but his head was Scotch; and nothing but his
odour 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 Wull
and Testament. Hech, sirs! there's a sair
confronting of Death, in a Doecument like yon! A'
flesh is grass," continued the coachman, exhaling
an additional puff of whisky, and looking up
devoutly at the ceiling. "Tak' those words, in
connexion with that other Screepture:—Many
are ca'ad but few are chosen. Tak' that again,
in connexion with Rev'lations, Chapter the
First; verses, One to Fefteen. Lay the whole
to heart—and what's your Walth, then? Dross,
sirs! And your body? (Screepture again.)
Clay for the potter! And your life? (Screepture
once more.) The Breeth o' your Nostrils!"

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 apparently
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 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 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 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.