Henry was the next of kin who was--to Coombe's great objection--his
heir presumptive, and was universally admitted to be a repulsive
sort of person both physically and morally. He had brought into
the world a weakly and rickety framework and had from mere boyhood
devoted himself to a life which would have undermined a Hercules.
A relative may so easily present the aspect of an unfortunate incident
over which one has no control. This was the case with Henry. His
character and appearance were such that even his connection with
an important heritage was not enough to induce respectable persons
to accept him in any form. But if Coombe remained without issue
Henry would be the Head of the House.
"How is his cough?" inquired Feather.
"Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause
for remaining alive."
Feather made three or four stitches.
"Does Mrs. Muir know?" she said.
"If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is
all," he answered. "She is not the woman to inquire. Of course
she cannot help knowing that--when he is done with--her boy takes
his place in the line of succession."
"Oh, yes, she'd know that," put in Feather.
It was Coombe who smiled now--very faintly.
"You have a mistaken view of her," he said.
"You admire her very much," Feather bridled. The figure of this
big Scotch creature with her "line" and her "splendid grace and
harmony" was enough to make one bridle.
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