“He said six.”

“Ah! that is, if I do what I’m told.  But I shall not exactly do that.  Three or six would be all the same, only for a little bit of business I want to get through.  Sir William’s orders would include the abandonment of my business.”

“The less done the better.  Then I do not see why Sir William should limit you to six months.”

“I think that three will nearly suffice.”

“A man does not want to die, I suppose,” said Merton.

“There are various ways of looking at that question,” replied the squire.  “Many men desire the prolongation of life as a lengthened period of enjoyment.  There is, perhaps, something of that feeling with me; but when you see how far I am crippled and curtailed, how my enjoyments are confined to breathing the air, to eating and drinking, and to the occasional reading of a few pages, you must admit that there cannot be much of that.  A conversation with you is the best of it.  Some want to live for the sake of their wives and children.  In the ordinary acceptation of the words, that is all over with me.  Many desire to live because they fear to die.  There is nothing of that in me, I can assure you.  I am not afraid to meet my Creator.  But there are those who wish for life that their purposes of love, or stronger purposes of hatred, may be accomplished.  I am among the number.  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.  I think there was some kind of a promise made that the request should not be repeated; but the circumstances are of such a nature that I do not well know how to avoid it.  However, if you refuse to come, I will give you my instructions.  It is my purpose to make another will, and to leave everything that I am capable of leaving to my son Mountjoy.  You are aware that he is now free from debt, and capable of enjoying any property that he may possess.  As circumstances are at present he would on my death be absolutely penniless, and Heaven help the man who should find himself dependent on the mercy of Augustus Scarborough.