It ran as follows:
Dearest Arabella,
I am very ill,--so ill that Dr. Fanning who has come down from
London, has, I think, but a poor opinion of my case. He does not
say that it is hopeless,--and that is all. I think it right to tell
you this, as my affection for you is what it always has been. If
you wish to see me, you and your mother had better come to Bragton
at once. You can telegraph. I am too weak to write more.
Yours most affectionately,
John Morton.
P.S. There is nothing infectious.
"John Morton is dying," she almost screamed out to her mother.
"Dying!"
"So he says. Oh, what an unfortunate wretch I am! Everything that
touches me comes to grief. Then she burst out into a flood of true
unfeigned tears.
"It won't matter so much," said Lady Augustus, "if you mean to
write to the Duke and go on with this other--affair."
"Oh, mamma, how can you talk in that way?"
"Well; my dear; you know--"
"I am heartless. I know that. But you are ten times worse. Think
how I have treated him!"
"I don't want him to die, my dear; but what can I say? I can't do
him any good. It is all in God's hands, and if he must die--why, it
won't make so much difference to you. I have looked upon all that
as over for a long time."
"It is not over.
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