His first thought was of the relatives; but, somewhat to his own dismay, he found that the only one whom he could trace was a certain cousin, a more than middle-aged man who, though he bore the name of Heron, was quite unknown to Ida, and, so far as Mr. Wordley was aware, had not crossed the threshold of the Hall for many years. He was a certain John Heron, a retired barrister, who had gone in for religion, not in the form of either of the Established Churches, but of that of one of the least known sects, the members of which called themselves some kind of brothers, were supposed to be very strict observers of the Scriptural law, and were considered by those who did not belong to them both narrow-minded and uncharitable.
Mr. John Heron was a prominent member of this little sect, and was famous in its small circles for his extreme sanctity and his eloquence as a lay preacher. Mr. Wordley, with much misgiving, had invited this, the only relative he could find, to the funeral, and Ida was now awaiting this gentleman's arrival.
The stealthy footsteps which belong to those who minister to the dead passed up and down the great house, Jason was setting out the simple "funeral baked meats" which are considered appropriate to the occasion, and Mr. Wordley paced up and down the hall with his hands behind his back, listening to the undertaker's men upstairs, and glancing through the window in expectation of the carriage which had been sent for Mr. John Heron. Presently he saw it rounding a bend of the drive, and went into the library to prepare Ida.
She raised her head but not her eyes as he entered, and looked at him with that dull apathy which denotes the benumbed heart, the mind crushed under its heavy weight of sorrow.
"I came in to tell you, my dear, that Mr. John Heron is coming," he said. "The carriage is just turning the bend of the drive." "I will come," she said, rising and supporting herself by the heavy, carved arm of the great chair.
"No, no" he said. "Sit down and wait here." He did not want her to hear the stealthy tread of the undertaker's men, to meet the coffin which they were going to bring downstairs and place in the hall. "I will bring him in here. Is there anything you would like me to say to him, my dear?" he asked, and spoke with a certain hesitancy; for as yet he had not spoken of her future, feeling that her grief was too recent, too sacred, to permit of the obtrusion of material and worldly matters.
"To say to him?" she repeated, in a low, dull voice, as if she did not understand.
"Yes," he said. "I did not know whether you had formed any plan, whether"—he hesitated again, "you had thought of going—of paying a visit—to these relations of yours. He lives in the north of London, and has a wife and son and daughter, as you know."
Ida passed her hand across her brow, trying to remember.
"Ah, yes," she said at last, "I remember you told me about them. I never heard of them before—until now. Why should I go to them? Do they want me? Have they asked me?"