Nothing could have been more perfect—more complete—than the
magnificent festival at Jericho’s house, in nominal honour of the
coming of age of Basil Pennibacker. At an early hour, Basil’s
chambers had been beset; beautiful presents and delicate bouquets
were sent to the student, and they who brought them found no one
to relieve the porters, no one to utter a word to them. All the
greeting they met with, was mutely delivered from a piece of written
paper, wafered outside the inhospitable door. The greeting ran as
follows:—“_To all who may present themselves. Mr. Basil Pennibacker
has gone out to spend the day with One-and-Twenty Friends. May not
return till to-morrow. No relatives admitted (on this day) either on
business or pleasure. Vivat the Tenant._” For all this, Mr. Jericho
felt assured that Basil would, some time of the evening, present
himself. The hours wore on, and though the hostess and the young
ladies were now and then anxiously, nay affectionately examined
upon the probable causes of Mr. Basil’s absence,—after a while, all
the world resolved to forget the cause of the junket, almost as
entirely as though it had been a funeral festival of the olden day; a
pottle-pot carouse in memory of the new deceased. And then, let every
fair excuse be charitably received. Folks had their own affairs to
attend to; their own little interests to look after—their own mortal
appetites to appease. Between four and five hundred people came to
do honour to Jericho’s household gods, honouring his son-in-law.
And if Basil could have flattered himself that his absence would
cast ten minutes’ cloud above that brilliant mob, very much indeed,
could he have taken a peep at it, would he have been rebuked for his
presumption. As we have said, people had their own affairs to mind.
Mrs. Jericho had, it is true, a mother’s heart, and every five
minutes—hour after hour—looked where Basil might appear; and as the
time wore on, and there was no Basil, the mother now drooped, and now
roused herself into some sudden happiness—some violent enjoyment at
some poor platitude, stamped for true wit, with impress sharp enough
to be passed on and on for the true coin.
Monica Pennibacker was sorry, vexed, that Basil had not come; it
was so wayward, so foolish. Nevertheless, she could not sacrifice
the lover to the brother; and the Hon. Mr. Candituft had, no doubt,
confounded by the blaze of Monica’s beauty—for even the best of
beauty has its happy killing times—a beauty, accidentally assisted
by magnificent jewels,—committed himself, as a man of honour,
once and for ever. He had snatched five minutes—hardly five—to
speak definitely of marriage; he had many times played about the
subject,—and now he had walked up to the ring,—why, at a blow, Monica
self-sustained as an Amazon, referred the gentleman to her father.
The thing was done; and the Hon. Cesar Candituft had nothing more
for it than to dance off reflection till the morning. But no: Cesar
thought of Monica’s dowry, and was not the man to jest, even to
himself, upon so solemn a subject.
When we know more about the laws of electricity, it is probable
that there may be a new statute—a law of society—against so many
people meeting to dance. Who shall say,—that one man, nerved to the
deed, to make an offer of marriage, in a window-corner or any other
angle of a ball-room—does not in fifty other places, electrically
affect fifty other people? For all our present ignorance permits us
to interpret, as many rings as go to bed-curtains may at the same
moment pass from hand to hand. We do not wish to anticipate or force
opinion on this most serious subject. But as prosaic chroniclers of
a prosaic history, we must state this much; leaving the inference to
the reader.—Almost at the same moment that Mr. Candituft solemnly
proposed to Monica, Sir Arthur Hodmadod, urging the lady to name the
inevitable day, assailed sweet Agatha. At the same moment; for the
young ladies, ere they slept, compared the time by their own little
tiny repeaters.
Colonel Bones never appeared so well—never had so comfortable an air
as at the party. He seemed, for that night, to have washed away his
grimy pauper look, and entered into an understanding with himself
to display the gentleman. Perhaps it was the new habit acquired
by Colonel Bones, that gave a certain air of courtesy and glitter
to him; for Colonel Bones took snuff from a box set with lovely
brilliants, the gift of his dear friend and late antagonist, Solomon
Jericho.
Commissioner Thrush and Doctor Mizzlemist, also jewelled by the
Man of Money, were after their fashion blithe and happy; with the
fullest conviction of the sound-heartedness of their host. Indeed,
the hole in Jericho’s heart had, in the world’s opinion, closed
like a hole in sand: he had, by the force of his magnificence, so
conquered and confounded slander. Only one foe remained unbeaten; the
obstinate, pig-headed Dodo, who—wherever he could tear the hole open
afresh—would avow his faith in the diabolic existence of Jericho. And
people listened, then shook their heads, and—behind his back—pitied
poor Dodo. Very zealous friendship had moved Jericho to prosecute
the slanderer; but the Man of Money, with his own magnanimity
replied—“Put Doctor Dodo in court! No, poor man; I would rather put
him in a strait waistcoast.”
The day after the birth-day festival, Mr. Jericho sat in his library
in the happiest of humours. In a very quiet way, and in the shortest
possible time, he had won of Lord Bezant five thousand pounds. Lord
Bezant was one of the Duke of St. George’s friends; one of the superb
knot of men with whom his Grace, in the most condescending manner,
had made Jericho intimate. Five thousand pounds! A sum in itself
of little account to our Man of Money; but as an earnest of the
favours of fortune, of the first and dearest importance. For every
thousand that Jericho won upon dice or cards—he might, moreover,
under friendly guidance, be lucky on the turf—was so much substance
saved. True it was, that he made the birth-day feast given in the
name of Basil a victory to himself; true it was, he had his passing
time of triumph; but he saw, he felt the cost. He knew that every
farthing came from his heart; he knew that to make such outward show
he had shrunk and dwindled to fearful tenuity. Hence, he now slept
apart; solitary in his chamber. He had no doubt of his vitality;
nevertheless, the principle of his wealth might wear him to a rag, a
shred; and, at the worst, this must be unknown. Therefore, we say, it
was a new delight to Jericho when a belief in his constitutional good
luck dawned upon and deepened in him. Men—a happy few—had carried
from the gambling table the splendours of wealth, and why should not
he be one of fortune’s—or the fiend’s—elect?
Jericho, since his introduction to the Duke of St. George—who had so
handsomely circulated the plebeian among a host of noble friends—had
never played that he had not risen a winner. Altogether, in the
merest point of time, he had won some fifteen thousand pounds. As
Jericho thought of this, he laid his hand above his paper heart, and
promised a long repose to the fund. Fortune had no doubt fallen in
love with him, and would give him all he asked. Therefore he would
make the grand tour, and—the Napoleon of Trumps—break every bank in
Europe.
Could Mrs. Jericho, bound as she was, upon the tenderest of missions,
break upon her lord in happier hour? Serene and softened by the
conviction of his destined magnificence, he was a little disposed
to enter, by way of passing amusement, into the sympathies and
affections of his people about him.
“No news of Basil,” said Mrs. Jericho: “but, be assured, Solomon, his
absence was no intended affront.”
“Don’t name it, my dear. He was not missed. To please you, we did
honour to his birth-day. The day was a graceful excuse for the
fête—and as the fête was all that was required, why no doubt,
everybody was pleased. At least, I saw no disappointment,” and
Jericho softly whistled.
“Nevertheless, for all his folly and perverseness—and I must blame
him for his conduct—for all his ill-manners, and I cannot wholly
justify him, I am sure, Solomon, sure that Basil loves you.”
“If such is your opinion, Mrs. Jericho, I must make up my mind to
suffer it.”
Mrs. Jericho thought she would not persevere in the theme: therefore,
with sudden vivacity, she changed the subject. “My dear, of course
you are aware that our girls must, some time or the other, settle in
life?”
“Your girls, my dear, have my free permission to settle when and
where they will.”
“I was sure of that, dear. I certainly think with our present
position we ought to have commanded something better than a younger
brother for Monica. Nevertheless, as Candituft is your friend, and
I believe a good creature—and as they seem determined to have one
another, why, why should we thwart them?”
“Why, indeed?” asked Jericho, very calmly.
“Sir Arthur Hodmadod,” said Mrs. Jericho, in a tone of apology for
the gentleman, “is certainly a fool”—
“What of that?” asked the philosopher. “Surely the family can bear
one fool—eh? Wise enough for that?”
“My dear Solomon, you know best of course. To be sure, had we been
tainted with worldly ambition, there is no doubt that we might have
married our children in the very heart of the peerage, but”—
“I’m quite content as matters stand,” said Jericho.
“As I say, you know best. Well, Monica informs me—and I thought,
my love, I would prepare you—that Mr. Candituft intends to see you
to-day; formally to ask your daughter at your hands.”
“Indeed. Well, as far as I’m concerned, I’ll give her to him with the
greatest pleasure in life.”
“Don’t speak with such levity, love; don’t,” said Mrs. Jericho
mildly; “marriage is not a mere bargain.”
“Certainly not. Solemn compact—very solemn compact:” and again
Jericho whistled.
“Well, then, Solomon, as you consent, what do you propose to give
with the dear child?”
“Give, Mrs. Jericho! I’ll give a magnificent party on the occasion.
More than that, I think—nay, I’m sure that to please me and honour
you—my friend the Duke”—it was thus Jericho began to speak of his
Grace of St. George—“my friend the Duke will give the wench away.”
“’Twill add a perfume to the orange blossoms,” cried Mrs. Jericho
with a gush of sentiment. “’Twill, if possible, add a solemnity to
the ceremony. But I mean what dowry do you give?”
“Dowry! I thought, my dear, you observed that marriage was no
bargain? Why, you’re making it quite a ready money transaction.”
“Now, my dear Jericho, I admire your wit. It is brilliant,
delightful—and I assure you, I am as proud of all your brilliant
sayings, quite as proud as if they were my own. But this is”—
Here the servant entered with the card of “The Hon. Mr. Candituft.”
“Show him in,” said Jericho with an instant decision.
“My dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Jericho, hurrying to depart, “I leave
Monica in your hands. I know your noble heart; I’m sure you will
treat her like a gentleman and—and a father.” With this confiding
speech Mrs. Jericho hastened from the room. Meeting Candituft at the
door, she took his hand with the greatest cordiality, and with the
prettiest ignorance of the purpose of his visit.
“’Pon my life, my dear sir,” said Candituft, “I never saw such luck
as you had last night.”
“Why, yes,” said Jericho, swelling into figure, “I think the blind
goddess smirked a little on me.”
“With such luck, had you set in for play, why, sir, before you rose
you might have been owner of Zebra Park. Not but what upon principle
I detest gambling. It is a vice destitute of the finer emotions
that ought ever to exist among the family of man. Nevertheless, if
a simpleton like Lord Bezant will be ruined, I do think he ought to
fall to the lot of a gentleman and a wise man,” and Candituft bowed
to Jericho. “It is devilish annoying to see a fool flung away upon a
mere vulgar brute of luck. It jars one’s sense of propriety. No, at
least, gentlemen ought to ruin gentlemen.”
“A beautiful motto, Candituft. Have it written up at the Club,” said
Jericho.
“Needless, my dear sir, quite needless; ’tis in the hearts of the
members. And now, my dear friend, for you are my friend,” said
Candituft, with his every-day emotion, “I have a delicate business to
open to you. An affair affecting the happiness of”—
“Go on,” said Jericho, quite prepared for the ordeal.
“But first let me not forget my friend,” said Candituft. “Hodmadod
is, we know, a fool.”
Jericho, nursing his knee, replied, “I do not think the Parliament
assembled could have the face to deny it.”
“Nevertheless, a very good creature, and, I dare say, will make a
good husband. Yes, he’ll drive well in the wedding-ring.”
“Let us hope so,” replied Jericho, prepared for the best or the worst.
“But he’s bashful as—as—’pon my life, I’m at a loss for a simile. And
as he and I are old friends, and as he knew that I should see you—in
fact, he’s in the house this moment; came along with me—He desired me
to inform you that Miss Agatha had consented to fix the—the—what d’ye
call it—the happy day.”
“Wish them joy,” said Jericho. “My friend the Duke shall give her
away.”
“As to the young lady’s dowry,” and Candituft hesitated.
“I can’t give a farthing. Can’t afford it, my dear Candituft,” and
the Man-Tamer laughed at the declaration as at an intended jest.
“Can’t afford it. Besides, think of the girl’s beauty, talents,
temper!”
“They have all had their full influence upon my friend. And
Arthur—good, silly fellow!—is not avaricious. Besides, he has a
handsome property of his own; and I’m sure he’ll be delighted, happy
to marry the young lady merely for herself.”
“That’s true love—Cupid, as you see him in the valentines, without
any property,” said Jericho.
“Of course, my good friend, you will bestow a handsome outfit and”——
“To be sure. Half-a-dozen of every thing,” said Jericho, and he
laughed hugely at the joke: and the Man-Tamer, as in friendship
bound, laughed his best in concert.
“Well, I have fulfilled my mission, and saved the awkwardness of my
friend. You object not to the day, whenever it may be? And for the
dowry, I mean the outfit, we who know your heart, may safely leave
that to you. Yes, yes; Arthur, my good soft friend, Arthur, is a
happy man. Once I fondly thought that my dear sister—however”—and
Candituft sighed—“it was not to be. And now, sir”—
“Yes,” cried Jericho, quite prepared for what was coming. “Yes; go
on.”
“You may have remarked my affection for Miss Monica? You must have
remarked it?”
“I beg a thousand pardons,” said the wag Jericho, “but it has quite
escaped me.”
Candituft wanly smiled. The jest was ill-timed; nevertheless he could
not resent it from his friend. Therefore, he smiled and proceeded.
“In a word, my dear sir, we have come to the sweet conclusion that we
were made for one another.”
“Dear me! Well, how lucky you should have met! I dare say, now”—and
the cruel wit, with all his teeth and talons, played with the timid,
mouse-like heart of his victim—“I dare say, now, there are thousands
of people made for one another, at the present moment wandering about
the world without a chance of coming together. Indeed, seeing how big
the world is, and how very few people are really made to match, it’s
next to a miracle that they should ever meet at all. Eh?”
“My dear sir, your views of life are always so just,—are always
clothed in such graceful and convincing language that I cannot
answer, I can only admire and bow. I trust, my dear sir, you do not
oppose our love?” and Candituft shuddered at the dreadful suspicion.
“By no means,” said Jericho. “Marry, marry, and be as happy as you
can.”
“A thousand thanks. You are aware, my dear sir, that my family is
rich”—
“Eh?” cried the Man of Money.
“Rich in historical associations. The blood of the Canditufts
fructifies the fields of Cressy and Agincourt.”
“Humph! And what’s the crop—what’s the yield? I have a great respect
for blood, Mr. Candituft; it is, in this world, a very useful, a very
indispensable article. Nevertheless, blood in a field—no matter how
old—is not the best investment. I speak, you know, as a vulgar Man of
Money.”
“I was about to observe,” said the easy-tempered, but withal pensive
suitor, “that I have too pure, too deep an affection for Miss
Pennibacker, to make her the partner of only the glories of my house.
A bachelor, my dear sir, though poor, receives a lustrous honour from
the chivalry of his name; but it is an honour that, alone, will not
do to marry upon.”
“You mean,” and Jericho grimly grinned, “the honour that’s enough for
one is not enough for two.”
“Why, yes”—and Candituft hesitated—“I may say that is pretty well my
meaning.”
“And in this marriage with Miss Pennibacker, you propose to find the
chivalry, the honour, if I—if I find the money? Eh?” cried Jericho.
“Mr. Jericho”—and Candituft thought he would assert the nobility of
the blood in the grounds of Cressy and Agincourt—“Mr. Jericho, I do
not come to deal with you for your daughter, as I would come to a
grazier for”—
“What!” cried Jericho, jumping to his feet.
“I mean, desirous of maintaining Miss Pennibacker in that sphere
which she was born to delight and illustrate, I _must_ ask—you force
me to be plain—what will you give with the young lady?”
“Not a farthing,” cried Jericho. “Not one farthing,” said the Man of
Money with determined emphasis.
At this moment, quite casually, Mrs. Jericho entered the room. Seeing
the stern looks of Jericho, the rebuked aspect of Candituft, she
innocently inquired “What is the matter?”
“Pooh! you know well enough,” cried Jericho, “Mr. Candituft wants to
marry Nic.”
“I was certainly aware of the honourable object of Mr. Candituft’s
ambition,” said Mrs. Jericho.
“But that’s not all,” cried the Man of Money, “he wants to be
handsomely paid for the trouble.”
“Paid!” exclaimed the lady.
“Why, that’s the plain thing. Paid. He wants a dowry.”
“My dear, we will not talk upon the subject at present,” said Mrs.
Jericho. “I see you are in one of your sportive humours; in one of
your gay moods, when you will make merry with the happy state.”
“Quite so, my dear lady,” said Candituft. “But as you say, we will
not pursue the subject. Another time.”
“By no means; better have it out at once,” said Jericho.
“Don’t name it,” said Candituft. “In fact, my good sir,” and the
lover grew of a sudden cool and circumspect; “I think we had better
postpone the matter till a more benignant season.”
“Mr. Candituft!” exclaimed Mrs. Jericho.
“Happily,” said the prudent suitor, “Miss Pennibacker is yet in
the first blush and florescence of youth; and it may be, my dear
lady, that fortune, with an amended estimate of the maiden’s merits,
may find her a nobler, a richer, though not”—and Mr. Candituft
endeavoured with manly fortitude to suppress his emotion—“though not
a fonder husband.”
“I am sure of that,” said Mrs. Jericho; “I have every confidence in
you, my dear sir; and so has Mr. Jericho.”
“Any amount of confidence,” said the Man of Money. “Any amount.”
“And as Monica has fixed her heart upon the union”—
“’Twould be a great pity,” said Jericho, determined upon his humour,
“to baulk a bold intention. Why, Mr. Candituft, the young lady is
such a treasure in herself, that, upon my word, I think you ought,
when you marry her, to remunerate us for our loss. It has always
seemed to me that certain savages—as they are shamefully called—have
the advantage of us in their habits of marriage.”
“No doubt, my dear sir, if you think so,” said Candituft stiffly.
“For myself, I am in ignorance of the superiority.”
“I mean in the habit that reverses the transaction: when the husband
buys his wife of her father; and not as in our shamefully corrupt and
sophisticated condition, when the father buys a husband for his girl.
I have always set my face against the custom,—and I feel the time is
come that I should strike a blow at the prejudice.”
“Now, my dear Solomon,”—Mrs. Jericho knew it was no time to pursue
the subject, and she contemplated, with some anxiety, the deepening
gravity of Candituft—“my dear Jericho, we will say no more upon the
matter. In your present merry humour, you care nothing for people’s
affections. You play what tune you please on people’s heartstrings.
Oh, you wits!” and the wife tapped the hard, dim face of the
humourist Jericho.
“Well, well, let us have the jig out,” said the relentless wag.
“Sir Arthur proposes to make Aggy Lady Hodmadod—I hear the day is
named, though with great self-forbearance I’ve not asked whether it’s
to-morrow or next day.”
“My dear Solomon,” said Mrs. Jericho, “this is too much levity.”
“Not at all: and I don’t see why both the birds mayn’t be trussed
by the same parson. And so, after all, my good friend,”—and the
traitorous Jericho smiled.
“My dear sir,”—and Candituft with his best energy smiled in return.
“After all, let us settle the sum. Eh?”
“Be it as you will,” said Mrs. Jericho, with the best duty of a wife,
calling herself back to the subject.
“Well, then,” said the Man of Money, and for his own private purpose
of humour, he still smiled and coaxed his voice, “what sum would
satisfy you?” It was a delicate question to be put thus nakedly.
“Come, name a figure. Say five thousand pounds.” Candituft looked
blank at Jericho, moving not a muscle. “What do you think of seven?”
The Man-Tamer gently lifted his eye-brows, deprecating the amount.
“Come, then, we’ll advance to ten?” Candituft’s face began to thaw,
and he showed some signs of kindly animation. “At a word, then,”
cried Jericho, with affected heartiness, “will you take fifteen
thousand?”
“From you—yes,” cried Candituft, and he seized Jericho’s hand. The
Man of Money looked at Candituft with a contemptuous sneer, and with
a wrench twisted his hand away. He then dropt in his chair, and a
strange, diabolical scowl possessed his countenance. The Man-Tamer
shrank from his friend; Mrs. Jericho ran to her husband, but screamed
at the sudden change that seemed to blot out the human character of
his face. The Man of Money, with his own features, looked a devil.
“And where—where do you think this money is to come from? Where?”
asked Jericho, and he rose from his chair, and it seemed as though
the demon possessing him would compel the wretch to talk—would compel
him to make terrible revealings. Every word he uttered was born
of agony. But there he stood; forced to give out utterances that
tortured him. “I will tell you,” roared Jericho, “what this money
is. Look about you! What do you see? Fine walls—fine pictures—fine
everything. Why, you see me—tortured, torn, worked up, changed.
The walls are hung with my flesh: my flesh you walk upon. There,
that—that”—and Jericho pointed to the diamond on Candituft’s
finger—“that gem—that jewel, as bright as the sun in heaven—what is
it? Why, it’s my blood—my blood distilled, then hardened into stone.
I am worn piecemeal by a hundred thieves, but I’ll be shared among
them no longer.”
By this time, the girls and Sir Arthur Hodmadod, alarmed by the cries
of Jericho, had entered the room.
“And you had a fine feast, had you not?” cried the possessed Man of
Money, writhing with misery, and howling his confession. “And what
did you eat? my flesh—what did you drink? my blood.”
“It’s impossible,” cried Hodmadod, aghast. “When I say impossible”—
“The food, the wines, the gold and silver, all—all of me—and so
I’m shared to feed fools and make a show. To make a show,” Jericho
repeated, his voice sinking, and he fell, as in a fit, in his chair.
For some minutes he lay as though he had passed into sleep: and the
malignant expression gradually cleared from his face.
“Very odd,” said Sir Arthur, “very strange. Better send for Doctor
Stubbs.”
“Hush! it’s a fit, a passing fit; he’s better now, and fast asleep,”
said Mrs. Jericho, whilst the girls exchanged strange looks with one
another. “Fast asleep.”
“I congratulate you,” said Candituft to Hodmadod, as they both left
the room, “he consents to your marriage.”
“Does he?” asked Hodmadod, a little staggered by the courtesy.
[Illustration: _Excitement of the Man of Money._]