“Well, yer a very civil gentleman, anyhow.”
Thursday came, but my client did not turn up. The sessions day came, and although I had no business I thought I ought to put in an appearance in court. Amongst the first cases called was that in which my client, as I have called him, was plaintiff—his attorney was Mr. Brown. I fear I went back to my office in rather better humour that I otherwise would have done, when the barrister, as the County Court Judge was called then, dismissed the case, and with costs, against “my client.”
After this, weeks passed and no one came near the office, and I began to long even for the step of the vegetable woman, but towards dusk one October evening, just as I was about thinking of leaving the office, where I had been sitting before the fire whiling away the time with a novel, my clerk came in with a gleeful face to inform me that a gentleman desired to see me on legal business. My heart jumped into my mouth. I quickly hid the novel, put on my most professional appearance, seated myself at my desk, began to write, and was so engaged when the gentleman was shown in.
He was a man, I should say of five and forty, and had all the appearance of a country gentleman. I handed him a chair, which he took, and asked him what I could do for him.
His business was quickly explained. His aunt, an old lady, who resided with him, was dying, and desired to make her will. She wished to leave everything to her nephew—the gentleman who was consulting me, and who gave his name as Mr. George Ralph Jephson, “but my aunt calls me Ralph,” he added. “So I suppose,” he said, “it will not take you much time to prepare a will leaving everything to me? I should wish you, also, to come out with me and witness the execution of it. I suppose your clerk could come also?”
I replied that I would prepare the will according to his instructions in a few moments. I took down the name of the intending testatrix and his own information as to the nature of her property. Half a dozen lines were quite sufficient to dispose of it, as it was all to go, without any reservation or condition, to the one person. I got my clerk to make out a clean copy, and when this was done, he and I, and Mr. Jephson got into the latter’s dog cart, which a small boy was holding outside the office door.
Of Mr. Jephson I knew nothing, save that he had recently taken the house and demesne of Longfield, which had been untenanted for many years, owing to a tragedy that had taken place there, and it was said that he had come from Dorsetshire. His house was about nine miles outside the town, but the road was good and the horse a fast goer, and we did it in a little over the hour. A short, winding avenue led up to the house, which looked gloomy, as the only light visible escaped through the fanlight over the door.
This, when he pulled up, was opened in answer to Mr. Jephson’s knock by an old, rather slatternly woman. He showed my clerk and me into the dining-room, where a bright fire was burning, and, requesting us to be seated, said he would go up to see if the lady were ready to receive us. He returned in a few moments, ushered us up the stairs, and, turning down the right corridor pushed in a door that was not fastened.
The room, which was not over-well furnished for so pretentious a house, was lighted by two candles. On a bed raised not more than a foot from the ground, and placed in a corner behind the door, lay a woman of at least seventy years old. She was very small, and her face had a very gentle expression, and, notwithstanding her advanced age, was wonderfully fair, and had but very few wrinkles. Her eyes were still bright, and it was evident she must have been a very pretty girl.