But, on that account, I only
wish it till those purposes have been completed. I think I'll go to
sleep for an hour; but there are a couple of letters I want you to write
before post-time." Then Mr. Scarborough turned himself round and thought
of the letters he was to write. Mr. Merton went out, and as he wandered
about the park in the dirt and slush of December tried to make up his
mind whether he most admired his patron's philosophy or condemned his
general lack of principle.
At the proper hour he appeared again, and found Mr. Scarborough quite
alert. "I don't know whether I shall have the three months, unless I
behave better," he said. "I have been thinking about those letters, and
very nearly made an attempt to write them. There are things about a son
which a father doesn't wish to communicate to any one." Merton only
shook his head. "I'm not a bit afraid of you, nor do I care for your
knowing what I have to say. But there are words which it would be
difficult even to write, and almost impossible to dictate." But he did
make the attempt, though he did not find himself able to say all that he
had intended. The first letter was to the lawyer:
"My dear Mr. Grey,--You will be surprised at my writing to summon you
once again to my bedside.
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