"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."