Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (458 page)

“Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Lecount dictated the first paragraph from the Draft, as follows:

“This is the last Will and Testament of me, Noel Vanstone, now living at Baliol Cottage, near Dumfries. I revoke, absolutely and in every particular, my former will executed on the thirtieth of September, eighteen hundred and forty-seven; and I hereby appoint Rear-Admiral Arthur Everard Bartram, of St. Crux-in-the-Marsh, Essex, sole executor of this my will.”

“Have you written those words, sir?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Lecount laid down the Draft; Noel Vanstone laid down the pen. They neither of them looked at each other. There was a long silence.

“I am waiting, Mr. Noel,” said Mrs. Lecount, at last, “to hear what your wishes are in respect to the disposal of your fortune. Your
large
fortune,” she added, with merciless emphasis.

He took up the pen again, and began picking the feathers from the quill in dead silence.

“Perhaps your existing will may help you to instruct me, sir,” pursued Mrs. Lecount. “May I inquire to whom you left all your surplus money, after leaving the eighty thousand pounds to your wife?”

If he had answered that question plainly, he must have said: “I have left the whole surplus to my cousin, George Bartram” — and the implied acknowledgment that Mrs. Lecount’s name was not mentioned in the will must then have followed in Mrs. Lecount’s presence. A much bolder man, in his situation, might have felt the same oppression and the same embarrassment which he was feeling now. He picked the last morsel of feather from the quill; and, desperately leaping the pitfall under his feet, advanced to meet Mrs. Lecount’s claims on him of his own accord.

“I would rather not talk of any will but the will I am making now,” he said uneasily. “The first thing, Lecount — ” He hesitated — put the bare end of the quill into his mouth — gnawed at it thoughtfully — and said no more.

“Yes, sir?” persisted Mrs. Lecount.

“The first thing is — ”

“Yes, sir?”

“The first thing is, to — to make some provision for You?”

He spoke the last words in a tone of plaintive interrogation — as if all hope of being met by a magnanimous refusal had not deserted him even yet. Mrs. Lecount enlightened his mind on this point, without a moment’s loss of time.

“Thank you, Mr. Noel,” she said, with the tone and manner of a woman who was not acknowledging a favor, but receiving a right.

He took another bite at the quill. The perspiration began to appear on his face.

“The difficulty is,” he remarked, “to say how much.”

“Your lamented father, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “met that difficulty (if you remember) at the time of his last illness?”

“I don’t remember,” said Noel Vanstone, doggedly.

“You were on one side of his bed, sir, and I was on the other. We were vainly trying to persuade him to make his will. After telling us he would wait and make his will when he was well again, he looked round at me, and said some kind and feeling words which my memory will treasure to my dying day. Have you forgotten those words, Mr. Noel?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Noel, without hesitation.

“In my present situation, sir,” retorted Mrs. Lecount, “delicacy forbids me to improve your memory.”

She looked at her watch, and relapsed into silence. He clinched his hands, and writhed from side to side of his chair in an agony of indecision. Mrs. Lecount passively refused to take the slightest notice of him.

“What should you say — ?” he began, and suddenly stopped again.

“Yes, sir?”

“What should you say to — a thousand pounds?”

Mrs. Lecount rose from her chair, and looked him full in the face, with the majestic indignation of an outraged woman.

“After the service I have rendered you to-day, Mr. Noel,” she said, “I have at least earned a claim on your respect, if I have earned nothing more. I wish you good-morning.”

“Two thousand!” cried Noel Vanstone, with the courage of despair.

Mrs. Lecount folded up her papers and hung her traveling-bag over her arm in contemptuous silence.

“Three thousand!”

Mrs. Lecount moved with impenetrable dignity from the table to the door.

“Four thousand!”

Mrs. Lecount gathered her shawl round her with a shudder, and opened the door.

“Five thousand!”

He clasped his hands, and wrung them at her in a frenzy of rage and suspense. “Five thousand” was the death-cry of his pecuniary suicide.

Mrs. Lecount softly shut the door again, and came back a step.

“Free of legacy duty, sir?” she inquired.

“No.”

Mrs. Lecount turned on her heel and opened the door again.

“Yes.”

Mrs. Lecount came back, and resumed her place at the table as if nothing had happened.

“Five thousand pounds, free of legacy duty, was the sum, sir, which your father’s grateful regard promised me in his will,” she said, quietly. “If you choose to exert your memory, as you have not chosen to exert it yet, your memory will tell you that I speak the truth. I accept your filial performance of your father’s promise, Mr. Noel — and there I stop. I scorn to take a mean advantage of my position toward you; I scorn to grasp anything from your fears. You are protected by my respect for myself, and for the Illustrious Name I bear. You are welcome to all that I have done, and to all that I have suffered in your service. The widow of Professor Lecompte, sir, takes what is justly hers — and takes no more!”

As she spoke those words, the traces of sickness seemed, for the moment, to disappear from her face; her eyes shone with a steady inner light; all the woman warmed and brightened in the radiance of her own triumph — the triumph, trebly won, of carrying her point, of vindicating her integrity, and of matching Magdalen’s incorruptible self-denial on Magdalen’s own ground.

“When you are yourself again, sir, we will proceed. Let us wait a little first.”

She gave him time to compose himself; and then, after first looking at her Draft, dictated the second paragraph of the will, in these terms:

“I give and bequeath to Madame Virginie Lecompte (widow of Professor Lecompt e, late of Zurich) the sum of Five Thousand Pounds, free of Legacy Duty. And, in making this bequest, I wi sh to place it on record that I am not only expressing my own sense of Madame Lecompte’s attachment and fidelity in the capacity of my housekeeper, but that I also believe myself to be executing the intentions of my deceased father, who, but for the circumstance of his dying intestate, would have left Madame Lecompte, in
his
will, the same token of grateful regard for her services which I now leave her in mine.”

“Have you written the last words, sir?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Lecount leaned across the table and offered Noel Vanstone her hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Noel,” she said. “The five thousand pounds is the acknowledgment on your father’s side of what I have done for him. The words in the will are the acknowledgment on yours.”

A faint smile flickered over his face for the first time. It comforted him, on reflection, to think that matters might have been worse. There was balm for his wounded spirit in paying the debt of gratitude by a sentence not negotiable at his banker’s. Whatever his father might have done,
he
had got Lecount a bargain, after all!

“A little more writing, sir,” resumed Mrs. Lecount, “and your painful but necessary duty will be performed. The trifling matter of my legacy being settled, we may come to the important question that is left. The future direction of a large fortune is now waiting your word of command. To whom is it to go?”

He began to writhe again in his chair. Even under the all-powerful fascination of his wife the parting with his money on paper had not been accomplished without a pang. He had endured the pang; he had resigned himself to the sacrifice. And now here was the dreaded ordeal again, awaiting him mercilessly for the second time!

“Perhaps it may assist your decision, sir, if I repeat a question which I have put to you already,” observed Mrs. Lecount. “In the will that you made under your wife’s influence, to whom did you leave the surplus money which remained at your own disposal?”

There was no harm in answering the question now. He acknowledged that he had left the money to his cousin George.

“You could have done nothing better, Mr. Noel; and you can do nothing better now,” said Mrs. Lecount. “Mr. George and his two sisters are your only relations left. One of those sisters is an incurable invalid, with more than money enough already for all the wants which her affliction allows her to feel. The other is the wife of a man even richer than yourself. To leave the money to these sisters is to waste it. To leave the money to their brother George is to give your cousin exactly the assistance which he will want when he one day inherits his uncle’s dilapidated house and his uncle’s impoverished estate. A will which names the admiral your executor and Mr. George your heir is the right will for you to make. It does honour to the claims of friendship, and it does justice to the claims of blood.”

She spoke warmly; for she spoke with a grateful remembrance of all that she herself owed to the hospitality of St. Crux. Noel Vanstone took up another pen and began to strip the second quill of its feathers as he had stripped the first.

“Yes,” he said, reluctantly, “I suppose George must have it — I suppose George has the principal claim on me.” He hesitated: he looked at the door, he looked at the window, as if he longed to make his escape by one way or the other. “Oh, Lecount,” he cried, piteously, “it’s such a large fortune! Let me wait a little before I leave it to anybody.”

To his surprise; Mrs. Lecount at once complied with this characteristic request.

“I wish you to wait, sir,” she replied. “I have something important to say, before you add another line to your will. A little while since, I told you there was a second necessity connected with your present situation, which had not been provided for yet, but which must be provided for, when the time came. The time has come now. You have a serious difficulty to meet and conquer before you can leave your fortune to your cousin George.”

“What difficulty?” he asked.

Mrs. Lecount rose from her chair without answering, stole to the door, and suddenly threw it open. No one was listening outside; the passage was a solitude, from one end to the other.

“I distrust all servants,” she said, returning to her place — ”your servants particularly. Sit closer, Mr. Noel. What I have now to say to you must be heard by no living creature but ourselves.”

CHAPTER III.