The doomed man had seemed from the first to have a conviction of the truth, and appeared in no manner surprised when, in answer to his questions, the Malsham doctor admitted that his case was fatal, and suggested that, if he had anything to do in the adjustment of his affairs, he could scarcely do it too soon.  At this Mr. Whitelaw groaned aloud.  If he could in any manner have adjusted his affairs so as to take his money with him, the suggestion might have seemed sensible enough; but, that being impracticable, it was the merest futility.  He had never made a will; it cost him too much anguish to give away his money even on paper.  And now it was virtually necessary that he should do so, or else, perhaps, his wealth would, by some occult process, be seized upon by the crown—­a power which he had been accustomed to regard in the abstract with an antagonistic feeling, as being the root of queen’s taxes.  To leave all to his wife, with some slight pension to Mrs. Tadman, seemed the most obvious course.  He had married for love, and the wife of his choice had been very dutiful and submissive.  What more could he have demanded from her? and why should he grudge her the inheritance of his wealth?  Well, he would not have grudged it to her, perhaps, since some one must have it, if it had not been for that aggravating conviction that she would marry again, and that the man she preferred to him would riot in the possession of his hardly-earned riches.  She would marry Frank Randall; and between them they would mismanage, and ultimately ruin, the farm.  He remembered the cost of the manure he had put upon his fields that year, and regretted that useless outlay.  It was a hard thing to have enriched his land only that others might profit by the produce.

“And if I’ve laid down a yard of drain-pipes since last year, I’ve laid down a dozen mile.  There’s not a bit of swampy ground or a patch of sour grass on the farm,” he thought bitterly.

He lay for some hours deliberating as to what he should do.  Death was near, but not so very close to him just yet.  He had time to think.  No, come what might, he would not leave the bulk of his property to fall into the keeping of Frank Randall.

He remembered that there were charitable institutions, to which a man, not wishing to enrich an ungrateful race, might bequeath his money, and obtain some credit for himself thereby, which no man could expect from his own relations.  There was an infirmary at Malsham, rather a juvenile institution as yet, in aid whereof Mr. Whitelaw had often been plagued for subscriptions, reluctantly doling out half-a-guinea now and then, more often refusing to contribute anything.  He had never thought of this place in his life before; but the image of it came into his mind now, as he had seen it on market-days for the last four years—­a bran new red-brick building in Malsham High-street.  He thought how his name would look, cut in large letters on a stone tablet on the face of that edifice.  It would be something to get for his money; a very poor and paltry something, compared with the delight of possession, but just a little better than nothing.