When Ida came down, he led her to a chair beside the fire which he had
ordered to be lit, and laid his hand gently and tenderly on her
shoulder by way of preparation and encouragement.
"Your cousin and I want to talk to you about the future, Ida," he said.
"You will have to be told some time or other exactly how your father's
affairs stood, and I have come to the conclusion that it is better you
should know at once than that you should be permitted to remain in
ignorance of the gravity of the situation. I have gone over your
father's papers and looked into his affairs very carefully and closely,
and I am sorry to say that they are in a very unsatisfactory condition.
As I told you the other day, the estate has been encumbered and very
seriously embarrassed for some time past, and the encumbrance has been
increased of late, notwithstanding the admirable way in which you have
managed the estate and the household affairs."
Ida raised her eyes to his and tried to regard him calmly and bravely,
but her lips quivered and she checked a sigh.
Mr. Wordley coughed and frowned, as a man does when he is engaged in a
disagreeable and painful task.
"The principal mortgagee has given me notice of foreclosure, and the
amount of the debt is so large that I am afraid--it would be cruel and
useless to conceal the truth from you--I _know_ that the property sold
would not be sufficient to meet it. Of ready money there appears to be
none--"
Mr. John Heron groaned and raised his melancholy eyes to the ceiling
with an expression of reprobation. Ida appeared unconscious of his
presence and kept her sad eyes steadily fixed on the lawyer's kind and
mournful face.
--"In a word, my dear child, your poor father appears to have left
absolutely no effects behind him."
Ida drew a long breath and was silent for a moment, as she tried to
realise the significance of his words.
"Do you mean that I am quite penniless?" she said, in a low voice.
Mr. Wordley blew his nose and coughed two or three times, as if he
found it difficult to reply; at last he said, in a voice almost as low
as hers:
"Put shortly, I am afraid, my dear, that is what I must tell you. I had
no idea that the position was so grave. I thought that there would be
something left; sufficient, at any rate, to render you independent;
but, as I told you, I have been kept in ignorance of your father's
affairs for some years past, and I did not know how things were going.
I am surprised as well as grieved, deeply grieved; and I must confess
that I can only account for the deplorable confusion and loss by the
theory that I suggested to you the other day. I cannot but think that
your poor father must have engaged in some disastrous speculation."
Mr. Heron groaned again, and shook his head.
"The prevailing vice of this most wicked of ages," he said. "The love
of money, the gambling on the race-course and the Stock Exchange, are
the root of all evil."
Ida seemed not to hear him, and Mr. Wordley ignored the comment.
"It now remains for you, my dear child, to decide what to do. I do not
think you could possibly live on here; you have not the means to do so,
though you should be as economical as you have been in the past; the
house must pass away from you in six months' time or little more, and
there would be nothing gained by your lingering hopelessly here for
that period."
"I must go, then," said Ida, as if there were a stab in every word.
Mr. Wordley bent his head, and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Yes, I fear you must go," he assented. "But, thank God, you are not
without friends, many friends. Lord Bannerdale charges me to tell you
what his good wife has already written you--that a home awaits you at
the Court, where you will be received gladly and lovingly; and I am
quite sure that the door of every house in the dale is wide open for
you."
Ida shrank in her chair. Clothe the offer as kindly as he might, it
spelt Charity, not cold charity, but charity still: and what Heron had
ever tamely accepted charity from mere friends and strangers? Mr.
Wordley saw the shrinking, the little shudder, and understood.
"I understand, my dear!" he said, in a low voice. "But there is another
offer, another home which you can accept without humiliation or
compunction. Your cousin, Mr. John Heron here, will, I am sure, be only
too glad, too delighted to--to--"
He waited and glanced at Mr. Heron impatiently, and at last that
gentleman rose, but not too eagerly, to the occasion.
"I need scarcely say," he said, slowly and solemnly, "that I should not
approve of my cousin's accepting these offers of charity, which, though
no doubt kindly meant, appear to me somewhat--er--obtrusive. I am not a
wealthy man; my simple home cannot compare in size and grandeur with
Heron Hall and the estate which my late unfortunate cousin appears to
have squandered, but such as it is, Ida will be welcome in it. I am not
one to turn a deaf ear to the cry of the orphan and fatherless."
Mr. Wordley frowned and reddened, and cut in before Mr. John Heron
could finish his sentence even more offensively, and so rouse Ida's
spirit, and render his offer impossible of acceptance.
"Quite so, quite so, my dear sir," he said. "I am quite sure you will
feel only too delighted and honoured at the prospect of taking this
dear child into your family."
"Yes," said Mr. Heron, unctuously, "we will take her in as a lamb
gathered into the fold, as a brand is plucked from the burning."
Ida looked at him half stupefied, and it is to be feared some doubts of
his sanity arose in her mind.
"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Mr. Wordley again. "Then I think the
sooner Miss Ida joins you the better; and I would suggest that she goes
with you to-morrow. I will close the house and leave Jessie, the
maid-servant, and Jason in charge. You and Miss Ida can depend on my
guarding her interests as jealously as if they were my own. I will have
a sale of the stock and other things which we are free to sell, and,
meanwhile, Miss Ida must permit me to advance her some money on account
of the proceeds."
He handed her an envelope in which he had already placed some
bank-notes; but Ida looked at him and slowly shook her head.
"No, no, my dear!" he said. "I should not be guilty of such
presumption. Though you are leaving Heron Hall, though it may be
passing away from you forever, you are still, in my eyes, Miss Heron of
Herondale, and I should not presume to offer you--" His voice broke,
and his eyes filled with tears. "The money is yours, and you can take
it without any loss of the pride which is your rightful heritage. If I
have not offered you a home where you would indeed be an honoured
guest, it is because I know that it would not be fitting for me to
offer it, or you to accept it. Mr. John Heron is your natural guardian;
but though that is so, I will ask you to remember that I claim the
privilege of being your father's friend and yours, and that in any
trouble you will be but honouring that privilege when you come to me
for advice and assistance."
His voice was almost inaudible before he had finished, and Ida, down
whose cheek tears were running for the first time, extended both hands
in mute but eloquent gratitude. They had both forgotten Mr. John
Heron's presence but were reminded of it by something between a cough
and a sniff from him; and at a glance from Mr. Wordley, Ida turned to
the gaunt figure and held out her hand.
"Thank you," she said in a low voice, "I will come with you and stay
with you until--until--I can find something to do, something at which I
can earn my own living. Surely there must be something I can do?" She
turned to Mr. Wordley with a little anxious, eager gesture. "I am
strong--very strong; I have managed Herondale--I can ride, and--and
understand a farm. I am never tired. Surely there is something I can
do!"
Her voice broke, she began to tremble, and the tears started to her
eyes again.
"Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt, my child!" said Mr. Wordley, whose own
eyes were moist. "We will think about all that later on. You must go
now and rest; you are tired."
He drew her arm within his, and patting her hand tenderly and
encouragingly, led her out of the room; and stood in the hall watching
her as she slowly went up the great stairs; such a girlish, mournful
figure in her plain black dress.
Ida lay awake that night listening to the wind and the rain. She was
familiar enough with the dale storms, but never had their wild music
wailed so mournful an accompaniment to her own thoughts. Compared with
her other losses, that of her home, dearly as she loved it, weighed but
little; it was but, an added pang to the anguish of her bereavement;
and behind that, the principal cause of her grief, loomed the desertion
of her lover. She tried not to think of Stafford; for every thought
bestowed on him seemed to rob her dead father and to be disloyal to his
memory; but, alas! the human heart is despotic; and as she lay awake
and listened to the wailing of the wind and the rain as it drove
against the window, Stafford's voice penetrated that of the storm; and,
scarcely consciously, her lips were forming some of the passionate
words of endearment which he had whispered to her by the stream and on
the hill-side. Though she knew every word by heart of the letter he had
written her, she did not yet understand or comprehend why he had broken
his solemn engagement to her. She understood that something had risen
between them, something had happened which had separated them, but she
could form no idea as to what it was. He had spoken of "unworthiness,"
of something which he had discovered that had rendered him unfit to be
her husband; but she could not guess what it was; but confused and
bewildered as she was, there was at present, at any rate, no resentment
in her heart.
The lover had been taken from her just as her father and her home had
been. There was no help for it, there was no appeal from the decrees of
Fate. Fate had decreed that she should love Stafford and lose him; and
she could only go on living her grey and dreary life, made all the
greyer and drearier by her short spell of joy and happiness. Sorrow's
crown of sorrow is still the remembrance of happier things; and she
would have to wear that crown in place of the crown of his love, wear
it through all her days; for, young as she was, she knew that she had
given her heart once and for all, that though she might never see
Stafford again, she would love him to the end.
A mist hung over the dale on this, the day of her departure from the
Hall, and all the hills over which she had so loved to ride and walk
were shrouded as if in tears.
She stood and looked at them from the hall window with vacant eyes, as
if she did not yet realise that she was leaving them, perhaps forever;
but she had not long for gazing, for Mr. Heron and she were going by an
early train, and the moment for farewell came swiftly upon her.
With Donald and Bess close at her heels, as if they were aware of their
coming loss, she went round to say good-bye. She crossed the lawn and
went to the spot under the tree where she had met Stafford that
never-to-be-forgotten night, and from thence walked to the corner of
the terrace where they had stood and watched her father coming, in his
sleep, from the ruined chapel. Then she went to the stable to say
good-bye to Rupert, who whinnied as he heard her approaching footstep,
and thrust his soft, velvety nose into her neck. She had to fight hard
against the tears at this point, and she hid her face against that of
the big horse, with her arms thrown round his neck, as she murmured her
last good-bye.
But the tears would not be kept back when it came to saying farewell to
the two faithful souls, Jessie and Jason, with whom she had grown up
from a girl all legs and wings, and whom she had learnt to regard
rather as devoted friends than servants. Jason broke down completely
and hurried away, his old and feeble frame shaking like an autumn leaf;
and Jessie, her arms thrown round her young mistress, and with sobs and
ejaculations, implored her to take her faithful Jessie with her.
Perhaps the parting with the two dogs was as bitter as any, for, as if
they knew quite well that she was going, they clung closely to her, and
when she hugged them and kissed them on the forehead, they had to be
dragged off by Jason, and locked up in the stables lest they should
follow the carriage which was to bear their beloved mistress away.
That carriage came all too soon, though Mr. John Heron had awaited its
arrival impatiently and with watch in hand. He seemed grimmer and
gaunter than ever that morning, and as he looked around the great Hall,
he shook his head at its faded grandeur reprehensively, as if he could,
if time permitted, deliver a sermon on the prodigality, the wicked
wastefulness, which had brought ruin on the house, and rendered it
necessary for him to extend his charity to the penniless orphan.
Mr. Wordley was there to say good-bye to Ida and put her into the
carriage; but it proved a difficult good-bye to say, and for once the
usually fluent old lawyer was bereft of the power of speech as he held
Ida's small hand, and looked through tear-dimmed eyes at the white and
sorrowful face. He had intended to say all sorts of kind and
encouraging things, but he could only manage the two words, "Good-bye;"
and they were almost inaudible.
She sank back into the carriage as it drove away from the Hall, and
closed her eyes that she might not see the familiar trees in the
avenue, the cattle, everyone of which she knew by name, grazing in the
meadow, the pale and woe-begone faces of the servants who stood by the
steps to catch the last glimpse of their beloved; and for some time her
eyes remained closed; but they opened as she came to the clearing by
the lake, from which one could see the long stretching façade of Sir
Stephen Orme's white villa. She opened them then and looked at the
house, wondering whether Stafford was there, wondering why he had not
come to her, despite the promise she had exacted from him; wondering
whether he knew that her father was dead, and that she was left
penniless.
She was not capable of any more tears, and a dull apathy crushed down
upon her, so that she did not notice that at the station Mr. John Heron
improved the occasion, as he would have put it, by distributing tracts
to the station-master and porters. The journey to London passed as if
it were made in a dream; and wearied in mind and body and soul, she
found herself, late in the evening, standing in the centre of the
Heron's dreary drawing-room, awaiting her reception by the Heron
family.
She had been told by her cousin, as they drove in a four-wheeled cab
through the depressing streets of a London suburb, that the family
consisted of his wife and a son and a daughter; that the son's name was
Joseph and the daughter's Isabel; that Joseph was a clerk in the city,
and that Isabel was about the same age as Ida.
"We are a very quiet family," Mr. Heron had said, "and you will no
doubt miss the space and grandeur of Heron Hall, but I trust we are
contented and happy, and that though our means are limited, our sphere
of usefulness is wider than that of some wealthier people. My wife is,
unfortunately, an invalid, and requires constant care and attention;
but I have no doubt she will find strength to bear any fresh burden
which Providence may see fit to put upon her. Though our circumstances
are comfortable, we are not surrounded by the luxuries which so often
prove a stumbling-block to weaker brethren. I trust you may be happy in
our humble home, and that you may find some opportunity of usefulness
in this new state of life to which you are called."
Ida tried to remember all this as she stood in the centre of the
drawing-room and looked round upon the modern but heavy and ugly
objects with which it was furnished.
The room was seedy and shabby, but with a different seediness and
shabbiness from that of Heron Hall; for there was an attempt to conceal
its loss of freshness with antimacassars, large in size and hideous of
pattern. A grim and ugly portrait of Mr. John Heron occupied a great
portion of one of the walls, and was confronted by a portrait, of a
similar size, of his wife, a middle-class woman of faded aspect and
languishing expression. The other pictures were of the type that one
usually sees in such houses; engravings printed from wornout plates,
and third-class lithographs. There was a large sofa covered with dirty
cretonne, and with a hollow in the middle showing that the spring had
"gone;" the centre-table was adorned by several well-known religious
books arranged at regular intervals. A cage containing a canary hung
between the curtains in the window, and the bird, a wretched-looking
animal--it was moulting--woke up at their entrance and shrilled in the
hateful manner peculiar to canaries. This depressing room was lit by
one gas-burner, which only permitted Ida to take in all that had been
described but vaguely and dimly.
She looked round aghast and with a sinking of the heart. She had never
been in any room like this before, and its lack of comfort, its
vulgarity, struck upon her strained nerves like a loud discordant note
in music; but its owner looked round complacently and turned the gas a
little higher, as he said:
"I will go and fetch your cousin. Won't you sit down?"
As he spoke, the door opened and the original of the portrait on the
wall entered, followed by her daughter Isabel. Ida rose from the bumpy
sofa and saw a thin, harassed-looking woman, more faded even than the
portrait, and a tall and rather a good-looking girl whose face and
figure resembled, in a vague, indefinite way, those of both her father
and mother; but though she was not bad-looking, there was a touch of
vulgarity in her widely opened eyes, with a curious stare for the
newcomer, and in her rather coarse mouth, which appalled and repelled
poor Ida; and she stood looking from one to the other, trying to keep
her surprise and wonder and disapproval from revealing themselves
through her eyes. She did not know that these two ladies, being the
wife and daughter of a professional man, considered themselves very
much the superior of their friends and neighbours, who were mostly
retired trades-people or "something in the city;" and that Mrs. Heron
was extremely proud of her husband's connection with the Herons of
Herondale, and was firmly convinced that she and her family possessed
all the taste and refinement which belong to "the aristocracy."
A simpler and a homelier woman would have put her arm round the girl's
neck and drawn her towards her with a few loving words of greeting and
welcome; but Mrs. Heron only extended a hand, held at the latest
fashionable angle, and murmured in a languid and lackadaisical voice:
"So you have come at last, my dear Miss Heron! Your train must have
been very late, John; we have been expecting you for the last hour, and
I am afraid the dinner is quite spoilt. But anyway, I am glad to see
you."
"Thank you," said poor Ida.
It was Isabel's turn, and she now came forward with a smile that
extended her mouth from ear to ear, and in a gushing manner said, in
staccato sentences:
"Yes, we are so glad to see you! How tired you must be! One always
feels so dirty and tumbled after a long journey. You'll be glad of a
wash, Miss Heron. But there! I mustn't call you that; it sounds so cold
and formal! I must call you Ida, mustn't I? 'Ida!' It sounds such an
_odd_ name; but I suppose I shall get used to it in time."
"I hope so," said poor Ida, trying to smile and speak cheerfully and
amiably, as Miss Isabel's rather large hand enclosed round hers; but
she looked from one to the other with an appalling sensation of
strangeness and aloofness, and a lump rose in her throat which rendered
the smile and any further speech on her part impossible; and as she
looked from the simpering, lackadaisical mother to the vulgar daughter
with meaningless smile, she asked herself whether she was really awake,
whether this room was indeed to be her future home, and these strange
people her daily companions, or whether she was only asleep and
dreaming, and would wake to find the honest face of Jessie bending over
her, and to see the familiar objects of her own room at Heron Hall.