He lay for some time pondering upon this, with that image of the stone tablet before his eyes, setting forth that the new wing of this institution had been erected at the desire of the late Stephen Whitelaw, Esq., of Wyncomb Farm, who had bequeathed a sum of money to the infirmary for that purpose, whereby two new wards had, in memory of that respected benefactor, been entitled the Whitelaw wards—­or something to the like effect.  He composed a great many versions of the inscription as he lay there, tolerably easy as to his bodily feelings, and chiefly anxious concerning the disposal of the money; but, being unaccustomed to the task of composition, he found it more difficult than he could have supposed to set forth his own glory in a concise form of words.  But the tablet would be there, of course, the very centre and keystone of the building, as it were; indeed, Mr. Whitelaw resolved to make his bequest contingent upon the fulfilment of this desire.  Later in the evening he told William Carley that he had made up his mind about his will, and would be glad to see Mr. Pivott, of Malsham, rival solicitor to Mr. Randall, of the same town, as soon as that gentleman could be summoned to his bedside.

The bailiff seemed surprised at this request.

“Why, surely, Steph, you can’t want a lawyer mixed up in the business!” he said.  “Those sort of chaps only live by making work for one another.  You know how to make your will well enough, old fellow, without any attorney’s aforesaids and hereinafters.  Half a sheet of paper and a couple of sentences would do it, I should think; the fewer words the better.”

“I’d rather have Pivott, and do it in a regular manner,” Mr. Whitelaw answered quietly.  “I remember, in a forgery case that was in the papers the other day, how the judge said of the deceased testator, that, being a lawyer, he was too wise to make his own will.  Yes, I’d rather see Pivott, if you’ll send for him, Carley.  It’s always best to be on the safe side.  I don’t want my money wasted in a chancery suit when I’m lying in my grave.”

William Carley tried to argue the matter with his son-in-law; but the attempt was quite useless.  Mr. Whitelaw had always been the most obstinate of men—­and lying on his bed, maimed and helpless, was no more to be moved from his resolve than if he had been a Roman gladiator who had just trained himself for an encounter with lions.  So the bailiff was compelled to obey him, unwillingly enough, and dispatched one of the men to Malsham in quest of Mr. Pivott the attorney.

The practitioner came to the Grange as fast as his horse could carry him.  Every one in Malsham knew by this time that Stephen Whitelaw was a doomed man; and Mr. Pivott felt that this was a matter of life and death.  He was an eminently respectable man, plump and dapper, with a rosy smooth-shaven face, and an air of honesty that made the law seem quite a pleasant thing.  He was speedily seated by Mr. Whitelaw’s bed, with a pair of candles and writing materials upon a little table before him, ready to obey his client’s behests, and with the self-possessed aspect of a man to whom a last will and testament involving the disposal of a million or so would have been only an every-day piece of practice.