They would not have me write, Belford.—­I must be ill indeed, when I can’t write.

***

But thou seemest nettled, Jack!  Is it because I was stung?  It is not for two friends, any more than for man and wife, to be out of patience at one time.—­What must be the consequence if they are?—­I am in no fighting mood just now:  but as patient and passive as the chickens that are brought me in broth—­for I am come to that already.

But I can tell thee, for all this, be thy own man, if thou wilt, as to the executorship, I will never suffer thee to expose my letters.  They are too ingenuous by half to be seen.  And I absolutely insist upon it, that, on receipt of this, thou burn them all.

I will never forgive thee that impudent and unfriendly reflection, of my cavaliering it here over half a dozen persons of distinction:  remember, too, thy words poor helpless orphan—­these reflections are too serious, and thou art also too serious, for me to let these things go off as jesting; notwithstanding the Roman style* is preserved; and, indeed, but just preserved.  By my soul, Jack, if I had not been taken thus egregiously cropsick, I would have been up with thee, and the lady too, before now.

* For what these gentlemen mean by the Roman style, see Vol.  I. Letter XXXI. in the first note.

But write on, however:  and send me copies, if thou canst, of all that passes between our Charlotte and Miss Harlowe.  I’ll take no notice of what thou communicatest of that sort.  I like not the people here the worse for their generous offer to the lady.  But you see she is as proud as implacable.  There’s no obliging her.  She’d rather sell her clothes than be beholden to any body, although she would oblige by permitting the obligation.

O Lord!  O Lord!—­Mortal ill!—­Adieu, Jack!

***

I was forced to leave off, I was so ill, at this place.  And what dost think! why Lord M. brought the parson of the parish to pray by me; for his chaplain is at Oxford.  I was lain down in my night-gown over my waistcoat, and in a doze:  and, when I opened my eyes, who should I see, but the parson kneeling on one side the bed; Lord M. on the other; Mrs. Greme, who had been sent for to tend me, as they call it, at the feet!  God be thanked, my Lord, said I in an ecstasy!—­Where’s Miss?—­for I supposed they were going to marry me.

They thought me delirious at first; and prayed louder and louder.

This roused me:  off the bed I started; slid my feet into my slippers; put my hand in my waistcoat pocket, and pulled out thy letter with my beloved’s meditation in it!  My Lord, Dr. Wright, Mrs. Greme, you have thought me a very wicked fellow:  but, see!  I can read you as good as you can read me.

They stared at one another.  I gaped, and read, Poor mo—­or—­tals the cau—­o—­ause of their own—­their own mi—­ser—­ry.