No Name Wilkie Collins (e book reader android TXT) 📖

She added those last words in a soothing tone, for she saw that Noel Vanstone’s indignation was fast merging into alarm. The coachman’s outburst of exhortation seemed to have inspired him with fear, as well as disgust.

He dipped the pen in the ink, and signed the Will without uttering a word. The coachman (descending instantly from theology to business) watched the signature with the most scrupulous attention; and signed his own name as witness, with an implied commentary on the proceeding, in the form of another puff of whisky, exhaled through the medium of a heavy sigh. The cook looked away from Mrs. Lecount with an effort⁠—signed her name in a violent hurry⁠—and looked back again with a start, as if she expected to see a loaded pistol (produced in the interval) in the housekeeper’s hands. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Lecount, in her friendliest manner. The cook shut up her lips aggressively and looked at her master. “You may go!” said her master. The cook coughed contemptuously, and went.

“We shan’t keep you long,” said Mrs. Lecount, dismissing the coachman. “In half an hour, or less, we shall be ready for the journey back.”

The coachman’s austere countenance relaxed for the first time. He smiled mysteriously, and approached Mrs. Lecount on tiptoe.

“Ye’ll no forget one thing, my leddy,” he said, with the most ingratiating politeness. “Ye’ll no forget the witnessing as weel as the driving, when ye pay me for my day’s wark!” He laughed with guttural gravity; and, leaving his atmosphere behind him, stalked out of the room.

“Lecount,” said Noel Vanstone, as soon as the coachman closed the door, “did I hear you tell that man we should be ready in half an hour?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you blind?”

He asked the question with an angry stamp of his foot. Mrs. Lecount looked at him in astonishment.

“Can’t you see the brute is drunk?” he went on, more and more irritably. “Is my life nothing? Am I to be left at the mercy of a drunken coachman? I won’t trust that man to drive me, for any consideration under heaven! I’m surprised you could think of it, Lecount.”

“The man has been drinking, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “It is easy to see and to smell that. But he is evidently used to drinking. If he is sober enough to walk quite straight⁠—which he certainly does⁠—and to sign his name in an excellent handwriting⁠—which you may see for yourself on the Will⁠—I venture to think he is sober enough to drive us to Dumfries.”

“Nothing of the sort! You’re a foreigner, Lecount; you don’t understand these people. They drink whisky from morning to night. Whisky is the strongest spirit that’s made; whisky is notorious for its effect on the brain. I tell you, I won’t run the risk. I never was driven, and I never will be driven, by anybody but a sober man.”

“Must I go back to Dumfries by myself, sir?”

“And leave me here? Leave me alone in this house after what has happened? How do I know my wife may not come back tonight? How do I know her journey is not a blind to mislead me? Have you no feeling, Lecount? Can you leave me in my miserable situation⁠—?” He sank into a chair and burst out crying over his own idea, before he had completed the expression of it in words. “Too bad!” he said, with his handkerchief over his face⁠—“too bad!”

It was impossible not to pity him. If ever mortal was pitiable, he was the man. He had broken down at last, under the conflict of violent emotions which had been roused in him since the morning. The effort to follow Mrs. Lecount along the mazes of intricate combination through which she had steadily led the way, had upheld him while that effort lasted: the moment it was at an end, he dropped. The coachman had hastened a result⁠—of which the coachman was far from being the cause.

“You surprise me⁠—you distress me, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount. “I entreat you to compose yourself. I will stay here, if you wish it, with pleasure⁠—I will stay here tonight, for your sake. You want rest and quiet after this dreadful day. The coachman shall be instantly sent away, Mr. Noel. I will give him a note to the landlord of the hotel, and the carriage shall come back for us tomorrow morning, with another man to drive it.”

The prospect which those words presented cheered him. He wiped his eyes, and kissed Mrs. Lecount’s hand. “Yes!” he said, faintly; “send the coachman away⁠—and you stop here. You good creature! You excellent Lecount! Send the drunken brute away, and come back directly. We will be comfortable by the fire, Lecount⁠—and have a nice little dinner⁠—and try to make it like old times.” His weak voice faltered; he returned to the fire side, and melted into tears again under the pathetic influence of his own idea.

Mrs. Lecount left him for a minute to dismiss the coachman. When she returned to the parlor she found him with his hand on the bell.

“What do you want, sir?” she asked.

“I want to tell the servants to get your room ready,” he answered. “I wish to show you every attention, Lecount.”

“You are all kindness, Mr. Noel; but wait one moment. It may be well to have these papers put out of the way before the servant comes in again. If you will place the Will and the sealed letter together in one envelope⁠—and if you will direct it to the admiral⁠—I will take care that the inclosure so addressed is safely placed in his own hands. Will you come to the table, Mr. Noel, only for one minute more?”

No! He was obstinate; he refused to move from the fire; he was sick and tired of writing: he wished he had never been born, and he loathed the sight of pen and ink. All Mrs. Lecount’s patience and all Mrs. Lecount’s persuasion were required to induce him to write the admiral’s address for the second time. She only succeeded by bringing the blank envelope