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.