Already had Mr. Jericho banked the purchase-money for Jogtrot Hall.
Thirty thousand pounds’ worth of flesh had he sacrificed to buy
to himself a country mansion; the better, in the flattering words
of his wife, to fill the world; who delighted as she was with the
obedient ambition of her lord, was, nevertheless, touched in her
tenderest affections when she contemplated his diminished presence.
Even Jericho himself, prepared as he was for the astonishment of his
family and familiars, winced as he caught the astounded glances of
his circle. Breeks, the tailor, began to measure, and to re-measure
with an increasing wonder, that in a little time deepened into
awe, and threatened to explode into terror. “It’s like measuring
a penknife for a sheath,” Breeks declared to his wife. “That Mr.
Jericho’s quite a puzzle, Julia; quite. There’s no knowing where
the paddin’ ends and the man begins. Man, Julia! He isn’t a man at
all, but a cotton-pod. Why he can’t have no more stomach than a
’bacco-pipe.” Such were the confidential communings of man with wife;
and, after certain intervals, with a whole round of Mrs. Breeks’s
bosom gossips. In a little time, it was the growing-belief of a large
circle that Jericho was no flesh, no man at all. “He was made up of
coats,” ran the rumour, “like an onion.”
Jericho, we have said, was tenderly alive to his daily waste. Again
and again had he passed the silken lace about his chest; the lace
that, if the bank continued to be drawn upon, soon promised to
wind round and round the anatomy of Jericho, like whipcord round a
boy’s peg-top. Jericho, however, comforted himself—so had he taken
measures—that the bank should be closed for many a day. He would
not peel himself to a leaf, let his wife conjure as she might.
Fortunately, he was never in better health. If he lost in substance,
mere flesh, he somehow obtained an unusual toughness and strength
of fibre. He was lithe, elastic as a rod of steel. And after all,
what was flesh? Animal grossness. The less he had of it, the more
spiritual the human creature.
But Mrs. Jericho would not thus be comforted. She had half-uttered
her fears to Mr. Candituft. Would introduce Doctor Dodo, a friend
of his, as a friend; not to alarm Mr. Jericho. Certainly not. But
merely to lead him in the meanderings of a pleasant morning talk to
his own individual case. Mrs. Jericho might depend upon the care of
Candituft. He would study even the weakness of dear Jericho as a
weakness to be reverenced. “Some weaknesses,” said Candituft, “were
like flawed China: quite as good as the perfect thing, if not too
rudely handled.” Mrs. Jericho declared the thought to be true and
beautiful.
Now, it grieves us, as faithful chroniclers of this history to pain
the reader with the intelligence that at the very time conjugal
love and manly friendship were sweetly plotting for better health
and insured life in the person of Solomon Jericho, there were
men—certainly two constructive homicides—who contemplated the
probable funeral of the Man of Money, and never once winced at the
thought of the sable feathers. Let the reader judge.
Almost at the exact time that Basil Pennibacker fled in sorrow and
confusion from the door of Carraways, Commissioner Thrush knocked
at the postern of Solomon Jericho. And had Jericho’s household gods
been as anxious, waking, instead—as we fear it too often happens with
household gods in general—instead of sleeping, like pet spaniels at
the fireside, sure we are that the chimney deities would have given
a sympathetic shriek, or howl, or cry, or squall—hearing murder’s
messenger at the door. “Is Mr. Jericho within?” asked the assistant
homicide with a serene gravity worthy of the coming funeral. The
victim was at home. The undertaker might walk up stairs; and making
due allowance, might measure the living customer. And all this time,
though the household gods might see in the burning embers, the
splendid funeral of their master prefigured in glowing rays, with—if
it further pleased them—a view, between the second and third bar, of
the widow weeping over a pyramidal monument, weeping in a cloud of
veil, with streaming wisp of handkerchief,—although every part and
piece of this alarming spectacle were to be seen in the live coals of
Jericho’s hearth, nevertheless Jericho’s household gods took no more
account of the show than if it were a congregation of burning vapours
brought together to roast the family goose, or cook the family mutton.
Commissioner Thrush walks placidly up to Mr. Jericho, and offers him
his hand. And Jericho takes the palm in his own, never dreaming that,
probably, he grasped a piece of churchyard clod.
“Though I come upon an unpleasant business, my dear sir—by the way I
think you get thinner and thinner,” said Thrush.
“I believe Commissioner,” said Jericho very austerely, “I believe in
polite society, a man’s flesh is silently permitted to be quite a
matter for his own contemplation.”
“Mr. Jericho, I am corrected, and very properly. A thousand pardons.
I bring this from my friend Colonel Bones,” and fixing his eye like a
snake upon Jericho, Thrush discharged a letter upon him.
Jericho read the letter. With a stony face of contempt he looked down
upon it. “This is quite ridiculous,” said Jericho.
“It may be droll, devilish droll,” said Thrush. “Men differ so in
their tastes. You may think a challenge a joke; may, indeed, think
pistols when they click, merely _diseurs de bons mots_. Every man as
he likes.”
“You do not intend to say, Commissioner Thrush, that this Colonel
Bones—this gingerbread hero—this”—
“Colonel Bones is my friend,” said Thrush. “Colonel Bones has served
her Majesty: at least, if not her Majesty, her Majesty’s uncle. It’s
all in the family; just the same thing. You insulted the Colonel.”
“The fact is”—Jericho paused, but only one instant, for a lie—“The
fact is, the day was hot; I had drunk too much—”
“I am sorry to hear it. For now it is impossible to accommodate
matters. Now, sir, the Colonel must be a charcoal-burner; you must
taste his saltpetre,” and Thrush smacked his lips, as recommending
its flavour.
“Impossible to accommodate! When it was abuse in a moment of wine,”
cried Jericho.
“Sir, an offence committed in wine must be between intimates a double
offence; and for this reason; this iron-bound reason. It implies
long-smouldering malice,” cried Thrush.
“I don’t see that,” exclaimed Jericho, becoming interested in the
question. “How do you prove it?”
“You shall hear, sir, in a very few words; and those, the very words
of my late excellent and sagacious friend, the king of Siam.”
“I don’t see,” cried Jericho, “that the king of Siam”—
“If you please; one moment,” said Thrush, with mild authority.
“‘Drunkards’ his majesty would say ’are of two sorts. The
good-natured and the malicious. Now, the good-natured man in his
drink babbles his praises and his affections; and with all his
goodness, would blush when sober to say the loving things that run
from him in his wine. His sober thoughts are written in his heart in
the milk of human goodness. Now, the malicious man, who in his steady
hours, has kept a fair face and a clean lip to his fellow—in his
time of drink talks reviling and abuse. His thoughts are written not
in milk, but in vinegar: but the fire of the wine brings out either
character, showing both true, the words of milk and the words of
verjuice.’ Now, this, sir, was the judgment of the king of Siam.”
“I—I do not see it. I can’t see it. Ridiculous! Preposterous,” cried
Jericho.
“The king of Siam though in his royal tomb, and sprinkled with the
loving ashes of fifty of his wives burnt at a great expense for that
occasion only—the king of Siam” said Thrush with ominous gravity,
“is still my friend. When we have disposed of our present business,
I shall be happy to give the readiest attention to any disparagement
you may feel disposed to vent upon the lamented potentate.”
“I am not at all the man, sir, to do anything of the sort,” cried
Jericho. “I respect the—the—yes, the constituted authorities, in
their tombs or out of ’em.”
“I am very happy to hear it. Because you must at once concede, on
the authority of my friend, the king, that an affront in drink is a
double insult. You called my friend, Colonel Bones, an officer in her
Majesty’s uncle’s service”—
Jericho who, though he trod upon thorns, could not resist the sneer,
asked, “What regiment?”
“No matter, sir,” said Thrush, “I have forgotten it. The Colonel
himself may have forgotten it. Any regiment you like. The 59th
Harlequins, or the 74th Pantaloons—it is no matter. You have
insulted an officer; it may be, insulted him for years. You called
him toad-eater—pauper—bone-picker! Now, sir, who shall say how long
you may have carried about you those opprobrious epithets, written
in the strongest vinegar upon your heart? Written, and only waiting
the required volume of hot, fruity port, to dawn and break out
into diabolic blackness? At length you drink; you become drunk;
and thereupon immediately publish to the world the calumny writ in
withering acid.” Jericho was astonished. Thrush, wiping his forehead
after the exertion, dropt his voice, and in the politest, meekest
manner, asked, “To whom will you do me the honour to refer me? Who is
your friend?”
“Certainly; to be sure,” said Jericho with alacrity; and he
immediately sat down, and penned a note to the Hon. Cesar Candituft.
With what a halo of benevolence was that good creature immediately
surrounded! With something of a smile at his lip, Jericho penned
a few familiar lines. “He would leave the matter entirely in his
hands.” This done, he handed the missive to Thrush, who took it with
the satisfied air of a man who felt that he was proceeding in a
manner most satisfactory to the feelings of all parties.
“Good morning, Mr. Jericho, this little affair—end as it may—will,
I trust, make no alteration in our intimacy. I give you my word of
honour, so impartial am I in this matter—so little personal feeling
have I mixed up in this business, that had you instead of the Colonel
called upon me, I should have had equal pleasure in attending upon
yourself.”
“You are very good, very good,” said Jericho very icily.
“Not at all. I consider that in going out with any man, I merely
fulfil a great social duty, and think upon that account I have an
equal claim—should the occasion fall—upon equal services from any of
my fellow-creatures. Dear sir, good morning.” And Thrush went his way.
It may seem odd, when we aver that Jericho sat in the completest
state of ease. He was never more tranquil, and for this reason,—he
was profoundly secure in the friendship, the sweet humanity, of
Candituft. _He_, he an accomplice to draw him into a duel! That
noble fellow would rather meet the ball himself. Besides, he
recollected—and very much soothed was he by the recollection—that
Candituft abhorred duelling. He had heard him denounce the practice
as murderous, fratricidal. “A duellist!” Candituft would say,—“A
duellist is only Cain in higher life.” Very much comforted was
Jericho with this sweet philanthropic sentence. Again and again did
he speak it to himself: pass the beautiful words one by one before
his moral vision, as a girl admires bead by bead of a new necklace.
Only half-an-hour had passed, and Candituft was announced. “A
duellist is only Cain in high life,” thought Jericho triumphantly, as
he rose to press the hand of his friend.
“Dear, good sir,” said Candituft, “I am delighted to see you look so
happy. Yes; it is a moment like this that shows the true man. That
proves the constitutional serenity of his soul. That shows him ready,
if it must be, at the call of honour—ready to quit life when life has
its best blandishments—ready to leave the flowery path of wealth and
prosperity, and to descend into the cold and comfortless tomb. The
friendship of such a man makes me proud indeed;” and Candituft shook
Jericho’s hand.
“Tomb! What do you mean by tomb?” cried Jericho. “Don’t talk to me of
tombs.”
“Of course, my dear friend, only as a figure of speech. Goodness
forbid anything graver,” said Candituft.
“You have seen that Thrush?” asked Jericho, trying to be careless.
“I met him as I was coming here. An unpleasant business. But I’ve
settled matters, I think, very comfortably,” said Candituft.
“I knew you would. My best of friends,” cried Jericho, clapping
Candituft on the shoulder.
“My friend’s honour is as dear—I don’t know if it isn’t dearer—than
my own. You were quite safe in my hands.” Here Candituft pulled out
his pocket-handkerchief, used it with considerable vigour; and after
a seemly pause, said, “We fight at eight.”
“Eight!” shrieked Jericho, and he leaped as though already struck by
the bullet.
“Everything is settled quite according to routine, and we’ll take a
light, early dinner, and”—
“And do you mean, sir,” exclaimed Jericho, “to call yourself my
friend, and want me to fight?”
“I do assure you, my dear sir, it is the most touching proof of—I
will not stop at friendship—I will say, of affection. Yes, sir,
brotherly affection,” said Candituft, a little moved by a sample of
the emotion.
“Why, sir, I have heard you call duelling murder! Have you not?”
cried Jericho.
Candituft was instantly explicit. “Murder it is, sir.”
“Fratricide!” exclaimed Jericho.
“There can be no doubt of it: slaughter carried among the brotherhood
of man.”
At length Jericho came to the clenching sentence.—“Have you not
called a duellist, Cain in high life?”
“Very true, my dear sir. But if Cain is admitted into the circles,
it is not for us to object to his introduction. I trust, sir, that I
love my fellow-creatures. I hope I know what is due to the family of
man; nevertheless I can’t be expected to give up my place in society,
from the mere weakness of affection.”
“Seriously, Mr. Candituft,” asked Jericho, “do you expect me to fight
Colonel Bones?”
“You placed yourself in my hands, my very dear sir—and though I
should lament any fatal issue on your side—when I say lament it, I
feel ’twould blight my future existence—nevertheless, as my friend,
and as a man in society, as a man owing to the world the efficacy of
high example, you must fight.” Thus judged the Hon. Cesar Candituft.
“But I won’t fight,” exclaimed Jericho. “Fighting isn’t in my way.”
Candituft merely observed—“Kicking may be.” Jericho drew himself up.
“Pardon me, my dear friend—I”—Candituft struggled with his feelings;
at length, he fell upon Jericho’s neck, and in an agony of friendship
exclaimed—“Worthiest of beings! Best of creatures! You must fight!”
Jericho was a little subdued by such devotion.—“You really think I
must fight?”
“Do you think,” said Candituft, “that the Duke of St. George would
suffer a man who refused a challenge to sully the door-step of Red
Dragon House? Noblest of men as he is, and kindest of the human race,
he would feel it to be his duty to spit upon you. Metaphorically, my
dear friend, of course.”
“You are right,” said Jericho, giving his courage a wrench—“I will
fight.”
“I knew it”—and Candituft seized Jericho’s hand between his own—“I
was sure of it.”
“At eight you say. And where”—Jericho felt a little dizzy—“where the
place?”
“The best, the noblest, the most heroic spot,” said Candituft.
“Battersea-Fields, of course.”
“Humph! I thought Wimbledon was more genteel,” observed Jericho,
wanderingly.
“It was: but surely, my dear sir, you can’t forget. The Duke
himself—the immortal Wellington, has thrown an undying lustre upon
Battersea-Fields.”
“I recollect,” said Jericho. “Of course—to be sure he has.”
“Such being the case, I suffer no friend of mine to receive any man’s
fire on any meaner ground. For my own part, I have always considered
Battersea-Fields, as a sort of battle-field-of-ease to Waterloo.
Possibly, my dear friend, the same thought may have struck you.”
“I can’t say that it has”—replied Jericho—“but I shall remember it
for the future no doubt.”
“And now, my dear Solomon”—Jericho winced at the affectionate
familiarity; there sounded in it a raven note—“my dear friend, you
may have a few matters to settle. You may have to speak to Mrs.
Jericho”—
“Why, I mus’n’t tell her of it!” asked Jericho.
“Not for ten thousand worlds! it would spoil all. We know what women
are, dear creatures! They smell powder, and they scream police.” Mr.
Jericho never felt a warmer admiration of the wisdom of the sex.
“Not a word to Mrs. Jericho. Nevertheless you may manage indirectly
to convey certain wishes. I’ve said enough. Adieu; I’ll not fail at
seven, to the minute. Good bye,” and the friend and philanthropist
took an affectionate leave.
Ever since Mr. Candituft had blown the praises of Doctor Dodo, Mrs.
Jericho, like an earnest and affectionate wife, wished to introduce
him to her husband: even though by stratagem. Responsive to the
lady’s call, the Doctor came to the house; arriving some half-hour
before the return of Candituft. After a brief, confidential gossip,
the Doctor suggested that Mrs. Jericho should introduce him as
called in by herself. She had the vapours; was nervous; failing in
appetite. Happily, an excuse could never be wanted by a fine lady for
a physician. Fortunately, Mr. Jericho—anxiously seeking his wife, to
give some indirect council ere Candituft should return—came upon the
doctor in consultation with the lady. “My dear,” said Mrs. Jericho,
“Doctor Dodo. I have called him in about my horrid nerves.”
“Why, what’s the matter with them? I never heard that anything ailed
them. Nevertheless, I’m very happy to see Doctor Dodo. Surely, a
friend of Mr. Candituft’s?” said Jericho.
“We are very old friends, very old,” said the Doctor, and he took
hold of Jericho’s hand, treating it to a somewhat prolonged shake.
“Don’t let me hurry you, my dear,” said Jericho, about to retire. “I
shall be in the library. Doctor Dodo, I shall be very happy to make
your acquaintance. Very happy;” and Jericho walked restlessly to the
window.
Doctor Dodo shook his head, saying in a whisper, “Mr. Jericho must be
seen to, dear madam. His appetite is not good?”
“Excellent,” whispered Mrs. Jericho, with emphasis.
“It looks a decided case of—however, we shall see. Pulse, very
extraordinary—very extraordinary,” said the Doctor.
“Doctor Dodo, will you take a short notice,” said Mrs. Jericho,
aloud, “and in a homely sort dine with us to-day?”
“I dine out, my dear,” said Jericho: “dine at the Club with
Candituft, and”—a deep, sepulchral knock shook the door—“and here he
is to fetch me.”
Candituft was delighted to see Doctor Dodo. The very man whom he
wanted to meet. Perhaps, in the doctor’s way, he would set Jericho
and himself, Candituft, down at the Club. It was exactly in the
Doctor’s drive, and he would be only too happy. “Come along, dear
sir,” said Candituft to Jericho significantly, “or they may wait
dinner for us.”
“Good bye, Sabilla, my love,” said Jericho, and squeezed his wife’s
hand a little to his wife’s astonishment.
“And now, Doctor,” said Candituft, when the three were in the
carriage, “Your work is over for the day. You must oblige us with a
drive—we have a little call to make; therefore, allow me to direct
the coachman. After our call—we shan’t be long—we’ll all dine
together.”
[Illustration: _The Duel._]
“Doctor Dodo was the most polite of men. He at once acceded to the
request; and the coachman, guided by Candituft, at eight precisely
drove on Battersea-Fields. “Eh!” cried the Doctor—“What! I smell
powder!”
“And there’s the game,” cried Candituft, and he pointed to Colonel
Bones and Thrush who had just alighted from a cab, driven to the
field by the unconscious Bob Topps.
“This is not fair, Mr. Candituft. You’ve entrapped me here; I shall
not stop,” said the Doctor.
“Nay, only five minutes, for Mrs. Jericho’s sake,” said Candituft.
“You may be needful, Doctor.”
“I can be of no use, none whatever. You’ll please to remember I’m
a physician, not a surgeon. However, as I’m here, if you’ll use
dispatch”—and the Doctor looked at his watch—“I’ll see the business
through.”
“Thank you—a thousand thanks,” said Candituft, and immediately he
and Thrush conferred. The parties came to fight—not to explain: the
seconds ruled that. Whereupon, the men were immediately placed.
Candituft looked at them with an eye of admiration; saying to
himself,—“I think, as near as possible, precisely on the Duke’s own
ground.”
All ready. Colonel Bones, with a grunt and a grin, fires at the
signal. His ball goes clear through Jericho’s bosom, knocking off a
button in its passage, and striking itself flat against a pile of
bricks.
“A dead man!” cried the doctor, running to Jericho.
“My friend!” exclaimed Candituft. “Have you made your will?”
“Eh! What’s the matter?” said Jericho.
“Matter!” exclaimed Doctor Dodo, and he pointed his cane to the hole
in the front of Jericho’s coat, immediately over the region of his
heart; and then, walking round him, stared at the hole between the
fourth and fifth rib. “Matter! It’s the first time, I ever heard a
man with a bullet clean through his heart, ask—what’s the matter!”
“I’m blessed if here ain’t the ball, as flat as a penny, with the
waddin about it,” cried Bob Topps, picking up the lead.
“What! Eh? Why, gentlemen,” said the Doctor, taking the ball, and
peeling from it the fragments of paper—“are you so rich that you wad
with bank-notes?”
The Colonel’s ball had passed through Jericho’s bank-note-paper
heart; and Jericho lived and moved, and was none the worse for it.
Jericho fired in the air; whereupon the Colonel and Thrush, with a
strange leer at him avowed themselves more than satisfied. Jericho
declared the whole matter to be a good joke, and was about to enter
the Doctor’s carriage. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the Doctor,
“but no man, or devil, or whatever he may be, rides in my carriage,
who can live with a hole through his heart.” And the Doctor jumped
inside, shouted “home,” and was whirled from the ground.
Neither Thrush nor Bones cared to ride back; indeed, they proposed to
walk. Whereupon, Jericho beckoned to Topps—“Not if you’d turn these
fields into gold and give ’em me,” cried Bob; and he jumped on his
box, and drove away.
“Dev’lish impudent fellow,” said Jericho to Candituft: but Candituft
made no answer. He cared not to talk even to the Man of Money, the
money having a hole in its heart.