Mr. Candituft still grasps the hand of his excellent new friend.
“Upon my honour, my dear sir, the sight of you looking so well lifts
a mountain from my mind. I wouldn’t have had the feelings of Dr.
Mizzlemist for the honours of the earth.” Mr. Jericho feebly smiles,
lifting his shoulders in deprecation of further sympathy. “Surely
this—this is the hand the fork went through, yet not so much as a
scar.”
“It was nothing: I’m happily formed, Mr. Candituft; that is, my flesh
heals directly. It all arises from a wonderful purity of blood no
doubt, but nothing hurts me,” said Jericho, “nothing.”
“A common person, Mr. Jericho—now the danger’s past I don’t mind
saying it—a common man from such a wound must have had lockjaw.” Here
Candituft put his hand before his eyes, to shut out the horror of
the picture. Recovering himself, he proceeded, with a gay, playful
look—“And lockjaw, Mr. Jericho, would not have served your turn in
the House of Commons.”
“My good sir,” answered Jericho, with an air of instruction, “I am
not in the House of Commons.”
“Not taken the oaths and seat, certainly, but ’tis good as done. My
dear sir, you are reserved for great things: the whole brotherhood
of man will one day feel disposed to bless you. And, my dear sir,
permit me to congratulate you on your heroic helpmate, Mrs. Jericho.”
“She’s a—a fine woman,” said Jericho: he could say no less.
“A woman of far-seeing ambition. She already beholds you on the
top of the tree, sir; on the top of the tree,” and Candituft shook
Jericho’s hand till he shook him into smiles.
“Why, sir, I am not backward—goodness forbid!—not backward to
acknowledge the responsibility. Money is the support of the world:
the pillar of the social edifice. Without money, man is little above
the brute.”
“A great political truth,” cried the astonished Candituft, “a very
great political truth.”
“Let us look through the animal world, Mr. Candituft. What makes
the elephant powerful?—his trunk and tusks. What makes the lion
dangerous?—his teeth and claws. And, what tusks and teeth are to
the lower creatures, money is to man. Is it not so?” asked Jericho,
confidently.
Candituft suddenly folded his arms, and looking downward, as though
speaking to the carpet, said very vehemently—“It is.”
“I think,” continued Jericho, “I think it is the great Lord Bacon who
somewhere observes—‘Knowledge, turned into ready money, is power.’ I
am of his lordship’s opinion.”
“Of course, Mr. Jericho. It was to be expected of you. And now, my
dear, dear sir, to business. Mrs. Jericho informed me, at Jogtrot
Lodge, that you burn to get into Parliament. You are right. _That_ is
your sphere.”
“I don’t think I could make a speech—don’t think I could say a dozen
words,” urged the modest Jericho, “unless, I had the decanters before
me.”
“We don’t look for long speeches from men of wealth, sir. We’ve
plenty of speakers whose only bank is the English language; and
tremendously they draw upon it. What we want—what we can’t have too
much of—is the substantial, unmistakeable power of property. When a
man rises with a million of money in his pocket, people think it’s
his wealth that talks and not he. Therefore, boggle as he may, he is
sure to say something worth listening to. The world is charitable,
sir, and tolerates the man for the metal.”
“Of course; very right. I don’t know,” said Jericho, re-assured,
“that I ought to fear Parliament—much.”
“Fear! Your party would embrace you! You’d be the pet of the—by the
way, what are your politics?” asked Candituft.
“The politics of—of the human heart,” answered Jericho, “of course,
nothing less.”
“I thought so: our side! My dear sir, you will find it will be
impossible for us to make too much of you. And now to the question
that has brought me here. The borough of Toadsham is at your service.
You needn’t even show yourself; all you have to say is—yes; and take
your seat. You can’t imagine how your dear, your noble wife has
jumped at the notion.”
“Well, ‘yes’ is soon said,” observed Jericho.
“And you’ll say it? I knew you would,” and Candituft shook Jericho by
the hand. “Ha, sir! what a career is open to you. With your boundless
wealth”—
“Pooh! pooh! no such thing, Mr. Candituft. What could have put it
into your head?”
“With your boundless wealth, sir, after serving your country with
your patriotic votes in the Commons, you’ll be gathered to the House
of Lords in your green old age. Think of that, sir. In your very
green old age. Rank, title, honours! Why, who shall say that the
little ermine destined to trim your robe, are not at this minute
playing somewhere in the Ural Mountains? Who shall say that the
silk-worms that shall spin the silk for your blue riband, are not at
this moment in the egg?”
Jericho thought he felt his heart warm with the fancy. He flattered
himself that the organ absolutely fluttered. He observed—“What will
be the price—the lowest price of Toadsham?”
“Not more than ten thousand,” answered Candituft, very blithely.
“That is a large sum, Mr. Candituft,” cried Jericho.
“Well, now, you do surprise me! I cannot disguise it; you do astonish
me. I did think you’d wonder at the cheapness. Ten thousand pounds
for a seat in Parliament! After all—with your enlarged views—what
is it but so much money put out to the interest of your country and
yourself? You must recollect, sir, we live in revolutionary times.
Now, there is such a cry for purity of election, as it’s called, that
the selling price—when a pennyworth is to be had—_must_ go up. It’s
in the nature of human things, Mr. Jericho. In its time, sir, I give
you my honour, Toadsham has brought double the money. Double the
money, sir,” averred Candituft.
“When can the business be arranged? When can I go in?” asked Jericho.
“When the usual forms are over—and in your case, they are only
forms—directly, my dear sir.”
“Well, as it will please my wife, and—as you observe, Mr.
Candituft—property ought to prop the nation, I don’t think I shall
refuse. No: you may book me for Toadsham.”
At this moment Mrs. Jericho entered the room. “Permit me, madam, to
congratulate you on the admirable resolution of Mr. Jericho. He has
consented”—said Candituft, as though relieved of great anxiety—“he
has consented to stand by the country. He will sit for Toadsham.”
“Of course, my dear sir. These are not times”—said Mrs. Jericho—“for
property to desert its post. No, sir, we must stand by our
institutions. Ar’n’t they beautiful, my dear Solomon?”
“The pride of surrounding nations,” answered Jericho, without moving
an eyelid.
“A fiddlestick! I mean the diamonds,” and Mrs. Jericho exhibited a
magnificent suite of jewels.
“They look very bright,” said Jericho.
“Bright, my dear! Why, as Miss Candituft observed, they are
positively scintillations of the sun. Bright! Why”—and Mrs. Jericho
waved the jewels to and fro—“there’s no looking at them.”
“What will be the use of wearing ’em, then?” asked the apathetic
Jericho.
“My dear, how very literal you are. Why, I thought you’d be delighted
to see them,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“I am; very much delighted,” and Jericho looked at the gems with as
much light in his eye as would have been reflected therein from so
many pewter buttons. “Very fine; whose are they?”
“Whose are they!” cried Mrs. Jericho. “What a question! Why, whose
should they be?”
“I’m the worst of all men at a riddle,” said Jericho. “I can’t guess.”
“Why, Mr. Jericho, they are your wife’s—of course,” cried the
majestic owner, with proud emphasis.
“How did you get ’em?” inquired the frigid husband.
“What a question to ask a woman in London! My dear Jericho—ha!
ha!—why, my good man, what is the matter with you? I thought you’d be
delighted with my taste. Any other man would be proud of his wife,
with such a choice. Eh, Mr. Candituft?”
“And so is Mr. Jericho. Only he’s a philosopher; he won’t show the
rapture that swells his heart.” No winter-tortoise ever slept sounder
in its shell, than did the heart of Jericho in his bosom.
“You know, my dear,”—said Mrs. Jericho, in her sweetest, most
convincing voice—“you know ’twould be impossible to go to court
without diamonds. One isn’t drest without diamonds.”
“Court!” Jericho opened his eyes; and a wan smile broke on his thin,
blank cheek. “Are you going to court?”
“Why, of course. Are we not, dear Mr. Candituft?” The Man-Tamer
placed his hand upon his heart, and smiled assent. “What would be
thought of us, if we did not pay our homage to”—
“To be sure; very right; I shall only be too happy,” said Jericho;
“it’s expected of us, no doubt.”
“And ’twill not be my fault, my dear, if we do not go like ourselves.
The dear girls are quite delighted with their pearls”—
“Pearls!” groaned Jericho.
“Pearls,” repeated Mrs. Jericho very vivaciously—“quite delighted
and”—
The sentence was broken by the sudden appearance of Monica and
Agatha, each bearing a jewel-case; and looking radiant with the
possession.
“Thank you, dear papa,” said Monica, curtseying and smiling her best
to Jericho.
“They’re beautiful! Thank you—dear, dearest papa”—cried the more
impulsive Agatha, and—thoughtless of the presence of Candituft—she
threw her arms about Jericho’s neck.
“And the pair of you have pearls, eh?” asked Jericho, very hopelessly.
“Look,” said Monica, and she exhibited her treasure.
“Look,” cried Agatha, and she half-dropt upon one knee, on the other
side, to show _her_ jewels.
“Beautiful!” cried Candituft. “Pray ladies, don’t stir.”—The
girls, with pretty wonder in their faces, kept their positions on
either side of Jericho. “My dear Madam”—and Candituft appealed to
Mrs. Jericho—“Is not this a delightful group? An exquisite family
picture? It ought to be painted. On either side beauty lustrous with
thankfulness, and for the centre figure, benevolence unconscious of
its worth. Positively it must go to the Academy.”
“Milton and his Daughters quite common-place to it,” averred Miss
Candituft, joining the party: for the interesting group above had
been suddenly scattered by the arrival of the jeweller. Hence, Sir
Arthur Hodmadod shortly afterwards edged himself into the circle,
contributing his admiration in his own nervous style. Ere, however,
his praises could call forth a response, there was an addition to the
party in the flushed and hurried person of Basil Pennibacker.
“Beg your pardon. Like a cannon-ball, you see, bring my own apology
with me,” cried Basil.
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Jericho. “What is the matter? Why are you
always in such a hurry?”
“Credit’s long, ma’am, life is short, as the latin tailor says,” and
Basil bowed to the guests.
“Look at mamma’s diamonds and our pearls,” cried Agatha.
[Illustration: _A Family Picture._]
“Why, my honoured madam, you are not going to wear these diamonds?
You are? When?” cried Basil.
“Oh, at the drawing-room, on Thursday,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“Well, then, my revered lady, let me embrace you; I shall never see
you again. Never,” said the despairing son.
“What do you mean, you foolish boy?” and the fond mother smiled at
her child, and shook her head.
“You’ll be carried off, ma’am, stolen beyond the hope of all
Hue-and-Cry. You must go to St. James’s with two policemen in your
carriage; two with blunderbusses, or the property’s lost. Eh? What’s
here?”—and Basil looked at the treasures of his sisters. “Pearls, eh?
Why what a lot!—there’s the lining of a hundred beds of oysters.”
“Basil, how can you!” cried Agatha.
“Cost a pretty penny, eh? Take the oysters at eight-pence a dozen,
and say two dozen subscribe one pearl, how much will the pair of
you be worth, when you’re both drest? Eh, sir! That’s a nice bit of
arithmetic,” said Basil, turning to Jericho. “How much, sir?”
“I don’t know, young man”—said Jericho with dignity. “What is more—I
don’t want to know.”
“No, sir; but it’s odd how folks will force disagreeable knowledge
upon us; crab-apples, sir, that we must eat, and defy the
stomach-ache.”
“Basil!” exclaimed Mrs. Jericho, in her very deepest voice.
“I suppose,” said the unchecked Basil, “you’ve not heard—no, I’m
sure you haven’t, by the holiday looks of you all. I’m certain, Mr.
Candituft, you’ve heard nothing disagreeable, otherwise you’d have
been alarming to look at.”
“Dear Mr. Pennibacker”—and Candituft clasped his hands, “what _has_
happened?”
“Ha! you’ve something like a heart, you have; so fresh, and so full
now. Some people’s hearts are shrunk in them like dried nuts. ’Pon my
life, you can hear ’em rattle as they walk.”
“Mr. Pennibacker!” said Jericho solemnly.
“Sir!” said Basil, folding his arms, and drawing himself up.
“You will keep these similes for your associates. There are ladies
and gentlemen here,” said Jericho.
“Very good, sir; I’m easy of belief; wasn’t made for a martyr. No,
sir,” said Basil, “warranted not to burn.”
“My dear Basil, for all this levity,” said Mrs. Jericho, “I can see
there’s something wrong. What is it?”
“Well then, here it is.” Basil cleared his throat, yet his eyes
moistened, and his mouth twitched as he spoke. “Well then, to begin;
your friend Carraways is ruined.”
“Ruined!” echoed all.
“That fine old man—that noble gentleman—that capital chap crowned in
his cradle the king of good fellows—that man that was as free of the
loyalty as the skies are free of rain—well, he’s ruined! A blank—£.
_s. d._ scratched clean out of him—in one word, the vital spark of
money has left him, and in the city he’s worse than a dead man.”
“Poor fellow! Poor—dear—fellow!” said Candituft grieved, but very
placid.
“It’s quite impossible!” cried Mrs. Jericho; “so sudden! How could it
have happened?”
“Easily enough. House gone in India. Nothing safe there. For my part,
I hardly believe in India at all. I think India’s a magnificent
illusion, like a grand sunset. Somehow or the other every fortune
in India has an earthquake wrapt up in it. Any way, Carraways is
swallowed;” and Basil bit his lip.
“Well, I am sorry,” said Miss Candituft. “I must say I am very sorry.”
“Very good of you, madam. And of you too, sir;” and Basil looked
gloomily in the unconcerned countenance of Candituft. “I’m sure your
heart is broken. I can see the pieces in your face.”
“The fact is, dear sir,” said Candituft, and he spoke truly, “I was
a little prepared for the intelligence. Still I feel deeply for my
friend.”
“And poor Mrs. Carraways! Poor dear soul! What will she do? I feel
for her,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“And sweet Bessy! It will be a dreadful blow! Such a gentle
creature,” said Monica, glancing at her pearls.
“Why, she can’t come to positive want, you know,” said Hodmadod; and
then, looking about him in his wise way, he added—“I don’t think
she’ll come to want, do you? She’s accomplished, you know, and when I
say accomplished”—
“I know,” said Basil bitterly, his eye flashing. “I know; turn
governess—an upper housemaid, with privilege to go without caps.
Teach children to gargle their little throats with the gamut. Of
course, she can’t starve. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Candituft,
people did say you were in love with Bessy.”
“I always admired Miss Carraways, but love—never, sir, never,” said
Candituft with solemn emphasis; and Monica again looked at her
pearls, and serenely smiled.
“Well, I only wish she’d have me,” said Basil. “I never did think I
should go the way of most flesh—but as matters have turned out, I’d
marry Bessy myself.”
Mr. Jericho rose with great dignity from his seat. He looked about
him, as though bespeaking all attention for the coming utterance.
When he deemed the company sufficiently toned down to appreciate the
value of his words, he looked sternly at Basil, and said—“I cannot
consent to remain in the room and listen to such folly—such headlong
folly.” With this, our Man made of Money majestically retired.
“Better not drive me desperate,” said the youth; “better not, or
I’ll marry her, and—to get a bit of honest bread—disgrace the
family. Shouldn’t at all mind sweeping a crossing in diamond studs,
mahogany stick and lavender broom. Elegance in distress. Must melt a
discerning public. Ha! ha!” and the young man laughed very savagely.
“Basil, I must say it—your conduct is most extravagant,” cried Mrs.
Jericho. “Marry, indeed!”
“Why not? As Bessy can make satin pincushions, and I can sell ’em,
my wife will serve the family cheap, my dear lady, if only for old
acquaintance. Ha! ha!”
“Don’t be foolish, Basil. For my own part,” said Mrs. Jericho, “I
would make any sacrifice for the poor things.”
“And so would I, mamma,” said Monica.
“And gracious goodness knows,” cried Agatha, “so would I.”
“And you mean it? Well, I begin to be proud of you,” said Basil. “And
it isn’t friendship made easy? Oh no; certainly not. Capital little
girls you are! Let us have a good stare at these sons of oysters,”
and Basil took the pearls from his sisters; whilst Mrs. Jericho with
important looks moved silently from the room. “I suppose”—and Basil
waved the jewels in the light—“I suppose they’re warranted real
natives?”
“What do you mean, Basil?” cried Monica.
“Beautiful jewels,” and Basil still admired the pearls. “But what
a jewel is true friendship, eh? Nothing like that jewel for the
time-piece of life to go upon; is there, Sir Arthur?”
“Certainly not,” answered the baronet. “When I say certainly not, I
mean—it’s quite a matter of opinion.”
“How very handsome you’ll look with these upon you! ’Pon my word,
girls, they’ll think you’re mermaids come to court; come, with the
family pearls from the Indian seas. They _will_,” cried Basil,
earnestly. “You’ll look beautiful with them; but, if you’ll take my
advice, much more lovely without ’em.”
“Without ’em! Go to court without jewels! Foolish boy! What would you
have us wear?” asked Monica.
“Friendship, my pretty one. It is such a jewel, and I’ll tell you how
you may best display it.”
Whilst Basil describes to impatient cars a very uninteresting
operation, we will follow Mrs. Jericho. She has just entered Mr.
Jericho’s study. “My dear,” she observes, “you must let me have some
money.”
Mr. Jericho did not rouse himself at the sound. He sat in his
arm-chair, pale and thin, and melancholy.
“What is the matter, Solomon? Surely you are not ill?” said Mrs.
Jericho.
“Certainly not; do I look ill?” asked the Man of Money.
“Why,—no. Nevertheless, my dear, you don’t seem to have that zest for
life that—with such a prospect opening upon us—you ought to have. In
a few weeks you’re in Parliament: a peerage must follow in proper
time: we can command that. Our money must make us one of the bulwarks
of the constitution. Why, you don’t attend to me, my love: one of the
bulwarks,” repeated Mrs. Jericho.
“To be sure; of course,” said the listless peer in embryo.
“And now”—said Mrs. Jericho, in her most cordial manner—“now, let me
have a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds! What for?” cried Jericho.
“To pay the jeweller. The man—I’m determined never to lay out another
shilling at the house—the man has orders not to leave the jewels
without the money. He little knows whom he insults,” said Mrs.
Jericho; twisting her neck to strangle her indignation.
“He won’t leave the jewels without the money?” said Jericho. “Then
let him take them back—we won’t have ’em.”
“Why,” answered the wife, “’twould be only what the fellow deserves;
but the truth is, I’m very much taken with them. Besides, to reject
them we—we might be misunderstood.”
Jericho had, in truth, no mind to lay out a thousand pounds. A
terrible suspicion of the nature of his money made him pause. He
would therefore turn to his own account the caution of the tradesman.
“I’ll not be insulted, Mrs. Jericho. The man has refused to leave the
goods without the money; very well—let him take them back.”
“Mamma!” cried the weeping Monica, running into the room.
“Dear mamma!” sobbed Agatha, following in larger grief.
“Why, what’s the matter? Tears! What can have happened?” asked their
mother.
“Is the parrot dead?” was the cold query of Jericho.
“That Basil has run away with my pearls,” cried Monica.
“And mine!” sobbed Agatha.
“Put them in his pocket in the most shameful manner, and said he’d
turn them into—into—” Monica could get no farther for her tears;
whereupon Agatha vigorously wiped her eyes, checked her sorrow, and
indignantly continued—
“Into friendship for Bessy Carraways. Because we said we’d show
our friendship in any way, he told us a fine story about a
better—better—better jewel—and—and—and pearls in his pocket—gone
away,” sobbed Agatha, incapable of unbroken speech.
Mrs. Jericho knitted her brow in deep black lines; then smiled and
said—“’Tis only Basil’s jest; but certainly a very foolish one.
Now, Mr. Jericho, the money must be paid; we have not the jewels to
return. Now, we have no other alternative.” Jericho groaned. “I will
send the man to you.”
“When I ring the bell,” said the haggard Jericho.
“Come, girls, ’tis only Basil’s frolic, but certainly a very—very
foolish one.” And Mrs. Jericho, with an arm about the neck of either
daughter, led her weeping offspring from the room.
“The thousand pounds must be paid,” thought Jericho. “They shall be
paid; and at once I’ll be resolved.” A few minutes the Man made of
Money sat in a maze of thought: he then drew a thousand pounds—ten
notes—from his mysterious bank; he rang the bell; the jeweller was
shown in, and laid the receipt before his customer. Jericho, with
offended dignity, cold and silent, pointed to the ten bank notes. The
jeweller took them up—counted them. As they rustled, Jericho felt as
though his heart was compressed within a cold iron hand.
“A thousand pounds—very much obliged to you, sir,” said the jeweller,
and took his leave.
For some minutes Jericho sat motionless—all but breathless. He would,
however, know his fate. He took out the silk lace with which an hour
ago he had measured his chest. Again he passed it round his body. He
had drawn upon the bank, and he had shrunk an inch.
Truly he was a Man made of Money. Money was the principle of his
being; for with every note he paid away a portion of his life.