"I should feel lonely anywhere," she said. "More lonely with people I
don't know, probably, than I should feel here, with Jessie and
Jason--and--and the dogs."
"Well, well, we can't discuss the question now, and will endeavour to
act for the best, my dear," said the old man, still intent upon his
glasses. "I hear the carriage. I will bring Mr. John in." He returned
in a minute or two, accompanied by a tall and gaunt individual, who, in
his black clothes and white necktie, looked a cross between a superior
undertaker and a Methodist preacher. His features were strongly marked,
and the expression of his countenance was both severe and melancholy,
and, judging by his expression and his voice, which was harsh and
lachrymose, his particular form of religion did not appear to afford
him either amusement or consolation.
"This is your cousin, Mr. John Heron," said poor Mr. Wordley, who was
evidently suffering from the effects of his few minutes' conversation
with that gentleman.
Mr. John Heron surveyed the slight figure and white face with its sad,
star-like eyes--surveyed it with a grim kind of severity, which was
probably intended for sympathy, and extending a cold, damp hand, which
resembled an extremely bony shoulder of mutton, said, in a rasping,
melancholy voice: "How do you do, Ida? I trust you are bearing your burden as becomes a
Christian. We are born to sorrow. The train was three-quarters of an
hour late."
"I am sorry," said Ida in her low voice, leaving him to judge whether
she expressed regret for our birthright of misery or the lateness of
the train. "Will you have some lunch--some wine?" she asked, a dull,
vague wonder rising in her mind that this grim, middle-class man should
be of kith and kin with her dead father.
"Thank you; no. I had an abernethy biscuit at the station." He drew
back from, and waved away, the tray of wine which Jason at this moment
brought in. "I never touch wine. I, and all mine, are total abstainers.
Those who fly to the wine-cup in moments of tribulation and grief rely
on a broken reed which shall pierce their hand. I trust you do not
drink, Cousin Ida?"
"No--yes; sometimes; not much," she replied, vaguely, and regarding him
with a dull wonder; for she had never seen this kind of man before.
Mr. Wordley poured out a glass of wine, and, in silent indignation,
handed it to her; and, unconscious of the heavy scowl with which Mr.
John Heron regarded her, she put her lips to it.