for my part. This is a charming place. You have got a number of nice things. And those little sketches are very tolerable. Who did them? You? Waring, so far as I remember, used to draw very well himself. I am glad you draw; it will give you a little occupation. I like the looks of you, though I don’t think you admire me.”
“Indeed,” said Frances, troubled, “it is because I am so much surprised. Are you really—are you sure you are——”
He gave a little chuckle, which made her start—an odd, comical, single note of laughter, very cordial and very droll, like the little man himself.
“I’ve got a servant with me,” he said, “down at the hotel, who knows that I go by the name of Markham when I’m at home. I don’t know if that will satisfy you. But Con, to be sure, knows me, which will be better. You don’t hear any voice of nature saying within your breast, ‘This is my long-lost brother?’ That’s a pity. But by-and-by, you’ll see, we’ll be very good friends.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that I had any doubt. It is so great a surprise—one thing after another.”
“Now, answer me one question: Did you know anything about your family before Con came? Ah,” he said, catching her alarmed and wondering glance, “I thought not. I have always said so:—he never told you. And it has all burst upon you in a moment, you poor little thing. But you needn’t be afraid of us. My mother has her faults; but she is a nice woman. You will like her. And I am very queer to look at, and many people think I have a screw loose. But I’m not bad to live with. Have you settled it with the governor? Has he made many objections? He and I never drew well together. Perhaps you know?”
“He does not speak as if—he liked you. But I don’t know anything. I have not been told—much. Please don’t ask me things,” Frances cried.
“No, I will not. On the contrary, I’ll tell you everything. Con probably would put a spoke in my wheel too. My dear little Fan, don’t mind any of them. Give me your little hand. I am neither bad nor good. I am very much what people make me. I am nasty with the nasty sometimes—more shame to me: and disagreeable with the disagreeable. But I am innocent with the innocent,” he said with some earnestness; “and that is what you are, unless my eyes deceive me. You need not be afraid of me.”