Dinner, a very plain and frugal one, was served to the governess and the children in the school-room at five o’clock. After dinner, Lally’s time belonged to herself, and she put on her hat and went out for a walk, having a longing for the fresh air.
This first day at Sandy Lands was a fair type of the days that followed. The children, under Lally’s firm but gentle rule, became more quiet and studious, and conceived an affection for their young governess. Mrs. Blight was delighted with their improvement. She had received a reply from Lally’s former employers, giving the young girl very high praise, and was consequently well pleased with herself for securing such valuable services as Lally’s at a salary less than half she had ever before paid to a governess.
Mr. Blight was a lawyer in good practice at Canterbury, and spent his days at his office, returning to Sandy Lands to dine, and leaving home immediately after breakfast. He was a small, ferret-eyed man, always in a hurry, a mere money making machine, with a great ambition to make or acquire a fortune. At present he lived fully up to his income, a fact which gave both him and Mrs. Blight much secret anxiety. With ten children to educate and provide for, several servants to pay, a carriage and pair for Mrs. Blight, and the lawyer’s wines, cigars, frequent elaborate dinners to his friends, and other items by no means small to settle, Mr. Blight was continually harassed by debt, and yet had not sufficient strength of will to reduce his expenses and live within his income.
One cause, perhaps, of their indiscreet self-indulgence was that they had “expectations.”
There was an old lady connected with the family, the widow of a wealthy London banker who had been Mr. Blight’s uncle. This old lady was supposed to have no relatives of her own to enrich at her death, and the Blights had lively hopes of inheriting her fifty thousand pounds, which had descended to her absolutely at her husband’s death, and of which she was free to dispose as she might choose.
This lady lived in London, at the West End, was very eccentric, very irascible, and went little in society, being quite aged and infirm. She was in the habit of coming down to Sandy Lands annually in September, ostensibly to spend a month with her late husband’s relatives; but she always returned home within a week, alleging that she could not bear the noise of the Blight children, and that a month under the same roof with them would deprive her of life or reason. It was now about the time of this lady’s annual visit, and one morning, when Lally had been about two weeks at Sandy Lands, Mrs. Blight came up to the school-room, an open letter in her hand, and dismissing the children to the nursery for a few minutes, said confidentially:
“Miss Bird, I have just received a letter from the widow of my husband’s uncle, a remarkable old lady, with fifty thousand pounds at her own absolute disposal. My husband is naturally the old lady’s heir, being her late husband’s nephew, and we expect to inherit her property. Her name is Mrs. Wroat.”
“An odd name!” murmured Lally.
“And she’s as odd as her name,” declared Mrs. Blight. “She comes here at this time every year, and always brings a parrot, a lap-dog, a band-box in a green muslin case, a blue umbrella, and a snuffy old maid, who eyes us all as if we had designs on her mistress’s life. The absurd old creature is devoted to her mistress, who is a mere bundle of whims and eccentricities. The old lady calls for a cup of coffee at midnight, and she hates our dear children, and she thrashed Leopold with her cane last year, because he put nettles in her bed and flour on her best cap, the poor dear innocent child. And I never dared to interfere to save Leopold, though his screams rang through the house, and I stood outside her door listening and peeping, for you know we must have her fifty thousand pounds, even if she takes the lives of all my darlings!” and Mrs. Blight’s tone was pathetic. “She’s a nasty old beast—there! Of course I say it in confidence, Miss Bird. It would be all up with us, if Aunt Wroat were to hear that I said that. She’s very tenacious of respect, and all that bother, and insisted I should punish Albert Victor because he called her ‘an old curmudgeon.’”
“When do you expect this lady?” asked Lally.