“I must beg your permission, sir,” she began, “to return to the subject of your wife. I do so most unwillingly1; and I promise you that what I have now to say about her shall be said, for your sake and for mine, in the fewest words. What do we know of this woman, Mr. Noel—judging her by her own confession3 when she came to us in the character of Miss Garth, and by her own acts afterward4 at Aldborough? We know that, if death had not snatched your father out of her reach, she was ready with her plot to rob him of the Combe-Raven money. We know that, when you inherited the money in your turn, she was ready with her plot to rob you. We know how she carried that plot through to the end; and we know that nothing but your death is wanted, at this moment, to crown her rapacity5 and her deception6 with success. We are sure of these things. We are sure that she is young, bold, and clever—that she has neither doubts, scruples7, nor pity—and that she possesses the personal qualities which men in general (quite incomprehensibly to me!) are weak enough to admire. These are not fancies, Mr. Noel, but facts; you know them as well as I do.”
He made a sign in the affirmative, and Mrs. Lecount went on:
“Keep in your mind what I have said of the past, sir, and now look with me to the future. I hope and trust you have a long life still before you; but let us, for the moment only, suppose the case of your death—your death leaving this will behind you, which gives your fortune to your cousin George. I am told there is an office in London in which copies of all wills must be kept. Any curious stranger who chooses to pay a shilling for the privilege may enter that office, and may read any will in the place at his or her discretion8. Do you see what I am coming to, Mr. Noel? Your disinherited widow pays her shilling, and reads your will. Your disinherited widow sees that the Combe-Raven money, which has gone from your father to you, goes next from you to Mr. George Bartram. What is the certain end of that discovery? The end is, that you leave to your cousin and your friend the legacy9 of this woman’s vengeance10 and this woman’s deceit-vengeance made more resolute11, deceit made more devilish than ever, by her exasperation12 at her own failure. What is your cousin George? He is a generous, unsuspicious man; incapable13 of deceit himself, and fearing no deception in others. Leave him at the mercy of your wife’s unscrupulous fascinations15 and your wife’s unfathomable deceit, and I see the end as certainly as I see you sitting there! She will blind his eyes, as she blinded yours; and, in spite of you, in spite of me, she will have the money!”
She stopped, and left her last words time to gain their hold on his mind. The circumstances had been stated so clearly, the conclusion from them had been so plainly drawn16, that he seized her meaning without an effort, and seized it at once.
“I see!” he said, vindictively17 clinching18 his hands. “I understand, Lecount! She shan’t have a farthing. What shall I do? Shall I leave the money to the admiral?” He paused, and considered a little. “No,” he resumed; “there’s the same danger in leaving it to the admiral that there is in leaving it to George.”
“There is no danger, Mr. Noel, if you take my advice.”
“What is your advice?”
“Follow your own idea, sir. Take the pen in hand again, and leave the money to Admiral Bartram.”
He mechanically dipped the pen in the ink, and then hesitated.
“You shall know where I am leading you, sir,” said Mrs. Lecount, “before you sign your will. In the meantime, let us gain every inch of ground we can, as we go on. I want the will to be all written out before we advance a single step beyond it. Begin your third paragraph, Mr. Noel, under the lines which leave me my legacy of five thousand pounds.”
She dictated19 the last momentous20 sentence of the will (from the rough draft in her own possession) in these words:
“The whole residue21 of my estate, after payment of my burial expenses and my lawful22 debts, I give and bequeath to Rear-Admiral Arthur Everard Bartram, my Executor aforesaid; to be by him applied23 to such uses as he may think fit.
“Signed, sealed, and delivered, this third day of November, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, by Noel Vanstone, the within-named testator, as and for his last Will and Testament24, in the presence of us—”
“Is that all?” asked Noel Vanstone, in astonishment25.
“That is enough, sir, to bequeath your fortune to the admiral; and therefore that is all. Now let us go back to the case which we have supposed already. Your widow pays her shilling, and sees this will. There is the Combe-Raven money left to Admiral Bartram, with a declaration in plain words that it is his, to use as he likes. When she sees this, what does she do? She sets her trap for the admiral. He is a bachelor, and he is an old man. Who is to protect him against the arts of this desperate woman? Protect him yourself, sir, with a few more strokes of that pen which has done such wonders already. You have left him this legacy in your will—which your wife sees. Take the legacy away again, in a letter—which is a dead secret between the admiral and you. Put the will and the letter under one cover, and place them in the admiral’s possession, with your written directions to him to break the seal on the day of your death. Let the will say what it says now; and let the letter (which is your secret and his) tell him the truth. Say that, in leaving him your fortune, you leave it with the request that he will take his legacy with one hand from you, and give it with the other to his nephew George. Tell him that your trust in this matter rests solely26 on your confidence in his honor, and on your belief in his affectionate remembrance of your father and yourself. You have known the admiral since you were a boy. He has his little whims27 and oddities; but he is a gentleman from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot; and he is utterly28 incapable of proving false to a trust in his honor, reposed29 by his dead friend. Meet the difficulty boldly, by such a stratagem30 as this; and you save these two helpless men from your wife’s snare31, one by means of the other. Here, on one side, is your will, which gives the fortune to the admiral, and sets her plotting accordingly. And there, on the other side, is your letter, which privately32 puts the money into the nephew’s hands!”
The malicious33 dexterity34 of this combination was exactly the dexterity which Noel Vanstone was most fit to appreciate. He tried to express his approval and admiration35 in words. Mrs. Lecount held up her hand warningly and closed his lips.
“Wait, sir, before you express your opinion,” she went on. “Half the difficulty is all that we have conquered yet. Let us say, the admiral has made the use of your legacy which you have privately requested him to make of it. Sooner or later, however well the secret may be kept, your wife will discover the truth. What follows that discovery! She lays siege to Mr. George. All you have done is to leave him the money by a roundabout way. There he is, after an interval36 of time, as much at her mercy as if you had openly mentioned him in your will. What is the remedy for this? The remedy is to mislead her, if we can, for the second time—to set up an obstacle between her and the money, for the protection of your cousin George. Can you guess for yourself, Mr. Noel, what is the most promising37 obstacle we can put in her way?”
He shook his head. Mrs. Lecount smiled, and startled him into close attention by laying her hand on his arm.
“Put a Woman in her way, sir!” she whispered in her wiliest tones. “We don’t believe in that fascinating beauty of hers—whatever you may do. Our lips don’t burn to kiss those smooth cheeks. Our arms don’t long to be round that supple38 waist. We see through her smiles and her graces, and her stays and her padding—she can’t fascinate us! Put a woman in her way, Mr. Noel! Not a woman in my helpless situation, who is only a servant, but a woman with the authority and the jealousy39 of a Wife. Make it a condition, in your letter to the admiral, that if Mr. George is a bachelor at the time of your death, he shall marry within a certain time afterward, or he shall not have the legacy. Suppose he remains40 single in spite of your condition, who is to have the money then? Put a woman in your wife’s way, sir, once more—and leave the fortune, in that case, to the married sister of your cousin George.”
She paused. Noel Vanstone again attempted to express his opinion, and again Mrs. Lecount’s hand extinguished him in silence.
“If you approve, Mr. Noel,” she said, “I will take your approval for granted. If you object, I will meet your objection before it is out of your mouth. You may say: Suppose this condition is sufficient to answer the purpose, why hide it in a private letter to the admiral? Why not openly write it down, with my cousin’s name, in the will? Only for one reason, sir. Only because the secret way is the sure way, with such a woman as your wife. The more secret you can keep your intentions, the more time you force her to waste in finding them out for herself. That time which she loses is time gained from her treachery by the admiral—time gained by Mr. George (if he is still a bachelor) for his undisturbed choice of a lady—time gained, for her own security, by the object of his choice, who might otherwise be the first object of your wife’s suspicion and your wife’s hostility41. Remember the bottle we have discovered upstairs; and keep this desperate woman ignorant, and therefore harmless, as long as you can. There is my advice, Mr. Noel, in the fewest and plainest words. What do you say, sir? Am I almost as clever in my way as your friend Mr. Bygrave? Can I, too, conspire42 a little, when the object of my conspiracy43 is to assist your wishes and to protect your friends?”
Permitted the use of his tongue at last, Noel Vanstone’s admiration of Mrs. Lecount expressed itself in terms precisely44 similar to those which he had used on a former occasion, in paying his compliments to Captain Wragge. “What a head you have got!” were the grateful words which he had once spoken to Mrs. Lecount’s bitterest enemy. “What a head you have got!” were the grateful words which he now spoke45 again to Mrs. Lecount herself. So do extremes meet; and such is sometimes the all-embracing capacity of the approval of a fool!
“Allow my head, sir, to deserve the compliment which you have paid to it,” said Mrs. Lecount. “The letter to the admiral is not written yet. Your will there is a body without a soul—an Adam without an Eve—until the letter is completed and laid by its side. A little more dictation on my part, a little more writing on yours, and our work is done. Pardon me. The letter will be longer than the will; we must have larger paper than the note-paper this time.”
The writing-case was searched, and some letter paper was found in it of the size required. Mrs. Lecount resumed her dictation; and Noel Vanstone resumed his pen.
“Baliol Cottage, Dumfries,
“November 3d, 1847.
“Private.
“DEAR ADMIRAL BARTRAM—When you open my Will (in which you are named my sole executor), you will find that I have bequeathed the whole residue of my estate—after payment of one legacy of five thousand pounds—to yourself. It is the purpose of my letter to tell you privately what the object is for which I have left you the fortune which is now placed in your hands.
“I beg you to consider this large legacy as intended, under certain conditions, to be given by you to your nephew George. If your nephew is married at the time of my death, and if his wife is living, I request you to put him at once in possession of your legacy; accompanying it by the expression of my desire (which I am sure he will consider a sacred and binding46 obligation on him) that he will settle the money on his wife—and on his children, if he has any. If, on the other hand, he is unmarried at the time of my death, or if he is a widower47—in either of those cases, I make it a condition of his receiving the legacy, that he shall be married within the period of—”
Mrs. Lecount laid down the Draft letter from which she had been dictating48 thus far, and informed Noel Vanstone by a sign that his pen might rest.
“We have come to the question of time, sir,” she observed. “How long will you give your cousin to marry, if he is single, or a widower, at the time of your death?”
“Shall I give him a year?” inquired Noel Vanstone.
“If we had nothing to consider but the interests of Propriety49,” said Mrs. Lecount, “I should say a year too, sir—especially if Mr. George should happen to be a widower. But we have your wife to consider, as well as the interests of Propriety. A year of delay, between your death and your cousin’s marriage, is a dangerously long time to leave the disposal of your fortune in suspense50. Give a determined51 woman a year to plot and contrive52 in, and there is no saying what she may not do.”
“Six months?” suggested Noel Vanstone.
“Six months, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “is the preferable time of the two. A six months’ interval from the day of your death is enough for Mr. George. You look discomposed, sir; what is the matter?”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk so much about my death,” he broke out, petulantly53. “I don’t like it! I hate the very sound of the word!”
Mrs. Lecount smiled resignedly, and referred to her Draft.
“I see the word ‘decease’ written here,” she remarked. “Perhaps, Mr. Noel, you would prefer it?”
“Yes,” he said; “I prefer ‘Decease.’ It doesn’t sound so dreadful as ‘Death.’”
“Let us go on with the letter, sir.”
She resumed her dictation, as follows:
“...in either of those cases, I make it a condition of his receiving the legacy that he shall be married within the period of Six calendar months from the day of my decease; that the woman he marries shall not be a widow; and that his marriage shall be a marriage by Banns, publicly celebrated55 in the parish church of Ossory—where he has been known from his childhood, and where the family and circumstances of his future wife are likely to be the subject of public interest and inquiry56.”
“This,” said Mrs. Lecount, quietly looking up from the Draft, “is to protect Mr. George, sir, in case the same trap is set for him which was successfully set for you. She will not find her false character and her false name fit quite so easily next time—no, not even with Mr. Bygrave to help her! Another dip of ink, Mr. Noel; let us write the next paragraph. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Lecount went on.
“If your nephew fails to comply with these conditions—that is to say, if being either a bachelor or a widower at the time of my decease, he fails to marry in all respects as I have here instructed him to marry, within Six calendar months from that time—it is my desire that he shall not receive the legacy, or any part of it. I request you, in the case here supposed, to pass him over altogether; and to give the fortune left you in my will to his married sister, Mrs. Girdlestone.
“Having now put you in possession of my motives57 and intentions, I come to the next question which it is necessary to consider. If, when you open this letter, your nephew is an unmarried man, it is clearly indispensable that he should know of the conditions here imposed on him, as soon, if possible, as you know of them yourself. Are you, under these circumstances, freely to communicate to him what I have here written to you? Or are you to leave him under the impression that no such private expression of my wishes as this is in existence; and are you to state all the conditions relating to his marriage, as if they emanated58 entirely59 from yourself?
“If you will adopt this latter alternative, you will add one more to the many obligations under which your friendship has placed me.
“I have serious reason to believe that the possession of my money, and the discovery of any peculiar60 arrangements relating to the disposal of it, will be objects (after my decease) of the fraud and conspiracy of an unscrupulous person. I am therefore anxious—for your sake, in the first place—that no suspicion of the existence of this letter should be conveyed to the mind of the person to whom I allude61. And I am equally desirous—for Mrs. Girdlestone’s sake, in the second place—that this same person should be entirely ignorant that the legacy will pass into Mrs. Girdlestone’s possession, if your nephew is not married in the given time. I know George’s easy, pliable62 disposition63; I dread54 the attempts that will be made to practice on it; and I feel sure that the prudent64 course will be, to abstain65 from trusting him with secrets, the rash revelation of which might be followed by serious, and even dangerous results.
“State the conditions, therefore, to your nephew, as if they were your own. Let him think they have been suggested to your mind by the new responsibilities imposed on you as a man of property, by your position in my will, and by your consequent anxiety to provide for the perpetuation66 of the family name. If these reasons are not sufficient to satisfy him, there can be no objection to your referring him, for any further explanations which he may desire, to his wedding-day.
“I have done. My last wishes are now confided67 to you, in implicit68 reliance on your honor, and on your tender regard for the memory of your friend. Of the miserable69 circumstances which compel me to write as I have written here, I say nothing. You will hear of them, if my life is spared, from my own lips—for you will be the first friend whom I shall consult in my difficulty and distress70. Keep this letter strictly71 secret, and strictly in your own possession, until my requests are complied with. Let no human being but yourself know where it is, on any pretense72 whatever.
“Believe me, dear Admiral Bartram, affectionately yours,
“NOEL VANSTONE.”
“Have you signed, sir?” asked Mrs. Lecount. “Let me look the letter over, if you please, before we seal it up.”
She read the letter carefully. In Noel Vanstone’s close, cramped73 handwriting, it filled two pages of letter-paper, and ended at the top of the third page. Instead of using an envelope, Mrs. Lecount folded it, neatly74 and securely, in the old-fashioned way. She lit the taper75 in the ink-stand, and returned the letter to the writer.
“Seal it, Mr. Noel,” she said, “with your own hand, and your own seal.” She extinguished the taper, and handed him the pen again. “Address the letter, sir,” she proceeded, “to Admiral Bartram, St. Crux76-in-the-Marsh, Essex. Now, add these words, and sign them, above the address: To be kept in your own possession, and to be opened by yourself only, on the day of my death—or ‘Decease,’ if you prefer it—Noel Vanstone. Have you done? Let me look at it again. Quite right in every particular. Accept my congratulations, sir. If your wife has not plotted her last plot for the Combe-Raven money, it is not your fault, Mr. Noel—and not mine!”
Finding his attention released by the completion of the letter, Noel Vanstone reverted77 at once to purely78 personal considerations. “There is my packing-up to be thought of now,” he said. “I can’t go away without my warm things.”
“Excuse me, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “there is the Will to be signed first; and there must be two persons found to witness your signature.” She looked out of the front window, and saw the carriage waiting at the door. “The coachman will do for one of the witnesses,” she said. “He is in respectable service at Dumfries, and he can be found if he happens to be wanted. We must have one of your own servants, I suppose, for the other witness. They are all detestable women; but the cook is the least ill-looking of the three. Send for the cook, sir; while I go out and call the coachman. When we have got our witnesses here, you have only to speak to them in these words: ‘I have a document here to sign, and I wish you to write your names on it, as witnesses of my signature.’ Nothing more, Mr. Noel! Say those few words in your usual manner—and, when the signing is over, I will see myself to your packing-up, and your warm things.”
She went to the front door, and summoned the coachman to the parlor79. On her return, she found the cook already in the room. The cook looked mysteriously offended, and stared without intermission at Mrs. Lecount. In a minute more the coachman—an elderly man—came in. He was preceded by a relishing81 odor of whisky; but his head was Scotch82; and nothing but his odor betrayed him.
“I have a document here to sign,” said Noel Vanstone, repeating his lesson; “and I wish you to write your names on it, as witnesses of my signature.”
The coachman looked at the will. The cook never removed her eyes from Mrs. Lecount.
“Ye’ll no object, sir,” said the coachman, with the national caution showing itself in every wrinkle on his face—“ye’ll no object, sir, to tell me, first, what the Doecument may be?”
Mrs. Lecount interposed before Noel Vanstone’s indignation could express itself in words.
“You must tell the man, sir, that this is your Will,” she said. “When he witnesses your signature, he can see as much for himself if he looks at the top of the page.”
“Ay, ay,” said the coachman, looking at the top of the page immediately. “His last Will and Testament. Hech, sirs! there’s a sair confronting of Death in a Doecument like yon! A’ flesh is grass,” continued the coachman, exhaling83 an additional puff84 of whisky, and looking up devoutly85 at the ceiling. “Tak’ those words in connection with that other Screepture: Many are ca’ad, but few are chosen. Tak’ that again, in connection with Rev’lations, Chapter the First, verses One to Fefteen. Lay the whole to heart; and what’s your Walth, then? Dross86, sirs! And your body? (Screepture again.) Clay for the potter! And your life? (Screepture once more.) The Breeth o’ your Nostrils87!”
The cook listened as if the cook was at church: but she never removed her eyes from Mrs. Lecount.
“You had better sign, sir. This is apparently88 some custom prevalent in Dumfries during the transaction of business,” said Mrs. Lecount, resignedly. “The man means well, I dare say.”
She added those last words in a soothing89 tone, for she saw that Noel Vanstone’s indignation was fast merging90 into alarm. The coachman’s outburst of exhortation91 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 scrupulous14 attention; and signed his own name as witness, with an implied commentary on the proceeding92, in the form of another puff of whisky, exhaled93 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 austere94 countenance95 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 brute96 is drunk?” he went on, more and more irritably97. “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 to-night? 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 mazes98 of intricate combination through which she had steadily99 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 entreat100 you to compose yourself. I will stay here, if you wish it, with pleasure—I will stay here to-night, 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 to-morrow morning, with another man to drive it.”
The prospect101 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 faltered102; 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 obstinate103; he refused to move from the fire; he was sick and tired of writing: he wished he had never been born, and he loathed104 the sight of pen and ink. All Mrs. Lecount’s patience and all Mrs. Lecount’s persuasion105 were required to induce him to write the admiral’s address for the second time. She only succeeded by bringing the blank envelope to him upon the paper-case, and putting it coaxingly106 on his lap. He grumbled107, he even swore, but he directed the envelope at last, in these terms: “To Admiral Bartram, St. Crux-in-the-Marsh. Favored by Mrs. Lecount.” With that final act of compliance108 his docility109 came to an end. He refused, in the fiercest terms, to seal the envelope. There was no need to press this proceeding on him. His seal lay ready on the table, and it mattered nothing whether he used it, or whether a person in his confidence used it for him. Mrs. Lecount sealed the envelope, with its two important inclosures placed safely inside.
She opened her traveling-bag for the last time, and pausing for a moment before she put the sealed packet away, looked at it with a triumph too deep for words. She smiled as she dropped it into the bag. Not the shadow of a suspicion that the Will might contain superfluous110 phrases and expressions which no practical lawyer would have used; not the vestige111 of a doubt whether the Letter was quite as complete a document as a practical lawyer might have made it, troubled her mind. In blind reliance—born of her hatred112 for Magdalen and her hunger for revenge—in blind reliance on her own abilities and on her friend’s law, she trusted the future implicitly113 to the promise of the morning’s work.
As she locked her traveling-bag Noel Vanstone rang the bell. On this occasion, the summons was answered by Louisa.
“Get the spare room ready,” said her master; “this lady will sleep here to-night. And air my warm things; this lady and I are going away to-morrow morning.”
The civil and submissive Louisa received her orders in sullen114 silence—darted an angry look at her master’s impenetrable guest—and left the room. The servants were evidently all attached to their mistress’s interests, and were all of one opinion on the subject of Mrs. Lecount.
“That’s done!” said Noel Vanstone, with a sigh of infinite relief. “Come and sit down, Lecount. Let’s be comfortable—let’s gossip over the fire.”
Mrs. Lecount accepted the invitation and drew an easy-chair to his side. He took her hand with a confidential115 tenderness, and held it in his while the talk went on. A stranger, looking in through the window, would have taken them for mother and son, and would have thought to himself: “What a happy home!”
The gossip, led by Noel Vanstone, consisted as usual of an endless string of questions, and was devoted116 entirely to the subject of himself and his future prospects117. Where would Lecount take him to when they went away the next morning? Why to London? Why should he be left in London, while Lecount went on to St. Crux to give the admiral the Letter and the Will? Because his wife might follow him, if he went to the admiral’s? Well, there was something in that. And because he ought to be safely concealed118 from her, in some comfortable lodging119, near Mr. Loscombe? Why near Mr. Loscombe? Ah, yes, to be sure—to know what the law would do to help him. Would the law set him free from the Wretch120 who had deceived him? How tiresome121 of Lecount not to know! Would the law say he had gone and married himself a second time, because he had been living with the Wretch, like husband and wife, in Scotland? Anything that publicly assumed to be a marriage was a marriage (he had heard) in Scotland. How excessively tiresome of Lecount to sit there and say she knew nothing about it! Was he to stay long in London by himself, with nobody but Mr. Loscombe to speak to? Would Lecount come back to him as soon as she had put those important papers in the admiral’s own hands? Would Lecount consider herself still in his service? The good Lecount! the excellent Lecount! And after all the law-business was over—what then? Why not leave this horrid122 England and go abroad again? Why not go to France, to some cheap place near Paris? Say Versailles? say St. Germain? In a nice little French house—cheap? With a nice French bonne to cook—who wouldn’t waste his substance in the grease-pot? With a nice little garden—where he could work himself, and get health, and save the expense of keeping a gardener? It wasn’t a bad idea. And it seemed to promise well for the future—didn’t it, Lecount?
So he ran on—the poor weak creature! the abject123, miserable little man!
As the darkness gathered at the close of the short November day he began to grow drowsy—his ceaseless questions came to an end at last—he fell asleep. The wind outside sang its mournful winter-song; the tramp of passing footsteps, the roll of passing wheels on the road ceased in dreary124 silence. He slept on quietly. The firelight rose and fell on his wizen little face and his nervous, drooping125 hands. Mrs. Lecount had not pitied him yet. She began to pity him now. Her point was gained; her interest in his will was secured; he had put his future life, of his own accord, under her fostering care—the fire was comfortable; the circumstances were favorable to the growth of Christian126 feeling. “Poor wretch!” said Mrs. Lecount, looking at him with a grave compassion—“poor wretch!”
The dinner-hour roused him. He was cheerful at dinner; he reverted to the idea of the cheap little house in France; he smirked127 and simpered; and talked French to Mrs. Lecount, while the house-maid and Louisa waited, turn and turn about, under protest. When dinner was over, he returned to his comfortable chair before the fire, and Mrs. Lecount followed him. He resumed the conversation—which meant, in his case, repeating his questions. But he was not so quick and ready with them as he had been earlier in the day. They began to flag—they continued, at longer and longer intervals—they ceased altogether. Toward nine o’clock he fell asleep again.
It was not a quiet sleep this time. He muttered, and ground his teeth, and rolled his head from side to side of the chair. Mrs. Lecount purposely made noise enough to rouse him. He woke, with a vacant eye and a flushed cheek. He walked about the room restlessly, with a new idea in his mind—the idea of writing a terrible letter; a letter of eternal farewell to his wife. How was it to be written? In what language should he express his feelings? The powers of Shakespeare himself would be unequal to the emergency! He had been the victim of an outrage128 entirely without parallel. A wretch had crept into his bosom129! A viper130 had hidden herself at his fireside! Where could words be found to brand her with the infamy131 she deserved? He stopped, with a suffocating132 sense in him of his own impotent rage—he stopped, and shook his fist tremulously in the empty air.
Mrs. Lecount interfered133 with an energy and a resolution inspired by serious alarm. After the heavy strain that had been laid on his weakness already, such an outbreak of passionate134 agitation135 as was now bursting from him might be the destruction of his rest that night and of his strength to travel the next day. With infinite difficulty, with endless promises to return to the subject, and to advise him about it in the morning, she prevailed on him, at last, to go upstairs and compose himself for the night. She gave him her arm to assist him. On the way upstairs his attention, to her great relief, became suddenly absorbed by a new fancy. He remembered a certain warm and comfortable mixture of wine, eggs, sugar, and spices, which she had often been accustomed to make for him in former times, and which he thought he should relish80 exceedingly before he went to bed. Mrs. Lecount helped him on with his dressing-gown—then went down-stairs again to make his warm drink for him at the parlor fire.
She rang the bell and ordered the necessary ingredients for the mixture, in Noel Vanstone’s name. The servants, with the small ingenious malice136 of their race, brought up the materials one by one, and kept her waiting for each of them as long as possible. She had got the saucepan, and the spoon, and the tumbler, and the nutmeg-grater, and the wine—but not the egg, the sugar, or the spices—when she heard him above, walking backward and forward noisily in his room; exciting himself on the old subject again, beyond all doubt.
She went upstairs once more; but he was too quick for her—he heard her outside the door; and when she opened it, she found him in his chair, with his back cunningly turned toward her. Knowing him too well to attempt any remonstrance137, she merely announced the speedy arrival of the warm drink and turned to leave the room. On her way out, she noticed a table in a corner, with an inkstand and a paper-case on it, and tried, without attracting his attention, to take the writing materials away. He was too quick for her again. He asked, angrily, if she doubted his promise. She put the writing materials back on the table, for fear of offending him, and left the room.
In half an hour more the mixture was ready. She carried it up to him, foaming138 and fragrant139, in a large tumbler. “He will sleep after this,” she thought to herself, as she opened the door; “I have made it stronger than usual on purpose.”
He had changed his place. He was sitting at the table in the corner—still with his back to her, writing. This time his quick ears had not served him; this time she caught him in the fact.
“Oh, Mr. Noel! Mr. Noel!” she said, reproachfully, “what is your promise worth?”
He made no answer. He was sitting with his left elbow on the table, and with his head resting on his left hand. His right hand lay back on the paper, with the pen lying loose in it. “Your drink, Mr. Noel,” she said, in a kinder tone, feeling unwilling2 to offend him. He took no notice of her. She went to the table to rouse him. Was he deep in thought?
He was dead!
THE END OF THE FIFTH SCENE.
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1
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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6
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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7
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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9
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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10
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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11
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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12
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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13
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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14
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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15
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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16
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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17
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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18
clinching
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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19
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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20
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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21
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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22
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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23
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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24
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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25
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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26
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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27
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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28
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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29
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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31
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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32
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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33
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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34
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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35
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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36
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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37
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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38
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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39
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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40
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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41
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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42
conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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43
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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44
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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45
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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46
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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47
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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48
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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49
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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50
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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51
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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53
petulantly
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54
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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55
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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56
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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57
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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58
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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59
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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60
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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61
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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62
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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63
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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64
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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65
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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66
perpetuation
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| n.永存，不朽 | |
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67
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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68
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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69
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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70
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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71
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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72
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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73
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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74
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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75
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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76
crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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77
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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78
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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79
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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80
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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81
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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82
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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83
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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84
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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85
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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86
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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87
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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88
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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89
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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90
merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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91
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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92
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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93
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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94
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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95
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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96
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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97
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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98
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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99
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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100
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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101
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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102
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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103
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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104
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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105
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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106
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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107
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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108
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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109
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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110
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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111
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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112
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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113
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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114
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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115
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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116
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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117
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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118
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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119
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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120
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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121
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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122
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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123
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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124
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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125
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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126
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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127
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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128
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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129
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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130
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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131
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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132
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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133
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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134
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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135
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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136
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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137
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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138
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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139
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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