Robbery, if you could get to the bottom of it, was bad, as was all violence; but taxation was robbery, rent was robbery, prices fixed according to the desire of the seller and not in obedience to justice, were robbery.  “Then you are the greatest of robbers,” his friends would say to him.  He would admit it, allowing that in such a state of society he was not prepared to go out and live naked in the streets if he could help it.  But he delighted to get the better of the law, and triumphed in his own iniquity, as has been seen by his conduct in reference to his sons.

In this way he lived, and was kind to many people, having a generous and an open hand.  But he was a man who could hate with a bitter hatred, and he hated most those suspected by him of mean or dirty conduct.  Mr. Grey, who constantly told him to his face that he was a rascal, he did not hate at all.  Thinking Mr. Grey to be in some respects idiotic, he respected him, and almost loved him.  He thoroughly believed Mr. Grey, thinking him to be an ass for telling so much truth unnecessarily.  And he had loved his son Mountjoy in spite of all his iniquities, and had fostered him till it was impossible to foster him any longer.  Then he had endeavored to love Augustus, and did not in the least love him the less because his son told him frequently of the wicked things he had done.  He did not object to be told of his wickedness even by his son.  But Augustus suspected him of other things than those of which he accused him, and attempted to be sharp with him and to get the better of him at his own game.  And his son laughed at him and scorned him, and regarded him as one who was troublesome only for a time, and who need not be treated with much attention, because he was there only for a time.  Therefore he hated Augustus.  But Augustus was his heir, and he knew that he must die soon.

But for how long could he live?  And what could he yet do before he died?  A braver man than Mr. Scarborough never lived,—­that is, one who less feared to die.  Whether that is true courage may be a question, but it was his, in conjunction with courage of another description.  He did not fear to die, nor did he fear to live.  But what he did fear was to fail before he died.  Not to go out with the conviction that he was vanishing amid the glory of success, was to him to be wretched at his last moment, and to be wretched at his last moment, or to anticipate that he should be so, was to him,—­even so near his last hours,—­the acme of misery.  How much of life was left to him, so that he might recover something of success?  Or was any moment left to him?

He could not sleep, so he rung his bell, and again sent for Mr. Merton.  “I have taken what you told me.”

“So best,” said Mr. Merton.  For he did not always feel assured that this strange patient would take what had been ordered.

“And I have tried to sleep.”

“That will come after a while.  You would not naturally sleep just after the tonic.”