Mr. Jericho was fully conscious of the malice of rumour. He well
knew that he appeared before the world in a supernatural, perhaps,
in a demoniacal light. The timidity, the tremors of Mrs. Jericho and
her daughters, convinced him that they saw in husband and father, a
man of most mysterious attributes. Monica, with all her strength of
mind, turned pale at the smallest courtesy of her parent; and Agatha,
suddenly meeting him on the staircase, squealed and ran away as from
a fiend. “Mamma, dear mamma,” she exclaimed in a moment of anxious
tenderness, “I’m sure Mr. Jericho’s sold; every body says so—sold.
If you love me, tell me now—does your night-light burn blue?” And
though Mrs. Jericho very majestically rebuked the giddiness of her
daughter, the wife in the deep, silent night—the shrunken Jericho
fast asleep, screwed up in himself as you would twist a bank-note—the
wife would feel the solemnity of her whereabout. “Should the buyer
come!” she thought while abed—and if folks could be arraigned for
their thoughts, what goodly company would throng the bar!—“should the
buyer come, I trust he’ll know his own side.”
Yet Jericho, from the first hour of his change, never felt so strong
in himself; so insolently vigorous in mind and body. It was clear
he should live for ever: he had been made immortal by money (not
so uncommon a creed this). Death was to be awed like the human
vulgar, and to pay respect to wealth. The principle of property was
to flourish everlastingly in him, Solomon Jericho! True it was, he
continued to shrink—to waste. Nevertheless, he could not wholly
disappear: he must have body, no matter for its tenuity. But that he
was elevated beyond the anatomical accidents of common humanity, was
plain from the ball that had passed through his heart, and he alive,
without the loss of one drop of blood. To be sure the hole—for he had
stood between two mirrors and seen through himself—the hole had an
ugly look, but who was to know it? A secret to be easily kept, with
proper caution, even from the wife of his bosom.
Therefore, Jericho despised the innuendoes, the hints that buzzed
up and down the world—no more valued them than a cloud of summer
gnats. And wherefore? He knew the way to confound and kill them. In
the might and immortality of his money, he would bring back homage,
flattery, devotion. He looked upon the world and its millions, as
his palace—his subjects. He felt himself the elect of wealth—the
chosen one designed to develope to the human race the enduring rule
of cash. From such moment, there was to him nothing high, nothing
great, nothing beautiful in humanity,—and for this reason, Jericho
believed he could purchase it. In his moneyed eye, man in his noblest
striving, woman in her holiest devotion, was ticketted and bore a
price. Truth and virtue at the highest and best, were things for
market: and Jericho scorned them,—because, when he would, he could
destroy either commodity, by huckstering for it.
Jericho strong, stern in his power, had cast about him the most
magnificent presents. He had sought occasion to bestow gifts of worth
and beauty upon the merest acquaintance; in all cases, contriving
that the donation should harmonise with the taste—melodiously
accord with the wish of the gifted. Jewels, pictures, horses had
Jericho—with more than imperial bounty—bestowed upon all sides. A
week only after the duel, and Jericho had more than trebled the
number of his friends and champions. The Hole in the Heart, in the
eye of Jericho’s world had gradually closed; and the heart was
nobler, better, truer, kindlier than ever.
Mrs. Jericho was soon sweetly comforted by the enthusiasm of crowds
of dear friends for her magnificent husband. She ought, indeed, to be
a happy woman, possessing such a man. Whereupon, Mrs. Jericho, with
the slightest touch of remorse for past ingenuous thoughts, owned he
was the best of creatures. And then she wondered how it was, that any
man with so large a soul, should have so little substance. It really
seemed as if all Jericho’s flesh went to make heart!
And Monica entirely vanquished her fears. And Agatha never screamed
again: no; she would smile when she met her dear father; more, would
raise herself upon her toes, and take a kiss from him, gulping it
with great content. How, indeed, could wicked rumours any longer pass
into the ears of the young ladies, when their father had hung there
the costliest ear-rings? Those diamonds—like the diamond shield of
St. George—shamed and confounded everything false that approached
them. A happy thought, this, of Jericho’s, to protect an ear with a
diamond!
Nevertheless, Mr. Jericho was doomed to meet with a rebuff. In the
full flush of victory he was to be chilled. Among his laurels there
was an ugly, domestic slug, that would stick there. And this, too,
with Jericho’s power of money! However, the annoyance was only
passing; a bank-note or two would wipe the eye-sore off; would
make the soiled leaf immortally green. Now, this contemptible, yet
irritating slug, was our young friend Basil, changed almost as much
as Jericho himself. Love had seemed to give sudden maturity to his
brain: had seemed to have advanced to meet time on his way, learning
by anticipation his goodly lessons. It was only at intervals that
Basil’s odd, quaint spirit, that had shone in him from boyhood,
would now reveal itself. At times, he would be as fantastic as ever,
but the fitful jest would die in sudden gravity. However, altered
as Basil was, his arrival at the mansion of Jericho was a matter of
delight to his mother and sisters. Mrs. Jericho’s only trouble was,
that her foolish boy would not be friendly with his excellent father.
And both the girls would earnestly assure their brother—though they
must own Mr. Jericho got awfully thin, and they could not account for
it—that after all he was a dear, kind man, and never refused anything.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear Basil?” said Mrs. Jericho. “Why,
you look ten years older. I’m sure you study too much. And, you
foolish boy, why should you study at all, now?”
“Why, indeed, mamma?” asked Monica. “Why not leave law to people—poor
creatures!—who have nothing but their wits? By what I hear, there’s
not room even for them: and, as Mr. Candituft says, it is not kind—it
is not philanthropic—for wealth to study to take the bread out of the
mouths of the indigent. Do give up those horrid chambers, and be a
gentleman.”
“Yes, dear,” said Agatha; “and if you must employ your time, why not
go into the army? You would look charming, Basil, you would, indeed;
and I’m sure Mr. Jericho would buy you as many regiments as you’d
like to be officer to. Do be a soldier—there’s a darling.”
“Or, my dear Basil,”—observed Mrs. Jericho with serious emphasis,—“as
you seem strangely inclined to a sober view of the world, if you
would prefer the church—not, for my own part, that I think any
profession necessary for you—nevertheless, if you have a regard for
the church—I do not see, looking into the probability of events, and
contemplating—as I have contemplated—the growing interest of Mr.
Jericho—I do not see, my dear child, why you should not be a bishop.”
And Mrs. Jericho resignedly folded her hands at the prospect of
Canaan.
“Thank you, my dear madam—in the meantime can I see Mr. Jericho?”
asked Basil.
“Of course, my love. He’ll be enchanted at your visit; delighted to
see you. Here, my dear.” Basil followed his mother; who, pausing in
an ante-room, turned to her son. “Now, my dear boy, do be courteous
to your father. He loves you—I know he loves you. And yet you will
look so coldly. Ha! Basil, you don’t know Mr. Jericho’s heart.”
“Humph!” said Basil.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Jericho, entering the library, where Jericho
sat, “I have brought you a truant.”
“Happy to welcome him,” said Mr. Jericho; and he rose, and
approaching Basil, held out his hand. Basil, with a look of horror,
started back.
“Basil! My love!” cried Mrs. Jericho, astonished at her son’s
emotion. “What is the matter?”
“Why, the truth is, dear madam”—said Basil—“I haven’t seen Mr.
Jericho for some time; and if he continue to dwindle at the same
rate, I take it in another month he’ll hardly be visible to the naked
eye.”
“Mr. Pennibacker,”—said Jericho, with all his power of money—“have
you any business with me?”
“If you please—in private,” and Basil looked at his mother.
“Basil!” cried Mrs. Jericho, in a tone of protest; but Jericho waved
his hand, and without another word, Mrs. Jericho obeyed the implied
gesture. Some shrews are tamed by the more tyrannous constitution.
Mrs. Jericho had been altogether overcome, softened into the most
docile of creatures by her husband’s money. He seemed to have bought
the good-will of her bad temper.
“I am to understand, Mr. Pennibacker,” said Jericho majestically,
“that you refuse my hand?”
“If you please,” answered Basil.
“It is my affection for your mother, my love for her daughters, and—I
ought to be ashamed perhaps to confess the weakness—and a lingering
esteem for you, that induce me to condescend to ask, why you presume
to refuse the hand—the hand, young man—that has fostered you?”
“Mr. Jericho,” said Basil, plunging into his subject, “are you aware
what the world says of you?”
“What?” asked Jericho, with a grim and ghastly smile.
“Why, it says that—common report, by the way, isn’t very choice in
its language—it says that you have sold yourself to the devil.”
Jericho rose, and with his sternest dignity and best composure,
asked—“Will you take the stairs, young man, or shall I have you
thrown out of the window?”
“Just one moment, sir, and when I’ve finished my business, I’ll make
my choice. You sent me some bank-notes, Mr. Jericho,” said Basil,
taking a letter from his pocket.
“I am almost ashamed to own it,” answered Jericho. “But I knew
that to a young man—-a youth of generous feelings—money was always
acceptable; and—yes I am ashamed to confess it—I was weak, foolish,
fond enough to supply you with a large sum of money.” Here Mr.
Jericho took out his pocket-handkerchief.
“I did not believe the story of the diabolic transfer,” said Basil;
and Jericho believed he had softened his son-in-law;—“not for want
of witnesses; because, we know, when the devil buys, two parties are
sufficient to the deed. That I know, allow me to say, as a moralist
and a lawyer.”
Jericho ventured to bow.
“I had heard the story of the duel; and inquired into it. As for the
bullet going through your heart, Mr. Jericho, and you still paying
the world the politeness to remain among us, I did not—though it
posed me at first—I did not believe that, either. The bullet was a
figure—the hole a metaphor—I was satisfied, and thought my mother
safe.”
“I respect your filial anxiety, Mr. Pennibacker, though it is so
ridiculously needless. Ha! ha! Then you were satisfied of the
insanity of Doctor Dodo? By the way, poor man! I’m sorry for
him—sorry for his family. Of course, his practice is gone; no man’s
life safe in his hands. Poor fellow! Well, well, we’re frail, feeble
creatures. Very arrogant in our wisdom, and yet—let a pin’s point
touch the brain, as Doctor Stubbs well observes—and where are we?
However, the poor Doctor’s family shall not starve. No: I shall most
assuredly provide for his widow and children.” But with all this,
Jericho failed to call forth any cordial love from Basil’s face. He
sat stern and self-sustained.
“You sent me this letter, Mr. Jericho,”—said Basil—“with bank-notes?”
“A thousand pounds in—I believe—in hundreds,” answered Jericho
carelessly.
“May I ask, sir, where you took these notes?” asked Basil.
“Where! What is that to you, sir?” and Jericho began to chafe. At
last, with a forced smile, as though disdaining himself for the
condescension, he said—“they’re new notes, ar’n’t they?”
Basil looked at Jericho, and then at the notes. Then he crumpled
the paper in his fingers, and the sympathetic heart—the heart of
money—felt a pang, and Jericho was, for a moment, drawn up in his
chair, knees to chin. Basil eyed him with a fierce look—eyed the
notes. “Humph!” he said, “Odd, tough paper! And the marks don’t look
like ink, but black blood.”
“What do you mean, villain?” cried Jericho; and—it was a momentary
flash of thought, of will—and Jericho saw Basil, dallying as he was
with the secret, silenced, killed, put out of the way.
[Illustration: _The perforated Bank Note._]
“And the hole, sir! Do you mark?” and Basil smoothed out a note.
“Odd, isn’t it? Just the round of a pistol bullet,” and Basil
advanced the perforated paper under the very nose of Jericho, who,
fallen in his chair, shrank up bodily from the note as from a spear’s
point. “Come, sir,” cried Basil, “confess at once.”
“Why, what is the matter? Confess!” cried Mrs. Jericho, who
had lingered near the door, and, alarmed and confused by the
half-sentences that reached her, re-entered the library. “Confess
what?”
“I will confess,” said Jericho: “and I could only wish that all the
world could hear me; that all the world might know your baseness,”
and the Man of Money glared at Basil.
“Baseness! Impossible! Dearest Solomon!” cried Mrs. Jericho.
“My love,” said Jericho: “I have acted weakly—I own it. Condescending
to the prejudices of society, in a rash moment, I consented to fight
a duel.”
“The rumour, Solomon, had reached me; but I would not reproach you:
no; I have struggled with my feelings, and been silent. You cared not
to make me a widow,” said Mrs. Jericho, “but heaven knows I forgive
you.”
“I received my adversary’s ball here,”—said Jericho, spreading his
hand over his heart. “A poor man must have been killed, but there is
a fate that watches over property. I was providentially preserved by
my money. I hope I am thankful,” and Jericho carefully wiped his dry
eyes.
“Proceed—I conjure you,” exclaimed Mrs. Jericho, with an alarming
gush of tenderness.
“I carried my pocket-book here: ’twas full of notes, the ball went
through every one of them; and”—
Mrs. Jericho shrieked, as though the peril was imminent.
“And stopt short at my shirt,” and Jericho paused.
“I breathe again,” exclaimed the thankful wife.
“Well, my dear, I now come to my confession. I had intended to
present your son with a handsome amount on his approaching
birth-day. I sent him a thousand pounds. It now appears—for the
circumstance had escaped me—that the notes were among those
perforated by the pistol-ball. I might have thought”—and Jericho
tried to feel much hurt—“that such perforation would have enhanced
the value—yes, of a thousand pounds; but, I regret to say it, the
young man is hardened—bronzed against the finest emotions of the
soul—even when recommended by money. Madam, he is incorrigible.”
Mrs. Jericho was wholly won by the story of her husband. Kind, good,
generous creature! So liberal to Basil. She sent to Jericho a look of
thankful fondness, and then shook her head at her abashed offspring.
Yes—abashed. Basil was puzzled by the ingenuous confession of his
father-in-law. For a moment he felt a touch of remorse, and was about
to spring forward and seize Jericho’s hand. And then he paused, and
doubt came up again. “If I am wrong, Mr. Jericho—if I have been rash
and rude, I shall be glad, delighted, sir, to ask your pardon. But
you must allow me to take a little time—to sift my evidence a little
finer. Meanwhile, sir, you may impound the money,” and Basil laid the
notes before Mr. Jericho. “Good bye, my dear mother; you’ll hear, I
hope, good news of me soon. Am on the high road of happiness, and
hope soon to put up at All Earthly Bliss.”
“A strange, wild creature,” said Mrs. Jericho, following her son with
loving looks as he darted from the room. “But good—yes, dear, believe
it, good. His heart, I know it, is in its right place. And these”—and
Mrs. Jericho took up the ten hundred pound notes with a hole in
each—“and these protected _your_ heart! Henceforth, to me they are
enhanced beyond all price.—Yes, Jericho—Solomon—husband,” and the
fond wife carefully folded up the bank notes, and as carefully placed
them in her bosom, laying her guardian hand above them—“yes, I shall
treasure them. No power—none, Jericho—shall tear them from me. They
saved your life, and to me they are hereafter beyond all price.”
Jericho endeavoured to look resigned—pleased. Such devotion flattered
him, though he could not but feel that it cost him a thousand pounds.
(With respect to the hole in the heart, let us clear up as we
proceed. In a very little while every bank-note was perfect as
before. This was to be expected. When a heart is wholly made of
money, how can it long feel the worst of wounds?)