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 relishing odor of whisky; but his head was Scotch; 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, exhaling an additional puff of whisky, and looking up
devoutly at the ceiling.
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