"You're wanted upstairs a minute, Joe," he said; and the two went clumping up the wide old oaken staircase.
The witnessing of the will was a very brief business. Mr. Pivott did not offer to throw any light upon its contents, nor was the bailiff, sharpsighted as he might be, able to seize upon so much as one paragraph or line of the document during the process of attaching his signature thereto.
When the ceremony was concluded, Stephen Whitelaw sank back upon his pillow with an air of satisfaction.
"I don't think I could have done any better," he murmured. "It's a hard thing for a man of my age to leave everything behind him; but I don't see that I could have done better."
"You have done that, my dear sir, which might afford comfort to any death-bed," said the lawyer solemnly.
He folded the will, and put it into his pocket.
"Our friend desires me to take charge of this document," he said to William Carley. "You will have no reason to complain, on your daughter's account, when you become familiar with its contents. She has been fairly treated—I may say very fairly treated."
The bailiff did not much relish the tone of this assurance. Fair treatment might mean very little.
"I hope she has been well treated," he answered in a surly manner. "She's been a good wife to Stephen Whitelaw, and would continue so to be if he was to live twenty years longer. When a pretty young woman marries a man twice her age, she's a right to expect handsome treatment, Mr. Pivott. It can't be too handsome for justice, in my opinion."
The solicitor gave a little gentle sigh.