Lally’s countenance did not change. She knew that her days of poverty were over; that she would never again wander shelterless and forlorn, glad to find shelter at night in a barn, and famished for food. All that distress for her was forever past. Her comfort and prosperity had been secured by the tenderness of her kindly and eccentric old relative, but Lally would willingly have gone back to her old-time poverty and toil, if by so doing she might have recalled her good friend from her grave.
“I say, this is simply infamous!” gasped Mr. Blight, turning upon Mr. Harris fiercely. “Infamous, sir! Do you know whose money, sir, this wretched old dotard has willed away so lightly? I’ll tell you, sir. It was my late uncle’s. It should be mine—and, by Heaven, it shall be mine. I’ll appeal to the law. I’ll contest the will!”
“Are you a lawyer? Why do you talk so childishly?” demanded Mr. Harris. “The property of which Mrs. Wroat has disposed was hers absolutely, to dispose of as she pleased. If your late uncle had wished to provide for you, he would have done so. You are no relative of Mrs. Wroat, and you ought to know that if you contest the will, you won’t get a penny. The girl would get it just the same—at least a portion of it—even if you succeeded in breaking the will, which you can’t. Mrs. Wroat was indisputably in sound mind when she dictated that will. Under any circumstances, Mr. Blight, you can get nothing. With the exception of an annuity to be paid out of the income to Peters during her lifetime, the remainder of the property is absolutely Miss Bird’s—or Miss Wroat’s, as it was the wish of our deceased friend that the young lady should be called.”
Mr. Blight sullenly recognized the truth of these words. He had been left out in the cold, and he was angry, disappointed, infuriated.
“Oh, my new and expensive mourning!” said Mrs. Blight spitefully. “I wouldn’t have put on black for the old creature if I had known the truth. Peters ought to pay me the hundred pounds I have expended. I shall sell every black rag I’ve bought!”
Lally arose to retire, and Mr. Harris and Peters attended her from the room. Mr. Harris presently returned, and said gravely:
“Miss Wroat is fatigued, and Mrs. Peters thinks her unequal to the task of entertaining guests. At the request of Mrs. Peters, therefore, I have to suggest, sir and madam that you take your leave without again seeing Miss Wroat. I will remain to do the honors of the house, in Miss Wroat’s stead, at your departure.”
Mr. and Mrs. Blight, thus quietly dismissed, retired to their room and packed their effects. An hour later their cab was announced, and they came down stairs, the lady leaning on her husband’s arm and weeping with rage.
As they sat in the cab, the luggage piled on top, and slowly departed from the house where they had hoped to reign, Mrs. Blight looked back, sobbing in her anguish:
“And it might have been ours but for the artful minx I took in, as it were out of the streets. I’ll never do a good action again in all my life—never. And now I must go back to poverty, and scrimp to save what I’ve spent in mourning, and we and our poor dear lambs may fetch up at the union, while that treacherous cat Lally Bird lolls in wealth. O dear! O dear!”