A man may be possessed with an evil spirit, and yet be wholly
unconscious of the presence of his tenant. This may seem, at the
first blush, an impossible circumstance; nevertheless, we are upon
reflection convinced that thousands of good, well-meaning people,
carry about with them fitful, moody, captious, disorderly spirits,
and are, notwithstanding, the very last folks to acknowledge the
existence of the inmates. Now, it would seem that Mr. Jericho
had this ignorance in especial strength and perfection. He was
blessed with the happiest forgetfulness of the demon that, as was
shown in the last chapter, afflicted his wife, and astonished his
acquaintance. He had no after-thought of the unseemly words, of the
vulgar violence uttered and committed by his evil spirit. Poor man!
He was spared the pain, the humiliation of such knowledge; hence,
the fit over, the spirit laid, Jericho was as gay and debonair as
ever—quite.
To be sure, Mrs. Jericho had affectionate misgivings; and the young
ladies, with a keen memory of the wildness of their father-in-law,
looked with hopefulness quite natural to the day when they should be
delivered from his tyranny by the new benevolence of a husband. The
girls, with the simple confidence of their sex, were assured of the
devotion of their lovers. Poor things! Now Sir Arthur Hodmadod, with
sudden treachery, had contemplated instant flight. He was alarmed,
terrified, at the thought of marrying the daughter of a man with such
strange, such diabolic notions. Sir Arthur thought of the beneficial
effect of a run through Italy. He could not disguise it from himself,
that his heart was broken; and therefore, he was in the most
interesting situation for a few months’ exile. He would forget the
living beauties of Agatha in the refined abstractions of paint and
marble. He had promised himself some day to cultivate his taste for
art, and it was plain, the proper time was come. And then—and then
the lover remembered—(how, for an instant, could he have forgotten
it?)—that Agatha bore no taint of Jericho’s blood. No: she was a
Pennibacker; the daughter of a warrior! And with this happy thought,
Sir Arthur, with the mixed remorse and generosity of true affection,
arrayed the dear one with newer, richer graces. But a mistress is
never so captivating as when considered through the penitence of love.
The Hon. Cæsar Candituft had sterner thoughts of marriage.
Perhaps, too, he had larger views than his simple, gentle friend;
and so, placed upon himself a corresponding value. We believe
Sir Arthur—could he have been induced to think at all—would have
considered matrimony as a very pleasant little trip in a gay little
boat; with a bright sky, a smooth sea, and now and then a mermaid to
come up, and warble a song of love. Now, Candituft would not attempt
the voyage so embarked. He was for a secure craft, extremely well
victualled, and—to be ready for the worst—carrying the heaviest
metal. Therefore had Candituft resolved on the most guarded civility
to Monica: he would, if possible, kill the love within her by the
cutting coldness of his courtesy. For he had well-considered himself:
he had sat in impartial judgment upon his own claims to a wife; and
he was convinced that if he could be brought to persuade himself to
marry into the family of a lunatic, at least he would be well paid
for the daring. Thus, if Monica’s determination towards marriage
could live through the cold season that was immediately to set in—if
the hardy rose would smile through the frost—why, the flower, like
the Druid’s misletoe, should only be gathered with a golden blade.
A week wore on, and Candituft was only the more hardened in civility.
A week wore on, and Hodmadod was only the more melted in love. But
Monica would not feel the bitter season—whilst Agatha smiled and
glowed in the full flush of the sunny time. Sir Arthur, on his part,
was a little astonished that Candituft could for a moment hesitate
to seize his happiness at the altar’s foot, at the very time that
he, the baronet, was to be crowned with joy for ever. Whereupon
Candituft assured Sir Arthur that, for one day, it would be more
than sufficient bliss to see his friend made happy. He doubted his
strength to stand up against the double delight of double nuptials.
Hence, for his part, he would wait. But we have a little anticipated;
and have now to introduce a third party come upon a nuptial errand,
to the Man of Money.
Basil, it may be remembered, left Primrose Place with Mr. Carraways,
bent—as the old gentleman declared—upon business with the captain of
a ship bound for the antipodes. It is needless to repeat any part
of the conversation between the lover and the father, as they took
their way to the _Halcyon_, a magnificent vessel, lying in the docks
in all the seeming confusion of outfit. We will at once come to the
result of the dialogue carried on—oddly enough—amid all the activity
and clamour of London streets. Earnest as were the words of Basil,
passionate as were his looks—was there a single passenger, of the
hundreds that passed and passed, who could have divined that the
young man was at such an hour, and in such a place, telling the story
of his heart, pleading the passion of a life? Yet it was even so. And
the old man, in his best blunt way, opposed the ardour of the youth;
even whilst his father’s heart glowed and throbbed at the expression.
And then, as they walked onward, the old man spoke less and less, and
Basil became more voluble. At length, Carraways stopt, and taking
Basil’s hand, said in a low, thick voice—“Well lad; thus it is. If
there is no objection at your home, and you are sure of Bessy,—she’s
your’s. And now, not another word upon the matter; for I see we’ve no
time to lose.”
As we are modestly convinced that every tittle of this history will
in a hundred years or more be a theme for commentators—(the worthy
folks who too often write on books, as men with diamonds write on
glass, obscuring light with scratches)—as we know that this volume
will be very thickly annotated, we shall make one point clear;
namely, the precise spot where Carraways pronounced his consent.
Well, then; it was exactly opposite the Royal Exchange, under the
shadow of the grasshopper. No bad emblem of a poor yet cheerful
lover, with little but hope and blithe spirits to begin the world
upon.
Nevertheless—says somebody—an odd neighbourhood for men to ask and
give in marriage. Well, it may be. Still, Hymen has been known to
have his walk on ’Change, as well as common merchants; and what is
more, with as fine a sense of profit and loss, as though in boyhood
he had sat on the same form and thumbed the same arithmetic with
Mercury.
And Carraways, true to his promise, presented himself at Jericho’s
house. The Man of Money felt a joyous revenge as he eyed the ruined
merchant’s card. It was very natural to Jericho. Sir Gilbert
Carraways, the beggar, had treated him in the most shameful—the most
insolent spirit. The poor wretch had, in no way, acknowledged the
supremacy of his old friend’s wealth. No; his studied silence, his
absence from the house, conveyed the contemptuous feeling of the
pauper towards the rightful majesty of money. To be sure, Jericho had
not offered assistance; certainly not; it was not his place to undraw
his purse-strings, if people—ruined people—had not the due humility
to ask it. But now—there could be no doubt of it—Carraways was
come to beg for aid: he was at length taught by suffering a proper
reverence for cash. And with this thought, Jericho armed himself to
receive him. We write knowingly—armed himself. For as carefully, as
cunningly as ever knight endued his frame with plates of steel or
brass,—so did Jericho hang upon that thin, cold, shivering soul of
his, the tremendous panoply of bank paper.
It is a curious sight—is it not?—to see the Man of Money sternly
awaiting the advent of the rude, forgetful beggar. “Show him in,”
brays Jericho to the servant. John quits the room, to serve up the
pauper. But two minutes pass—and there sits Solomon Jericho dreadful
in his arms of money: his visage sharp and cruel, newly whetted,
gleaming with scorn. The fat, ruddy, good-tempered face—with meat and
wine in the look of it—that was wont to glow and grin at Carraways’
board, is prematurely old, and shrunk, and sharpened; the hungry
outline of felonious age.
Carraways enters the room. “Gracious heaven! Why, what is this?” For
never since the merriment at the Hall, had Carraways and Jericho met.
Never, of course, since Carraways departed this life in the gazette,
had he seen the Man of Money. Therefore was the merchant astounded
at the thing that sat before him—for Jericho did not rise to his old
friend; oh no—he knew the prerogative of money better than that—and
therefore, in his own natural way did Carraways give utterance to his
wonderment. “Is it possible?”
“I believe, sir,” said Jericho, and contempt wrinkled his face, and
his voice croaked, frog-like—“I believe I see Gilbert Carraways, who
was a merchant?”
“Who was a merchant, and is Gilbert Carraways still,” said the old
man.
“Late of Jogtrot Hall?” said Jericho, with a low chuckle.
“Yes,” repeated Carraways clearly, sonorously ringing the words,
“late of Jogtrot Hall, of Marigolds. Now, of a second floor, of
Primrose Place.”
“Ha! ha! Well, now, I like that,” cried Jericho. “I like a man who
can play with fortune. I like a man who, when the wench—she’s a queer
cat, fortune, isn’t she, Mr. Gilbert Carraways?—when she spatters him
with mud, can give her as good as she sends. Ha! ha! Well, if you
have been covered with dirt, you’re merry still. But, why haven’t you
come to see me?” asked Jericho with a sneer.
“Because of the dirt, Mr. Jericho. You see, you ride upon fortune’s
wheel; now I only get the mud from it.”
“Very good,” said the patron Jericho. “And I’m glad you can try to
make a joke, Mr. Carraways; it must be a great comfort to a poor man.
Why, now, I can understand how a beggar of a cold night, if he can
only muster up heart enough to make a joke, how it must be as good as
a truss of straw to him; mus’n’t it, eh, Mr. Carraways?”
“’Pon my word, Mr. Jericho, I haven’t yet tried the experiment. And
I do hope, you’ll never be brought to it; otherwise, I do think—try
as you may—you’ll sleep plaguy coldly. But I didn’t come here to talk
in this idle fashion.”
“I hope not,” said Jericho, sharpening his malice with his best
might. “I hope you came to tell me, when you propose to see us at
Jogtrot Hall. By the way, I’m going to change the name.”
“I hope so,” said Carraways very calmly.
“Yes; my friend the Duke of St. George—do you know the Duke?—-my
friend has promised to give me a new name for it. Though I think, out
of compliment to him, I shall call it George and Garter Lodge. You
know, Mr. Gilbert Carraways, there’s no telling what one may come to.”
“No, Solomon Jericho,” said the merchant. “Still, just now, you must
have one comfort; you can’t come to less than you are.” Jericho
called up all his thunder to his brows. “Surely,” said Carraways
tranquilly, as though he was speaking of some monstrous abortion of
nature—“surely, ’tis wonderful! Why, my good man”—
“Good man!” roared Jericho.
“My good man,” and Carraways doggedly repeated the epithet, “where do
you put your heart? Why, it can’t be as big as a poppy-seed. Do you
ever walk out in the air? If so, pray put a gold-bar or so in your
pockets, or some day the wind will take you up—carry you into the
sky. And who knows? Some future astronomer—if I remember my schooling
right, the sort of thing has been done—some astronomer may make a
constellation of a bank-note.”
“I see,” said Jericho, with the most vigorous expression of pity. “I
see,—you’re a free-thinker. Bank-notes in the sky! Poor man! Poverty
has made you an atheist.”
“Not so,” said Carraways, placidly. “Indeed, not so. Strange as it
may seem to you, poverty has made me a believer in more goodness than
I dreamt of before. However, I didn’t come to talk of that.”
“I suppose not,” said Jericho.
“But, bless me!” cried the persevering Carraways, “how thin you are!
Why, you _can_ have no bowels.”
Mr. Jericho said nothing. He merely drew himself up, using a snaky
motion of the head to express his silent contempt of the doubt. And
silence was best. What spoken answer would have better met such
unbelief?
“But as I say,” repeated Carraways, “I didn’t come to talk about
that. I come—now attend to me, if you please, Solomon Jericho”—and
Jericho fell flat against the back of his chair, astounded at the
pauper’s impudence—“attend to me. I didn’t come to talk of that. I
came here, at once, to renounce all right and title, for me and mine
by gift or will now and for evermore,—all right, I say, to a shilling
of your money.”
“I think,” said Mr. Jericho suddenly recovering himself, “I think you
give yourself a very needless trouble.”
“Well, I hope so,” answered Carraways. “Still, I would not risk a
mistake. Your son-in-law”—
“Humph!” said Jericho, and with studied sarcasm. “Son-in-law! Yes;
the law bears very hard on us, now and then.”
“Has proposed to marry my Bessy. I have consented; and after what
I’ve said, I suppose, Mr. Jericho, you can have no objection to the
match?”
“Really, Gilbert Carraways,” replied the Man of Money, smiling the
while, “why should I? Your conditions are so advantageous, that I
should be a fool as well as a monster to come between two doting
hearts. All I can say is, I wish you joy of the young gentleman.”
“I have every faith in him,” said Carraways. “Perhaps, Mr. Jericho,
you will break the matter to Basil’s mother? I need not intrude upon
the lady’s better employment. We leave England in about a fortnight.”
“What! the young couple and all?” cried Jericho; “and where may you
be bound for?”
“The antipodes,” answered Carraways, very blithely.
“A capital determination, Gilbert. As you’ve been turned topsy-turvy
here, why going to the antipodes is, perhaps, the shortest way of
putting you on your legs again.” Here the servant answered the bell,
rang by the Man of Money. “Beg Mrs. Jericho to come to me,” said the
husband.
“Good morning,” cried Carraways rising. “I would rather not see the
lady. I’ll leave the explanation in your hands. ’Twill come better
from you. Much better. Well,”—and Carraways paused before Jericho,
and staringly read him up and down—“you _are_ thin! Why, you must
have no more blood than a cucumber, Solomon. To think that a man
should be so rich—ha! what luck you’ve had in platina, to be sure—so
rich and so meagre! Talk of the Wandering Jew, why if you live long
enough, you’ll be known as the Wandering Bank-note. Dear me! Well,
you’d be very curious under a microscope—very curious. Good morning,
good morning.” And Carraways bustled from the presence of the Man of
Money, who sat speechless and confounded by the easy insolence of the
pauper. Never, perhaps, since the first piece of metal was stamped
as the go-between of man and man, had the dignity of wealth been
so impudently put upon. In the savageness of his injured majesty,
Jericho could have brained the offender with a bag of money—dashed
him in little pieces with a golden thunderbolt; an article with which
Plutus often beats the iron of the bigger Jupiter.
“He is gone now—the pauper’s departed,” said Jericho scornfully to
his wife, as she entered.
“Who is gone? And whom can you speak of? A pauper, and here!” Mrs.
Jericho would as soon have thought to see a polecat basking on the
hearth-rug. “Pauper!”
“That fellow Carraways,” said Jericho, and his lips widened at the
name as at a filthy drug.
“Oh! I suppose the old story with such people. Came for money?” said
his wife.
“Not he; an impudent, blustering scoundrel. Came here to shake his
rags in my face, and show how very proud he was of them. Would
you believe it? He had the brazen effrontery to come here—here—to
renounce my offer of money, and that before it was made.”
[Illustration: _The Pauper & The Man of Money._]
“Dear me! Poor man!” said Mrs. Jericho, with a look and voice of
pity. “Insane, of course.”
“No—not he. Not more mad than thousands of people. For it’s wonderful
to think how near conceit is to insanity, and yet how many folks
are suffered to go free and foaming with it. Conceit, Sabilla; mere
conceit in a rabid state. Of all pride, the worst is the pride of
beggary. Of all madness, that madness is the worst and the most
disgusting that, squatted upon a dunghill, brags of the straw and
muck, as though they were gold and velvet.”
“Very true, indeed, my dear—beautifully true,” said the wife. “But we
must make great allowances; when a man is stripped of everything”—
“Well, when he is, it isn’t exactly the time for him to brag of the
buff he’s reduced to.”
“My dear!” cried Mrs. Jericho, with the prettiest glance of
remonstrance. “My love!”
“Moreover, when a family is stripped of everything,” cried Jericho,
“I don’t think it precisely the family to marry into.”
“Why, Solomon, what do you mean?” asked the wife, anxious and
foreboding.
“The meaning’s as short and as strong as the marriage service. Your
hopeful son is going to marry Bessy.”
“Impossible! He cannot mean it,” cried Mrs. Jericho. “It is a mere
folly of youth that he will outlive—that he _must_ outlive. The fact
is, my dear Jericho, we must send him abroad.”
“We needn’t trouble ourselves. In a few months he will be directly
under my foot.” Mrs. Jericho stared. “At the antipodes, my dear; at
the antipodes,” and Jericho rubbed his hands at the prospect.
“And that Carraways—oh, it’s a pretty plan, I see, to provide for the
daughter—that Carraways came here to tell you this?”
“With his compliments, or something like ’em, that I should open the
matter to you.”
“Solomon, my dear Solomon”—and Mrs. Jericho dropt in a chair beneath
her maternal feelings—“this is a great blow to our house.” Jericho
looked confidently; putting his thin hands into his pockets, as
though he would imply a conviction that the house was strong enough
to bear the shock. “’Twill break my heart, Solomon.” Still the
husband looked calm and self-possessed. “It will bring me to a
premature grave.” And still, and still the hopeful spouse blenched
not. “A foolish, enthusiastic child—when there was such a path open
to him!”
“All the road clean as a whistle to the Court of Queen’s Bench,” said
Jericho.
“No—no. The Duke of St. George’s eldest daughter; that beautiful
girl, the Lady Malypense—he has only to ask and have; I am certain of
it, Solomon. If I know what the human heart is made of”—
“And what is it made of?” inquired Jericho; for in the material of
hearts he had a strange interest. “What’s the stuff? People differ
on the point devilishly.” Mrs. Jericho stared. “What do you think I
heard? Why, that the heart of Lady Malypense—’twas that bitter fellow
Thrush who said it—that her heart was like a jewel cushion; merely a
thing to stick finery upon.” Mrs. Jericho looked wounded incredulity.
“Oh, I don’t believe it. I only tell you how folks gabble about
hearts. Ha! ha! every man talks of his neighbour’s heart, as though
it was his own watch.—A thing to be seen in all its works; and abused
for irregular going. I always laugh when I hear a man talk of another
man’s heart. And if anybody has a right to laugh, I think it’s
myself. Ha! ha!” and Jericho grinned disdainfully; and by such scorn
withered, as he believed, the wicked rumour that now and then would
gabble against him.
“I am resolved, my love,” said Mrs. Jericho, “that this boy shall not
sacrifice himself. I have fixed my heart upon a coronet for him, and
he shall have it. We deserve nothing less.”
“Humph! Do you think, my dear, that coronets hang on pegs that”—
“Nothing more easy,” broke in the wife and mother. “He marries the
Duke’s daughter; he obtains a high appointment at a foreign court;
he enters upon diplomacy; I’m sure he was born for it; he always had,
as a child, such a taste for mechanics. I only wish I’d kept the
mouse-trap he invented when he was six years old. Depend upon it,
he’s a born ambassador, my dear.”
“Isn’t marked anywhere with the name of the court, eh?” asked Jericho.
“Now, my love, I adore your wit; but do respect a mother’s feelings.
Consider, Jericho. As I say, he marries Lady Malypense. He is sent
abroad. Our politics are in a tangle somewhere—in Egypt, or Greece,
or Belgium, or the Sandwich Islands—’tis all the same—and Basil winds
the affair off as cleanly as a skein of silk. Then, of course, he is
ennobled—he has somehow saved his country; and, choosing an estate
from the map of England, it is bought for ever and for ever for him
by a grateful people, and he takes his seat among the lords spiritual
and temporal—a peer of the realm. I’m sure of it, from his genius;
though I never named it before. Certain.”
“Well,” said Jericho, satirically, “there’s something in it. And
yet to consider a peer in his robes and coronet—well, it must be
confessed ’tis a mighty grand thing to come out of a mousetrap.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Jericho, “peerages have come of much
smaller matters. And, in fact, my love, this intended marriage—this
folly—this sacrifice must, at any cost, be prevented.”
“As you please; but for my part, I think you’d better let matters
take their course.”
“Solomon!” cried the wife, in the voice of reproach.
“And as for a peerage, why, where Basil’s going, he may choose the
rank he best likes; earl, marquess, duke.—And what’s more, he can
have himself tattooed, dog-cheap, with garters on both legs, and
any number of orders.” And Jericho laughed at his own wit, with the
partiality of a parent.
Mrs. Jericho visited the scorner with one scathing glance of anger;
then half in pity, half in contempt, she cried—“Mr. Jericho, you are
not a mother.” And it must be confessed the Man of Money bore the
information with pattern tranquillity.