And Jericho lived in his large house, like a rat in a hole.
Avarice had seized upon him; and with every hour bent and subdued
every thought and purpose to coin all his possessions. He _would_
have his millions of fighting pieces. Hence, he loathed to look
upon the finery about him. It was a wicked, a wasteful folly. A
shameful sacrifice to the eyes of others. He had discharged all his
servants—had no one, save one old man; the pauper grandfather of one
of his footmen, who had haunted the house for offal; and, as Jericho
believed, was in lucky hour discovered by his master to become
the most faithful of retainers. This old man seemed of congenial
wickedness with Jericho. Indeed, there looked between them a strange
similitude; twin brethren damned to the like sordidness, the like
rapacity; with this difference, that the master could enjoy to his
soul’s triumph the lust of wealth; whilst the more wretched serf
was ravenous with the will alone. It was very odd. Jericho and old
Plutus—the Man of Money was a grim wag; and in his savage drollery
had nicknamed the crust-hunting pauper Plutus—Jericho and Plutus
were in face and expression alike as two snakes; alike in key their
voices, as viper’s hiss to hiss: though Plutus, be it known, was the
fatter and the louder reptile.
The Man of Money sat in one of his garrets; a den of a place, though
crowning the magnificent fabric of Jericho House. The scullion had
slept there. And there remained the very bed, the very table, the one
chair enjoyed by the discarded drudge. It was the worst, the meanest
nook of the house; and therefore, Jericho rejoicing, took possession
of its squalor. It was with one effort, a triumph over a lingering
weakness for the nice, the soft appliances of life. He sat there, in
that low, slant garret, the sovereign of himself; the conqueror of
the spendthrift, the reveller, and the glutton. The wretchedness that
surrounded him was the best, the seemliest pomp to declare and grace
his victory.
“’Tis a pity, Plutus—a pity, you wretch—that all the vultures cannot
alight in one day; a great pity; for I’ll not quit here, till all’s
sold and the money bagged. A great pity. And they can’t all come
to-morrow? But I’ll not leave the carcase. No. I’ll stop till all’s
gone—all’s gone.” And Jericho swathed his gown, ostentatiously
tattered, about his withering body; and rubbed together his
transparent hands.
“Good master,” said the old slave, with a slavish cringe, “good
master, if the dealers could come all in one day, would it be wise to
have them in a crowd—all in a crowd?”
“Yes, wise; very wise. That they might maul and bid over one another.
Nevertheless, be it as you say. But they’ll all come?”
“All; good, kind sir,” answered Plutus. “There’s Israel, and Ichabod,
and Laban, and Seth, and Shem, and Issachar”—
“Peace, you old dog,” cried Jericho; and the menial bowed and smiled
at the abuse—“you needn’t bark all their names. It is enough, if
they will all come—all come. And when I have melted all that’s
here—for every bit shall to the crucible—why, then there’s that
accursed hermitage—that home of vanity that my wife made me buy. Me,
poor fool! then as fine and brainless as a horse-fly. Where is”—and
Jericho’s leaf-like body shook, and his eye glowed like a carbuncle
as he dragged the words out—“where is that woman? Where, those young
white-faced witches that would have me melt like wax before the
fires of perdition; would utterly consume me, so they might live and
rejoice, and array themselves in my destruction? What! They defy me
in my own house? That woman, the mother witch, that years long-past
ensnared me with a lie; that lured me to the church with what seemed
gold. A damned jack-a-lanthorn! And there she stood; her hand in
mine, and a lie in her heart. I see her now. Her large beautiful
face—for it was beautiful—with a smile all over it; and that smile
all a lie. Humph!”—said Jericho moodily, “I was a happy, careless
jackass, till I thrust my neck under a yoke, running for what seemed
golden oats—golden oats.”
“Be of good heart, master,” said old Plutus with a mischievous leer,
“’tis a common case. The best of men have fallen in the snare; the
best of women, too. Wasn’t mistress herself a little choused—-just a
little?”
“What of that? When two beggars marry, still the she-beggar has the
best of it: for the he-pauper—poor, damned devil!—has tatters to find
for two. And this woman now defies me. And her young tiger kittens!
Well, well, we shall see—we shall see,” cried Jericho; and again he
rubbed his hands, warming them as with some horrid resolution. “They
dare me in my own house. They will not stir, they cry. They will
not—mother wolf, and young ones—they will not let go their hold.
Well, I’ll sell them bare—bare. Their beds from under them; their
clothes from off them. I will turn that woman—that lie—ha! ’tis a
harder and a sharper lie than it was; older and baser looking, than
when first it cheated me—I’ll turn her upon the world, without a
shred, without a doit.”
“You can’t do it,” said the grimy serving-man, with a hard grin,
“can’t do it, indeed, dear master. The law makes a man provide for
his wife. Such is the world. More’s the pity!”
“Law! What’s the law to a man with millions of mercenaries? With
fighting yellow-boys, fighting where still they’ve won—are still to
win—the bloodiest of battles; though no blood is seen? In law’s very
courts? In the very courts?” And then Jericho, with his brow in his
hand, sat for some minutes, silently brooding; his filthy attendant
looking steadily at him; and, it seemed strange—growing more and more
like his horrid master. At length the Man of Money started from his
meditation. “Why, what a brain is mine!” he cried: “sometimes I feel
it fluttering in my skull—fluttering like a bird; and sometimes,
humming and buzzing like a beetle.”
“It may be want of rest,” said the pliant Plutus.
“Liar!” roared Jericho: “but that’s no matter. Go; get me a crowbar.
Stop. This will do,” and Jericho took the poker—the foreign luxury
had been brought to the scullion’s bower by the serving-man—and
balancing it, he repeated mutteringly: “This will do. Now, follow me
down stairs. This will right me. This will punish the lie—the fine
lie—the lie that first betrayed me.”
“Dear, good sir,” cried Plutus, with hypocritic whine, “you’ll do
no violence, you won’t harm the dear ladies? Consider, dear, good
master; consider your own safety. If you consider nobody else—and
why, indeed, should you?—at least, consider your sweet self. Dear,
dear master! Have mercy on your own days, and don’t hurt the ladies.”
“I’ll have my right—I’ll have my own. I’ll have what my blood, and
flesh, and marrow are turned into. I’ll have it all back. You dog,
follow me.”
“As in duty bound, dear master,” said the old slave; and with a
smile and a light step, he followed Jericho who, as he descended the
stairs, muttered revenge against the lie—the chain of lies—that as he
said, had bound him.
* * * * *
Poor Mrs. Jericho—more and more assured of the madness of her
husband—had resolved to take counsel of her dear and valued
friends. Again and again she had determined to seek Basil, and then
she faltered; for she feared the wild enthusiasm of his temper.
He would, it was her dread, make such strange conditions; would
doubtless insist upon her renunciation of Jericho’s wealth; would
require herself and daughters to forego the luxuries that custom
had made necessary as daily bread. Therefore she would appeal to
the judgment of wise, practical people; of men who really knew the
world; of folks who, strong in the religion that it was the best
possible abiding-place, never dreamt of quitting it. (Thus, whilst
Jericho was raving in the garret, Mrs. Jericho was giving audience
to councillors and friends. The Man of Money saw his wife and her
daughters homeless, destitute, and enjoyed happiness, as at a
draught, meditating such misery. And at the same moment, Mrs. Jericho
contemplated the Man of Money secure in a mad-house; made harmless
and made as comfortable as his sad condition would allow. Jericho,
his brain the while singing with sweet music, was reviewing his
millions of golden soldiery. And at the like instant, Jericho’s wife,
anticipating time, beheld her lunatic lord in paper diadem and straw
boots.)
Doctor Stubbs, combining the two noble characters of doctor and
friend, was prompt—aye, affectionately prompt—with his best aid.
And Doctor Mizzlemist united great private regard with great public
erudition. Mizzlemist had flown in his carriage with his best
consolation. Colonel Bones, in his hard, coarse way—but solacing
withal, like sugar from wood—came ready with his counsel, though at
the peril of his life. Commissioner Thrush, filled with exotic wisdom
culled from the spiceries of Siam, attended, a comforter; and the
Honourable Cesar Candituft, though bleeding with an inward wound for
the falsehood of a friend, even Candituft at such a moment would not
absent himself.—No; though Agatha had been betrayed, treacherously
supplanted by his own sister, it was still his duty to suppress his
feelings, and watch the interests of Monica; the more especially that
destiny might haply interknit them with his own.
And, at the very time that Jericho bethought him of a crowbar as
the instrument of some tremendous deed, at the very time, these
councillors, with Mrs. Jericho, Monica, and Agatha Pennibacker sat in
the drawing-room; sat solemn in druidic circle. Indeed, the extreme
caution—manifest in the looks and manner of all, gave a strange
air of mystery to the gathering. Mrs. Jericho, though reduced to a
single maid—who would not be turned out, though Jericho abused and
threatened never so lustily—had resolved not to quit the premises.
No: she had made up her mind; and if it must be, she would die in
that drawing-room. Therefore, as her councillors one by one arrived,
they were, to their own astonishment and passing disquiet, hushingly
admitted across the threshold, and stealthily conducted to the
presence chamber. “Gently, sir,”—said Wyse, the maid, as she admitted
Candituft, the last comer, “gently, if you please: tread like a cat;
for if the madman should hear you, I wouldn’t answer for your life.”
Warned by such intelligence, Candituft—after an unconscious backward
glance at the street door—stept, like any dancing-girl, upon his toes
to the drawing-room.
“My dear friends,” said Mrs. Jericho, “in the great calamity that has
fallen upon our house—upon our house—it is at least a consolation
that I can cast myself upon your sympathies.”
“To be sure, certainly,” said Mizzlemist. “These are the times that
try friends.”
“For myself, I could endure my fate without a murmur. I could follow
poor Mr. Jericho,—I could follow him to the end of the world.”
“You mustn’t think of it, my dear madam,” said Doctor Stubbs.
And then not content with a single declaration, he iterated with
professional emphasis—“You must _not_ think of it.’
“But I have daughters,” said Mrs. Jericho; and for a time she
evidently felt she had said sufficient. For, she let her right arm
fall, as with a weight of emotion; and statue-like, looked icily
before her.
“It is of course your duty, madam, to take care of yourself,” said
Commissioner Thrush. “Happily, we live in a Christian country; where
we look upon woman—lovely woman—as something divine.”
“An angel in the rough. Humph?” said Bones.
“We can all see, my dear lady,” said Candituft, “that the wife
wrestles with the parent. But after all, what would this world be
without its trials? They do us good; they are meant to do us good.”
(Poor little Agatha! She sighed, and bit her lip; totally rejecting
this side-wind consolation.)
“And therefore, my dear friends”—said Mrs. Jericho with new
nerve—“counsel me; advise me. Upon your knowledge of the world I
rely. It will be a hard struggle; but Mr. Jericho’s property must be
protected; and therefore, I fear Mr. Jericho—as I say, it will cost
me many a pang—Mr. Jericho must be restrained.”
“Make yourself comfortable, madam,” said the voice of consolation,
speaking through Stubbs; “there is nothing more easy; nothing more
easy.”
“It’s done every day,” cried Mizzlemist, as though he spoke of eating
a meal or taking a pinch of snuff.
“The calamity is common,” said Candituft, with his mind made up at
the very worst to endure it.
“And, in this country,” remarked Thrush, much comforted with the
thought, “lunatics are so well considered.”
“Happy as kings. Humph?” cried Bones.
“Still I have hope,” said Mrs. Jericho. “I have consolation in the
belief that the poor dear creature—ha, what a heart he has under all
his strange manner!—only wanders for a time. And the truth is, my
dear friends, it must be confessed he has been sorely tried.” The
friends stared. “It is no wonder that the strongest brain should reel
a little under so sudden a blow.” The friends stared anew. “To be
singled out by fortune; to be selected from millions to suffer what
he has done! To be called upon, at a moment I may say, to stand with
such a mountain on his head! To be made, at a minute’s notice, if I
may use the expression, another Atlas; why, it’s enough to make a
giant stagger.”
“Why, what—what trial?” asked Doctor Stubbs with pompous concern.
“What blow?” inquired Mizzlemist, looking sagely adown his waistcoat.
“Singled out! How,—what for? Humph?” growled Bones.
“A mountain on his head! What’s the mountain about?” asked Thrush.
“Excellent, worthy creature! An Atlas in calamity! And none of us to
know it,” cried Candituft.—“My dear madam, what is it—what has Mr.
Jericho had to suffer?”
“Why, riches”—answered Mrs. Jericho, a little surprised at the
dullness of her councillors.
“Oh!” exclaimed the friends, feeling at once sympathetic and rebuked.
“The sudden load of wealth was enough to crush any brain: and
though—dear Solomon!—for a time stood up like a hero beneath the
shock; still, I do fear, it has been too much for that fine web of
reason, as, Doctor Stubbs, I think I’ve heard you call the brain.”—
“Never, madam,” cried Stubbs hastily; “could not possibly have done
it. For the brain is not a web, but a series of convolutions, divided
into two hemispheres, that”—
“To be sure; that is exactly what you said,” rejoined Mrs. Jericho.
“Well, then, I’m afraid of the hemispheres.”
“In a word, and to come at once to business,” said Mizzlemist, who
for some time had shifted in his chair, as though he had sat on lumps
of pounce—“in a word, madam, it is your opinion that your husband—our
unfortunate friend—is at the present time incapable of controlling
his own affairs?”
Mrs. Jericho, placing her handkerchief before her face, said, “That
is my opinion.”
“Very good,” rejoined Mizzlemist, satisfied that matters were at
length shaping themselves into form. “Very good. However, let us
proceed with certainty. Let us hear the evidence. For I need not
observe, it would be very painful to poor Jericho’s family—very
painful to his friends—to sue out a commission of lunacy, and after
all not to succeed. Waiving my friendship, failure would hurt my
feelings as a professional man.” Saying this, Mizzlemist drew himself
up to a table, whereupon were those dangerous implements—paper, pen,
and ink. Then with pen in hand, put the opening question—“What was
the first wild symptom, my dear madam? Yes; as you conceive, the
first indication of Mr. Jericho’s insanity?”
“The first? Oh! It was this,” answered the troubled wife and witness.
“This. He said, that as he felt himself a goose in the House of
Commons—goose, I remember was the word—he would go to stubble in
September, and never return to Parliament again.”
“Humph!” said Mizzlemist; and a little baulked, he rubbed his nose,
and looked down upon the virgin sheet. Then, as though taking heart,
he said—“But we’ll proceed, if you please. The next?”
“The next symptom? It was when—when—you will recollect, Mr.
Candituft, the circumstance—when we spoke of Monica’s dowry, and—and”—
“Perfectly well,” said Candituft, “and in the wildest manner, he
refused a single penny.”
“Well?” said Mizzlemist, still twiddling the impending pen. “That
doesn’t help us. What next?”
“Why, then,” deposed Mrs. Jericho with amended alacrity, “the poor
fellow raved and stormed, and said the house was furnished with money
that was his blood.” And still Mizzlemist wrote not a syllable. “His
blood,” repeated Mrs. Jericho, with pathetic emphasis.
“Humph!” cried Mizzlemist, “we get no nearer to it. No nearer. But
let’s proceed.”
“And then I perfectly recollect”—chimed in Candituft—“that our
unfortunate friend, foaming while he said it—foaming, my dear Doctor
Mizzlemist—declared that he was being eaten alive by society. That,
in other words, people of the best condition who came to his parties,
were no better than cannibals.”
Doctor Mizzlemist laid down the pen, and with a blank stare thrust
both his hands in his pockets. “I must confess,” he said at length,
“we are all in the dark as yet. I don’t see a ray of light; not a
glimmer.”
“Why, surely, all this must be madness? Plain as the moon at the
full?” said Candituft.
“The fact is,” answered Mizzlemist, “as Mr. Jericho’s friends, we
may have our own convictions. We may not doubt his insanity. But,
unfortunately, we have to convince a jury.”
“Ha! that’s it,” said Monica with a sigh; and Agatha shook her little
head and sighed, “that’s it.”
Colonel Bones had, for some time, been in thought. At length he
observed—“Could nothing be made out of the poor fellow’s conduct the
day when—when Miss Agatha—was _not_ married?”
“Oh, Colonel!” exclaimed Agatha with a spasm of sorrow.
“Beg your pardon,” said Bones. “Better luck next time. But I was only
thinking,—was there no bit of madness then? Laughed very wildly,
didn’t he?”
“Won’t do for a jury,” cried Mizzlemist. Then, with great zeal, he
resumed the pen. “Come, we must not be beat in this way. Can’t you
help us, doctor?” and Mizzlemist appealed to Stubbs.
“By-and-bye; in good time,” said Stubbs. “Keep me to the last. I
prefer it.”
Mizzlemist looked eloquently at Mrs. Jericho. “With submission,
doctor,” said the lady, hesitatingly and mournfully, “I think the
state in which you find us, is sufficient evidence of the calamity
that afflicts our house. All the servants discharged. Mr. Jericho
himself, attended by some hideous creature—who he is, and whence he
came I know not—Mr. Jericho, shut up in a garret, like some wild
beast in a cave—Mr. Jericho, I say”—
“Very true; and bad as true,” said Mizzlemist, “but still,” he added
with a sigh, “no evidence.”
“Why, what is wanted?” cried Monica, out of all patience with the
stupidity of law.—“Are we to wait until we are all killed—now, mamma,
I must speak—are we to wait till we are all made dreadful victims,
until the law will protect us?”
“Very good, indeed; very well said,” observed Mizzlemist, pleased
with the spirit of the maiden; whilst Candituft a little gravely
gazed upon the flushed cheeks and flashing eyes of his betrothed.
“Perhaps, my dear young lady, you can assist us, after all?” said
Mizzlemist. “Your mamma will, I know, permit you to depose to
whatever you know. Now; have you witnessed any symptoms of insanity
on the part of Mr. Jericho?”
“Thousands,” exclaimed the impassioned and imaginative Monica.
“Name one; one to begin with,” said the Doctor, “that will prove to a
jury your worthy father-in-law to be wholly incapable of controlling
his own affairs. One instance.”
[Illustration: “_And there stood Jericho!_”]
“Well, then,” said Monica, entering with rapture on the task, and
for one instance ready to run over twenty, touching them like keys
of music—“well, then, he’s discharged all the servants—he’s locked
up all the plate—he’s asked for our jewels back again—he’s going to
sell the house, and turn us into apartments—he’s threatened the three
of us with gowns of sackcloth—and—and—and—he called me on Monday
last—and at the very time I was singing too—he called me a screeching
wild puss of the woods!”
“Did he, indeed?” said Mizzlemist.
“It was worse than puss,” cried Monica, hysterical.
“Nevertheless,” and Mizzlemist dropt the pen, “there is no evidence
in all this; no evidence that Solomon Jericho, Esq., M.P., is of
unsound mind and incapable of managing his own affairs.”
As Doctor Mizzlemist delivered this opinion, a crash was heard in
an adjoining room. Another and another; and then a loud, triumphant
laugh from the throat of Jericho.
Wife and daughters, with jury of friends, started to their feet.
Candituft, ere he was aware—for had he reflected a moment, he would
as soon have unbarred a lion’s cage—opened the door. And there stood
Jericho, laden with spoil! The girls shrieked when they beheld their
jewel cases in the gripe of the Man of Money; and Mrs. Jericho,
when she saw all her diamonds repossessed by their donor, felt as
a mother must feel, beholding her cherished little one—her only
treasure—crunched between the teeth of a royal tiger. Jericho said
not a word; but stood, and leered upon the company, and with a savage
chuckle, the while shaking the iron implement—the burglarious poker
with which he had broken up cases and cabinets—rejoicingly exhibited
his plunder. Then, about to ascend to his garret, he roared to the
felonious familiar that grinned at his elbow—“See all these robbers
into the street—the street; and then come to me;” and still hugging
the spoil, Jericho, with another laugh, flitted up the staircase.
“Surely, Dr. Mizzlemist,” cried the impulsive Agatha, “this must
satisfy anybody? This is madness—to steal my pearls!”
“My amethysts!” sobbed Monica.
“And my diamonds!” cried Mrs. Jericho, with so deep an utterance of
wrong, that every other injury was lost in it—straws in a whirlpool.
Doctor Mizzlemist shook his head. “Very violent; very selfish;
nevertheless, the fact would by no means satisfy a jury that Solomon
Jericho is incapable of looking after his own property.”
And the sheet of paper provided to contain a crowd of evidence
against the sanity of Jericho, remained without a mark; a virgin
page. Its whiteness went to the very heart of Mrs. Jericho, as her
listless eye fell upon it. Life itself seemed a blank.