He had had his revenge, very bitter of its kind. Augustus should be made to feel that he had not been ridiculous,—not to be laughed at in his last days. He had ruined his son, inevitably ruined him, and was about to leave him penniless upon the earth. But now in his last moments, in his very last, there came upon him some feeling of pity, and in speaking of his son he once more called him "Gus."
"I don't know how it will all be, sir; but if the property is to be mine—"
"It will be yours; it must be yours."
"Then I will do anything for him that he will accept."
"Do not let him starve, or have to earn his bread."
"Say what you wish, sir, and it shall be done, as far as I can do it."
"Make an offer to him of some income, and settle it on him. Do it at once." The old man, as he said this, was thinking probably of the great danger that all Tretton might, before long, have been made to vanish. "And, Mountjoy—"
"Sir."
"You have gambled surely enough for amusement. With such a property as this in your hands gambling becomes very serious."
They were the last words,—the last intelligible words,—which the old man spoke. He died with his left hand on his son's neck, and took Merton and his sister by his side. It was a death-bed not without its lesson,—not without a certain charm in the eyes of some fancied beholder. Those who were there seemed to love him well, and should do so.