“You little Spartan!” he said; “you are a plucky little girl, Fan. You won’t betray the daddy, come what may. You are quite right, my dear; but he ought to have told you. I don’t approve of him, though I approve of you.”
“Papa has a right to do as he pleases,” said Frances steadily; “that is not what I asked you, please.”
He stood and smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder. “I wonder if you will stand by me like that, when you hear me get my due? Who is your aunt Clarendon? She is your father’s sister, Fan; I think the only one who is left.”
“Papa’s sister! I thought it must be—on the other side.”
“My mother,” said Markham, “has few relations—which is a misfortune that I bear with equanimity. Mrs Clarendon married a lawyer a great many years ago, Fan, when he was poor; and now he is very rich, and they will make him a judge one of these days.”
“A judge,” said Frances. “Then he must be very good and wise. And my aunt——”
“My dear, the wife’s qualities are not as yet taken into account. She is very good, I don’t doubt; but they don’t mean to raise her to the Bench. You must remember when you go there, Fan, that they are the other side.”
“What do you mean by ‘the other side’?” inquired Frances anxiously, fixing her eyes upon the kind, queer, insignificant personage, who yet was so important in this house.
Markham gave forth that little chuckle of a laugh which was his special note of merriment. “You will soon find it out for yourself,” he replied; “but the dear old mammy can hold her own. Is that all? for I’m running off; I have an engagement.”
“Oh, not all—not half. I want you to tell me—I want to know—I—I don’t know where to begin,” said Frances, with her hand on the sleeve of his coat.