The ball that went through Jericho’s heart, killed Doctor Dodo’s
reputation. The Doctor was one of those stiff-necked men who will
believe their own senses in opposition to their own interests. He
was signally punished for his obstinacy; and, we trust, will stand
pilloried in these pages as an instructive example of misfortune,
bigoted to a faith in its own eyes, ears, and understanding. Why—with
a wife and increasing family hanging at his coat pockets,—why would
Doctor Dodo, in defiance of the world, insist upon enjoying his own
convictions? How many men have been ruined by the extravagance;
nevertheless, headlong simplicity will not take warning!
Doctor Dodo declared that he had been inveigled to the ground—the
Battersea Waterloo—and therefore was under no professional pledge
of silence. Again, the gun-shot wound enjoyed by Jericho—as Dodo
sneeringly phrased it—was so extraordinary, so marvellous, seeing
that the man was no worse for it—that, with trumpet-voice, the case
must sound an alarm to the whole profession. If men were to live with
holes in their hearts, there was an end of the delicate mystery of
anatomy. Man became no jot more dignified than polypus.
“I tell you, Doctor Stubbs, a hole clean through the fellow’s heart,”
cried Dodo to a brother physician, who, with finger and thumb
dreamily fondling the tip of his nose, looked askance at the heated
narrator. Dodo fired at the look of doubt, and bellowed, “I tell you
clean—clean! If the ball had passed through a crumpet, it couldn’t
have gone cleaner.”
“And the—the man walked from the ground?” said Stubbs, with wary look
and voice.
“Never felt it,” said Dodo. “Walked away, Stubbs; strode off like an
ostrich.”
“Humph!” said Stubbs; and the good fellow thought of Dodo’s large
family with friendly concern. “Humph! And was there much hemorrhage?”
“None, none, Stubbs: no more than if you’d fired through a pancake,”
exclaimed Dodo.
“You couldn’t”—Stubbs spoke very tenderly—“you couldn’t be mistaken,
my dear Dodo? It _was_ the heart?”
The blood rushed to Dodo’s face, choking his speech. Giving a violent
jerk at his neckcloth, then sternly composing himself, Doctor Dodo
gave the following testimony solemnly, as though the honour of a
life depended on it:—“My dear sir—Doctor Stubbs—I am not a man to
joke, sir; I defy my worst enemy to say that. Well, sir, upon my
professional reputation, Colonel Bones’s bullet went through the left
ventricle of Jericho’s heart.”
“Dear me! Very odd—very odd! Of course, if you aver this——”
“Aver it! I saw the wound; the hole, Doctor Stubbs, the hole. I say
it, on my professional reputation, standing before Jericho, I saw
through him. As I am a gentleman, I saw the setting sun through his
fourth and fifth ribs.”
“Very strange,” said Stubbs, in the kindest, most conciliating way.
“What do you think of it?”
“Think! Why, when I saw the man walk away; when I know that he is
now as well as ever; what must I think—averse as I am from all such
notions—what must I think but that Jericho has sold himself to the
devil? What do you smile at, Doctor Stubbs?” cried Dodo, angrily.
“I couldn’t have thought you believed in such bargains,” said Stubbs,
gently. “Besides, whatever may have happened in the dark times, we
mustn’t believe in such transactions now-a-days. Political economy
forbids it.”
“I don’t see; I don’t see,” cried Dodo: “I say, sold himself to the
devil; and why not?”
“Why, my dear Dodo, you see we must concede that supply is ruled
by demand, and”—and Stubbs thought to pacify Dodo—“and between
ourselves—if half we hear be true, I think the devil must have his
hands full. And so, my good friend, take my advice; say nothing about
the matter.”
“What!” cried Dodo, “close my eyes—shut my mouth? Not out of my
grave, Doctor Stubbs; certainly not. I know you’re a prudent man,
with a reverence for the world, and so forth. But for myself—as I
say—not out of my grave. No, no; not out of my grave,” and with a
smile and a wave of the hand that said—“Doctor Stubbs, you’re a
pitiful fellow,” Dodo strode from his mean adviser.
Colonel Bones—it was at the Cutancome Club that the Doctors met—dropt
in a few minutes after the departure of Dodo: five minutes after,
came Commissioner Thrush. It was plain from the strange looks of
the men that there was a dark secret between them. Bones lifted his
eyebrows; Thrush upraised his. Bones drew his mouth into a small
significant hole; Thrush puckered his lips to a point. Bones threw up
his hands; Thrush, with shaking palms, responded to the gesture. And
then Bones and Thrush seated themselves at the opposite sides of a
table; and squaring their elbows upon the board, looked silently in
one another’s faces.
“Humph?” cried Bones, after a pause. “Humph? Ever seen anything like
it in Siam?”
“Who could have thought it!” cried Thrush. “Who could believe the
devil such a fool—such an ass?”
“After all, Commissioner, it’s long been my opinion that the devil is
a fool. We’ve flattered him too much; thought too highly of him. The
devil’s a nincompoop. Humph?” said Bones.
“He must be; or could he ever have bought such a penn’orth as
Jericho?” asked Thrush.
“Vulgar notion, Commissioner. The devil buys nobody: folks when
they’ve a mind to it, give themselves away. The wonder is, some of
’em are taken even at a gift. Humph?”
“Wrong, Colonel, wrong; I’m certain of it, the devil’s a liberal,
punctual dealer in the market, and when he buys outright, pays ready
money for his goods. I wonder how much he’s given for Jericho? Who’d
have thought that Doctor Faustus should come up again in our time!
That hole in his heart accounts for the money in his pocket. Colonel
Bones,”—cried Thrush, with sudden solemnity.
“Commissioner Thrush,” said Bones, sonorously responding.
“We owe a duty to society. We must expose this fiend,” exclaimed
Thrush, rapping the table.
“Strip him to the world,” coincided Bones, “that the world may see
through him. Humph?”
“Tear the demon from his gilded temple,” cried Thrush, eloquent in
his indignation, “and appal mankind with the hideousness of wicked
wealth.”
“Beautiful! Humph?” and Bones rubbed his hands, pleased with promised
sport.
“Nevertheless, Colonel, let us proceed regularly, respectably. I
have turned the matter over; and I think our best line of action is
this.—Is this,” and Thrush gathering himself to the table, brought
his forefinger to his nose, to steady his opinion. “We will call upon
the rector of the demon’s parish.”
“Humph?” said Bones, doubtingly. “Well, if you think so.”
“We will inform him of the existence of the fiend your bullet has
discovered”—Thrush paused.
“Very good,” cried Bones, encouragingly. “Very proper—if you think
so.”
“The rector will then lay the matter before the bishop of his
diocese”—Thrush again paused—
“Excellent; quite according to discipline,” said Bones, “and what
then? Humph? What then?”
“Why, then,” continued Thrush, with an awful expression of face, “why
then, the bishop—I have no doubt of it, whatever—the bishop will,
with his pastoral grasp, seize upon Jericho, and haul him into the
ecclesiastical court.”
The fierce, grim, cannibal look of the Colonel was softened into
compassion. “Poor devil!” said Bones.
“There is no help for it,” cried Thrush, with the air of a man
determined upon making a sacrifice in no way distressing to himself.
“No help for it. Perhaps, it is not agreeable to be mixed up with
such a matter. It is certainly not pleasant to go down to posterity
in company with a demon. Nevertheless, we owe a debt to society;
therefore, we will first obtain the attestation of Doctor Dodo, and
so assured, proceed to Doctor Cummin of St. Shekels. Man owes two
solemn debts; one to society, and one to nature. It is only when he
pays the second, that he covers the first.”
“Beautiful! Humph?” said Bones.
“My dear fellows,” said Stubbs, joining the two friends vowed to the
destruction of the demon Jericho, “have you seen Dodo lately?”
“Saw him last night, didn’t we?” answered Thrush, with a wink, to
Bones.
“I may speak to both of you confidentially,” observed Stubbs in
trustful tone. “I believe we all have a regard for poor Dodo: an
excellent fellow—will talk, that’s the worst. Has no stopper to his
mouth; what rises from his heart will run out at his lips, that’s
his misfortune, poor fellow! but—well, well,—we all have our faults.
Now, I want to ask you”—and Stubbs, looking about him, lowered his
voice—“I want to ask, have you observed anything odd about Dodo?
Anything at all flighty?—you know what I mean.”
“Why, upon my word”—said Thrush, dragging out the syllables, and then
pausing.
“He has a large family; I may say, a sweet family. An excellent
wife, too. But, poor fellow! he has not had time to be rich, and I
hope—yes, I do hope,” said Stubbs, emphatic, “that the brain’s all
right.”
“What! Cracked?” cried Bones. “Does it ring as if cracked—humph?”
“This is in the closest confidence,” again urged Stubbs; “but I
assure you that, for half-an-hour, Dodo would insist upon it that a
man—it would be unjust, ungenerous, to mention his name, but a man of
unbounded wealth and equal honour—had received a bullet through the
left ventricle, you understand, of his heart; and that the man was
still alive. And this,” Dodo said, “he had witnessed; had seen the
sunset through the perforation. And still alive!”
Bones slowly rubbed his hands.
“Well?” said Thrush, coldly.
“Well!” cried Stubbs. “My dear sir, when a man makes such an avowal,
we know that the brain—for the time, at least—is gone. And when,
moreover, the man happens to be a physician, why then”—and the
Doctor, in despair of utterance big enough to express the result,
took a pinch of snuff.
At this moment Doctor Mizzlemist joined the party. “Seen Dodo
lately?” said he, looking mysterious. “Very odd. I suppose he means
it as a joke; but jokes are not exactly the things for physicians;
indeed, not for any man who’d ride in his carriage. Jokes are the
luxury of beggars; men of substance can’t afford ’em.”
“Very true, Doctor,” said Stubbs, nodding serious affirmation.
“Must be mad, I think,” said Mizzlemist. “Going all about the town,
swearing that he saw a man shot through the heart, and the man walk
from the ground. Why, his diploma isn’t worth so much ass’s-skin.
Who’d employ such a physician? Now, this is Dodo’s dilemma—law,
insanity, poverty; the prongs of the caudine fork—if I haven’t
forgotten my classics,” and Mizzlemist extended his three fingers.
“What do you mean? And only for saying a man was shot,” stammered
Thrush, “what do you mean?”
“In the first place”—and Mizzlemist smacked his lips—“there is
libel, inasmuch as to assert that a man lives with a bullet-hole in
his heart, in the opinion of every sound lawyer implies a diabolic
compact.”
“Good,” cried Stubbs, much satisfied.
“Secondly, if the physician escape libel, he is open to a writ _de
lunatico_,” said Mizzlemist, his voice cheerfully rising.
“There can be no doubt of it,” averred Stubbs.
“Thirdly, if he get clear of libel, and, more extraordinary still,
escape a lunatic jury, why, the physician’s practice is gone—dead as
a fly in his own ointment.”
“Physicians don’t keep ointment,” said Stubbs, with dignity. “We
prescribe—simply.”
“His practice is gone,” repeated Mizzlemist, “and then, if he’s not
made his fortune, then”—and Mizzlemist rolled the verdict over his
tongue,—“then there is poverty, emphatic poverty. And so, as friends
of Dr. Dodo, give him a hint, do. Are you going westward, Stubbs? I
see your wheels are at the door. Can you give me a trundle?”
“With pleasure,” and Stubbs and Mizzlemist straightway departed.
“You did not see the hole yourself, Colonel?” asked Thrush, with
contemplative face.
“Why, no. I was the last person to look at it, you know. Humph?”
cried Bones.
“I wish I had had a peep. Would have been more satisfactory—much
more,” said Thrush, puzzled.
“I saw no blood; and I was near enough to see that. Humph?” and Bones
nibbled his thumb-nail.
“After all,” and Thrush spoke like a man of amended judgment,
“after all, it must be Dodo’s joke, or if not”—and Thrush pointed
expressively at his own forehead, “poor fellow! A large family, too.
At all events, we cannot be too prudent. And so, till we hear more, I
think we will postpone our call upon Doctor Cummin.”
“I must say I wouldn’t trouble either him or the bishop without
better grounds. For my part I think there must be a mistake. And then
there’s libel, and lunacy, and—though I’ve nothing to lose—there’s
poverty, and—upon my word”—and Bones seemed fixed in the opinion—“I
think we had better hold our peace.”
“I think so too,” cried Thrush, very readily. “For I recollect it was
a saying of the King of Siam’s, that the giant Whapperwo, who with
his little finger could level stone walls, was at last knocked down
by his own tongue.”
“Very strange,” said Bones, opening a letter—one of two brought by
the servant. “Jericho, I suppose to show he bears no malice, asks me
to dinner.”
“It is odd,” answered Thrush, reading the twin missive; “but here,
too, he asks me. This looks like conscious innocence. Dodo must be
jesting, or must be mad.”
“At all events, we’ll go—humph?—I say we’ll go”—Thrush bowed
assent—“if only to look about us. Nevertheless, I must say that I am
anxious for Dodo—anxious for his wife—anxious for his family. Humph?”
* * * * *
And Rumour blew upon the hole in Jericho’s heart—blew as through a
brazen trumpet—making many modulations. We have heard her at the
luxurious Cutancome. Let us listen to her at the Horse and Anchor,
frequented by Bob Topps whose simplicity and good nature had made
him a sudden favourite with the rugged charioteers who drank and
baited at the hostelry. “What’s your fare, Bob?” a cabman wag would
ask, playfully satirical on Robert’s innocence, “what’s your fare,
now, from the first of April to Jerusalem?” Another, in the like
vein would demand of Bob “how much he’d take to drive over Lady-day,
and set down clear of the water-rate?” And Bob gave and took in the
best of humour, and in a few days, with the help of ale—the liberal
“footing” of a beginner—commanded, when he would, an attentive
audience. And Bob told the story of the duel from the beginning,
to pleased listeners. When, however, he came to the hole in the
duellist’s heart, the duellist still alive, he met with boisterous
unbelief.
“Upon my word and honour, gentlemen”—said Bob earnestly—“I picked the
bullet up myself; and it was as flat—as flat as any shilling. It had
gone clean through him.”
“And him as it hit,” asked one of the audience, “was still alive?”
“Alive! Why, I tell you, he wanted me to drive him home. But, no, no,
says I. In course not: I wasn’t goin’ to pison my cab, and a new un,
too, with brimstone,” said Bob sagaciously.
“Well, if that lie isn’t enough to take one’s wheel off,” said an
old man, holding Bob’s ale-pot in his hand; and then winking at the
donor, and taking a long, deep draught to right himself.
“A hole right through him, eh?” said another, a grave jester. “Why
didn’t you thread him with your whip, like a herrin’ through the
gills? There’s a song that talks o’ hollow hearts, but I ’spose the
song don’t mean hearts with holes in ’em like grindstones.”
“You may say what you like,” cried Bob, “I know the man; I saw the
light twinkling through him—and more than that, his name’s Jericho.”
“What! the rich man that they’re always talkin’ about in the paper?
The man that’s buying everything? The man that’s goin’ to have gold
scrapers at his door, and lion’s head knockers cut out o’ diamonds?
You’re a good fellow, Bob, though you know no more of the fares of
town than the Babies in the Wood,—still you’re a good fellow, and
I wouldn’t see you hurt. So you’d better say nothin’ against such
folks as Mr. Jericho. Why, what are you to such as him? He’d put you
into the Court of Chancery for scandal, and none of your dearest
friends—not even the wife o’ your bosom with the biggest telescope as
ever was, would ever be able to see a bit of you agin. Do mind what
you’re about,” and the philosopher and friend pulled at the ale.
“Don’t tell me,” cried Bob; “_that_ Jericho—oh, there’s something
precious wrong there! A man can’t live with a hole in his heart, and
the devil know nothin’ about it.”
A pelting shower came on; there was a sudden demand for cabs, and all
Bob’s audience were speedily on their several boxes. He alone sat in
the tap-room, pensive and puzzled.
“My good lad,” said the landlord of the Horse and Anchor, addressing
Bob with considerable kindness—“my good lad, I like you, but take
my advice—don’t give your mind to lying. A lie may do very well for
a time; but like a bad shilling, it’s found out at last—it is, upon
my word and honour. Still, if you must lie—if you can’t help it—tell
lies about them as is your equals; don’t lie agin them that has money
enough to eat you. Without salt!” added, in the way of exclamation,
the Horse and Anchor.
“Breeks, my dear, I’ve long been sure of it, though I never said
anything about it.”—
(The hole in the heart, reader, is now discussed beneath the
roof-tree of Breeks, Jericho’s tailor; Mrs. Breeks much outraged in
her feelings that her husband will continue to make for that serpent.)
“I never spoke—I never do ’till I’m forced—but as true as I wear a
wedding-ring, I always used to feel hot and cold shivers when you
came from measuring that creature. And some day, some twelve o’clock
at night, take my word for it, he’ll be carried off in a red-hot
chariot, with your clothes upon him.”
“Should be sorry, Julia, to lose so good a customer. To be sure, Mr.
Jericho is not the man he was”—said Breeks.
“Man! There’s no doubt of it, he’s sold himself to Belzebub, and
given a stamped receipt in his own blood for the money. Else I should
like to know how a man could live with a hole in his heart.”
“It’s nothin’ whatever,”—said Breeks—“easily enough.”
“Breeks, you’re getting quite a heathen, and for the sake of the dear
children, I won’t live with you,” pouted Mrs. Breeks.
“See, Julia, what a hole your eyes once made in my heart,” cried the
flattering tailor.
“Quite another sort of thing. Holes of that sort ar’n’t supposed to
kill;” and the wife proudly smiled.
“No; they certainly do heal, and don’t leave so much as a scar
behind. Time does fine-draw ’em wonderful. But don’t believe it,
Julia; certainly Mr. Jericho isn’t the man he was: he’s thin to
a wonder, and solemn to match. And once he was so lusty and so
droll. To be sure, then he never paid, and so took any joke. Do
you recollect once when I made him a whole suit, without a single
pocket? ‘Why Breeks,’—says he—‘why, there’s never a pocket; not
a single pocket.’ ‘I know that,’ says I. ‘I made the suit so a
purpose.’ ‘Why so?’ says he. ‘Why,’ says I, ‘Mr. Jericho, whenever
I ask you for money, you say you never by no means have so much as
a shillin’. Now, when a man never has money, what’s the use of
pockets? I wouldn’t any longer hurt your feelins to make ’em.’ Law!
how he laughed: never laughs now,—but in return, what a jewel of a
paymaster!”
“Paymaster! And how do you know where his money comes from? I
shouldn’t wonder if _his_ money in partic’lar isn’t after all—as Mr.
Jabez Spikenard says of all money—so much dust and ashes.”
“I can’t say,” answered Breeks; “all I know is, you very soon turn
it into mutton and tatoes. And as for the hole that’s talked of—if
Mr. Jericho’s heart had as many holes as a cullender, you’ll be good
enough to wink at ’em.”
“What! be blind to wickedness! I never was in all my life, Breeks,
not even afore I listened to Mr. Spikenard, and it isn’t likely
I’m going to shut my eyes now. I’ll learn all about this hole of
Satan’s make, depend upon it: I’ll give all the partic’lars to dear
Mr. Spikenard, and won’t he make a discourse on it that’ll drag the
hearts out of the very charity children! I _will_, Breeks,” averred
the wife.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Julia: because, I did intend to give you a new
cherry-coloured satin. You look well—’xtremely well in cherry-colour,
Julia. Yes: I had made my mind up to a new gown.”
“And what’s to baulk a blessed intention, Breeks?” asked Julia.
“Why, I’d put aside the money from a bill of Mr. Jericho’s. And only
to think, if when you was at chapel, the cherry-coloured satin should
turn upon your very back to sackcloth and ashes!”
“Breeks, my love,” said the wife with sudden energy, “I’ll risk it.”
“Mr. Jericho”—said the tailor—“is shamefully abused. ’Cause they
can’t find a hole in his coat, they pick one in his heart. See, too,
what we owe him! Any other man, when he got rich, would have left the
tailor of his struggling years; would have cut him off like an end o’
thread,—and gone to the west. Has Mr. Jericho done so?”
“He hasn’t, love,” said Mrs. Breeks, melting.
“Has money made any difference in him—’xcept this? Afore he never
paid, and now he does?”
“It’s a sweet truth,” cried the wife, continuing to soften.
“And as for this talk about the hole—it’s a venomous falsehood.
Besides, what is it to us?”
“What, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Breeks.
“He pays his way like a prince—I only wish all princes paid like
him,”—cried the emphatic Breeks—“’twould be better for some tailors.
And are we to see a hole in such a customer’s heart? Not if the sun
and moon and all the stars was shining through him. But I don’t
believe it. No: it’s a wicked scandal.”
“Backbiters, as Mr. Spikenard says, are like locusts; they love to
feed upon the fat of the land. They’ve no doubt bit the hole; nobody
else. Yes, my love; you’ve made me quite happy; quite restored my
confidence in our customer. I shall be proud to wear a gown out of
his money; it will show I don’t turn against him. And I think this
time, love”—and Mrs. Breeks patted the face of her lord with kitten
playfulness—“this time, not a cherry-colour; no, dearest; a crimson.”
* * * * *
In Primrose Place the hole in the heart, played upon by the rapid
lips of Mrs. Topps, had a various effect. Bessy was struck with fear
and wonder; Bessy’s mother thought there might be something in the
story; and yet could not believe it: and Carraways laughed outright
at the tale. “I assure you, father, Jenny seems quite shocked at the
circumstance. Poor girl,” said Bessy, “she will have it, something’s
going to happen.”
“No doubt,” laughed Carraways, “or how would the world go on? Come,
tell us all about it, Jenny,” said the old gentleman, as Mrs. Topps,
with a staid, grave face, crept from an inner room. “Mr. Jericho got
a hole in his heart, eh?”
“Yes, sir; and everybody’s wondering about it—for he’s not dead, and
not likely to be,” said Jenny.
“And what do you think of it, Jenny? Come, speak out,” said Carraways.
“Why, if you please, sir, it isn’t for such as me to think anything;
still, I have heard of people selling themselves. I have heard that
the—the—the”—
“The devil, eh, Jenny?” said Carraways.
“If you please, sir,” and Jenny curtsied. “That he walks about like a
hungry lion to buy folks.”
“And you think he’s had a cheap penn’orth of Mr. Jericho, eh?”
“I didn’t say that, sir,” said Jenny; “still, everybody wonders
how he’s got so rich. He says it’s a mine of metal. Folks say, a
mine of brimstone. But this I know”—and Jenny encouraged, became
voluble—“this I do know. A bullet went through Mr. Jericho’s heart;
and the lead was as flat as a plate, for Bob picked it up, and after
that Jericho walked away. He wanted to ride; but Bob—bless him!—knew
better than that. Oh yes!”
“And this is Bob’s story, is it?” said Carraways, gravely. “Humph!
I’m sorry to hear it. I’m afraid, Jenny, my good girl, I’m afraid Bob
loves to drink.”
“La, sir! No more than a baby,” said Jenny.
“Just so,” said Carraways.
“Besides, there was a doctor that handled the bullet—a lucky thing
that, for dear Bob—and moreover, that saw through the hole in Mr.
Jericho’s breast—and more than that, that says he’ll have Mr. Jericho
afore the bishops, and put him in the Fantastical Court. And the
doctor, by what I hear”—said Mrs. Topps, with burning face—“drinks no
more than Robert.”
“Well, Jenny, well,” said Carraways, with a smile. “I like you to
defend your husband. It’s very natural; very proper. But the world,
my good girl, can’t and won’t think as you do. I know a little,
you’ll allow, of Bob; and though I can speak from no absolute
evidence, nevertheless, I have a suspicion that he has a liking for
drink. If this be so, try and reform him.”
“I will, sir,” said Jenny, and the tears came into her eyes.
“I may be wrong; but watch him, and if need be, persuade him against
so dreadful a vice.”
“I will, sir, indeed I will,” cried Jenny, weeping outright.
“I don’t believe this story. Nobody will believe it. Everybody will
take it as a drunkard’s tale; therefore, warn Bob; warn him from me.
There’s a good girl.”
“I will, sir; thank’ee, sir,” and poor Jenny, with saddened heart,
crept from Primrose Place, sorrowful for her weak and foolish
husband. It was the first thin cloud that had crossed the honeymoon;
and suddenly, the world had never looked so dark to Jenny.
* * * * *
The Hon. Cesar Candituft, on the night of the duel, went to bed in a
state of grievous perplexity. There could be no doubt that the bullet
had passed through Jericho. The man, it was horribly clear, held
a supernatural tenure of existence. It was impossible to continue
his friendship, for the mystery would be blown in all corners of
the town. Impossible, too—or, at least, unsafe—to marry into such a
family. Who was to know what infernal compact did, or did not, exist
among them? That he, Cesar, should have a bosom friend, so rich, with
a hole in his heart!
Mr. Candituft, wearied by dreams in no way complimentary to Jericho,
sat late at breakfast. The servant brought in a small packet. It
was a letter from Mr. Jericho with a most magnificent diamond ring.
“Wear this diamond, my dear Cesar,” ran Jericho’s missive, “as the
type of a friendship, bright, unflawed, and everlasting.” Candituft
was a judge of diamonds. The stone was splendid; costly. As Cesar
sat, gazing at the lustrous present, his heart melted in charitable
emotions towards the donor; his brain sang thanksgiving. He rose, and
approaching the window, in sweet luxurious idleness of feeling, tried
the gem upon the glass. He wrote with diamond point:
“Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul,
I owe thee much.”
“Very good,” said Basil Pennibacker, looking over Cesar’s shoulder,
“but you hav’n’t put down the amount.”
“Mr. Pennibacker,” exclaimed Candituft, “this is an honour that”—
“Don’t name it. I’ve dropt in like a housebreaker upon you; but the
fact is, by what I hear, blue fire’s come into fashion again,” said
Basil.
“What can you possibly mean, dear Mr. Pennibacker?” asked Cesar,
sweetly unconscious.
“Mr. Candituft”—said Basil—“you must be kind enough to explain
a matter to me. Understand, I have no objection whatever to the
sale of any gentleman to the—I wish to be guarded in my words—to
the iniquitous principle. If people will take themselves to
Horns-and-Tail Market, why, that’s their affair. I may drop a
buttermilk tear or so, as you would do, but I shouldn’t think of
holding’em back. After all, sir, to speak plainly, it is said about
town that my respected father-in-law, Mr. Solomon Jericho, has sold
himself to the devil.” Candituft started. “Have you any knowledge of
the interesting transaction?”
“I! Mr. Basil Pennibacker!” exclaimed Candituft, his thoughts
wandering and wounded.
“Understand,” said Basil, very calmly: “pray, understand. I have no
objection whatever to the sale on Mr. Jericho’s personal account;
only the world may think that the sulphur runs through the whole
family.”
“Surely, sir”—said Candituft—“surely you are in jest?”
“If my words were engrossed on parchment, with a fifty pound stamp to
’em, they couldn’t be more serious. Last night, Mr. Jericho fought
a duel? Battersea fields? You were his second? So far, I find I’m
right. Well, sir, it is said that Colonel Bones fired a ball through
the heart—how the ball found it out, I can’t say—through the heart of
Mr. Jericho.”
Candituft dropped his eyelids—smiled—and shook his head.
“Is this true?” asked Basil. “Doctor Dodo swears it’s true; but
Dodo—some folks say—is a lunatic. Is it true that Jericho, with a
hole through his heart, like a hole through a tailor’s thimble,
laughed at the thing as a good joke, and walked like a postman from
the ground?”
“Mr. Pennibacker, in this world we light upon strange people”—
“What the monkey said”—cried Basil—“when he met his sweetheart in the
Ark. Go on.”
“Do you not perceive, Mr. Basil—is it not very strange—that a man of
your extraordinary acumen does not discover this bullet to be—a—a
metaphor?”
“I don’t know,” said Basil. “To be sure I have known metaphors of
the like metal. But what do you mean? Where’s the metaphor, when the
world calls Mr. Jericho, the Man with a Hole in his Heart!”
“Ha! sir,” cried Candituft, “it is saddening to a man who tries hard
to love his species—to be compelled to hear such things. Malice!
Envy! The cant of wicked poverty—nothing more. Because a man is rich,
he must have no emotions; because his pocket is crammed, his heart
must have a hole in it.”
“Humph!” said Basil doubtfully.—“Well, I’m—yes, I’m satisfied.”
And the hero, Cesar Candituft, glanced at his diamond, and said to
himself—“So am I.”