Though Mrs. Jericho had failed in her hopes of sympathetic assistance
from the friends she had summoned about her, she would not quit
the field. She would dispute the ground inch by inch. On her final
interview with Basil—she would rather not see Bessy, she wished
to be spared the trial—she declared that, albeit Mr. Jericho was
strangely wayward, it was but a passing whim. However, be that as
it might, it was her duty as a wife and mother to remain where she
was. And Basil, having taken his measures that, at the worst, his
mother and sisters might be protected, bade them a gay farewell; for
he felt that the separation would be only for a short time. “My dear
mother,” he said, “in a while, and you’ll be making pumpkin pie in a
log-hut; as rosy as the ruddiest milkmaid.” Mrs. Jericho smiled very
wanly at the picture. “And you, girls, why, what hands you’ll be at
rearing chicks, and fattening pigs.” The young ladies shuddered at
the thought. And when Basil prophesied for them a brace of stalwart
farmers for husbands, why, in their own words, “their blood ran cold
at the bare idea.”
Meanwhile our Man of Money hugged himself in his triumph. He had
despoiled his wife and her daughters of the costly gifts that in his
horns of ignorant weakness had been beguiled from him. And when he
looked at the jewels—when he knew that they were his own again,—the
victory was saddened by the despairing thought that, he could by no
known means, repossess himself of all the money—all he had wasted
upon them. “No; no. It is a curse to think it, but _they_ cannot to
the crucible. They cannot yield up an ounce—nay not a grain—of the
glorious money cast away upon their pampered flesh—their mincing
appetites—their brainsick whims. No: that money is gone; buried in
the graves of vanity, and gluttony, and show. Gone! Gone! In another
land I might have sold those milk-faced witches for something to
reimburse me. But there is no help for it here—none.” These savage
and fantastic thoughts fermented in the brain of Jericho; and, still
defeated in his moody musings, he would still return to the idea of
his loss, to the hope to cover it. “To think that they—the sleek
white cats!—to think that they should be the tombs wherein I have
buried so much! To think that they should have so devoured me! That
they should have worn my heart! Should have been arrayed with my
life! Should have worn it in their ears, about their tiny wrists!
Nay, should have trod upon it, in their damned glass slippers! And
not a penny—not a penny can I melt from them!” And then, as some
consolation, the miser would look at the jewels—the plunder he had
secured. Any way, that was something snatched from the wreck. Yet it
was hard to gain nothing more. Hard to know that the cost of past
days, the bye-gone pomp and luxury,—was irrevocable as the departed
hours.
The Man of Money sat crouched in the scullion’s garret. His sordid
serving-man—with his eyes fiercely bent upon his master; his mouth
curved with a sharp grin, as though he read odd, strange, diabolic
matter in the brain laid bare to his looks—his servant Plutus stood
apart. The morning was come, and in a while, the buyers would crowd
to purchase; to buy the contents of the mansion bit by bit, so
that—as Jericho rejoiced—he might carry them in his pocket.
“There’s some of them,” said Jericho, turning up his cheek as the
knocker struck through the house. The Man of Money, followed by
his servant, descended the stairs, with tripping pace. “Bring them
to me—here,” said Jericho, passing into a room; whilst the menial
proceeded to the door. “Not gone, yet—not yet!” exclaimed the Man of
Money to his weeping wife as, pale and trembling, she approached him.
“My dear Solomon,”—
“Well?” answered Jericho, with hyena laugh, “well, my very dear
wife?”
“For the last time, let me supplicate you,” said the woman.
“I am content, for the last time. Well, go on; supplicate,” answered
the Man of Money.
“You will destroy us,” exclaimed the poor wife—“utterly, utterly
destroy us.”
“Well? I know it—I know it,” answered Jericho. “And may I not destroy
what I have made? You were all beggars when I took ye, and to
beggars ye shall return. The rags, with my blood, were changed into
gold-cloth. Now, I’ll have my blood again—I will—and you shall have
your rags.”
“Dear Jericho! This is madness,” cried the wife.
“No, it isn’t,” answered Jericho, with a strange calmness. “It isn’t
madness, my dear, dear spouse, as the wise Doctor Mizzlemist has
signified. Oh, it was a rare meeting! How happy you might have been!
What rare junkettings, here! What a world of fashion, making this
house a heaven,—and the poor devil, the madman owner, the maniac bone
of your bone—the lunatic flesh of your flesh—fast bound, fast barred!
What music you would have had—and he, the Bedlamite, howling to the
moon. Go!” yelled the Man of Money, stamping his thin noiseless foot
upon the floor; but the woman, drawing herself up, resolved to stand
her ground. “What! you thought because you had not yet eaten the
fruit, you would never taste its bitterness.”
“What fruit? What bitterness?” cried Mrs. Jericho, rising in spirit.
Jericho gave no direct reply. Hugging his arms about him, he swayed
to and fro. “Some lies,” he cried, “like some truths, are of long
growth ere they bear; but they do bear at last. Now, the lie you
sowed”—
“I!” exclaimed the indignant wife.
“The lie you sowed,”—repeated Jericho doggedly—“fell upon hard
ground, ’tis true. The altar stone, no less. Still, the lie has
sprouted, has struck root; has shot up, and its fruit—like the fruit
of every lie, I know that much now—is bitterness. The wine it makes
is misery, to the dregs of life—and you shall drink your fill of it.
No; I am not mad; even, saying this, I am not mad;” cried Jericho,
for he marked the eloquent meaning of the woman’s looks—“not mad, but
enlightened. This is not frenzy, madam; but wisdom—withering wisdom,”
sighed Jericho, and there was such a sound of human suffering in
the words that, with a smile in her face, the wife looked up at her
persecutor.
“My dear, you are not well—this is”—
“Why stay you here?” cried the Man of Money, with the old ferocity.
“Why will you not be warned? Well, well, take your own way—you know
best; you know best. But in a few hours, and there’s not a bed left
for your fine, costly bones to lie upon. Now, will you depart?” cried
Jericho.
“No,” exclaimed the wife. “I know my course. I am advised.” Jericho
laughed. “Oh, do not doubt that,” repeated the angry woman. “I will
not quit the house while a tatter remains. It shall be your work to
leave me destitute, and then”—
“Aye, destitute; as I took you. The rich widow—the Indian queen—the
sultana”—
“The man of wealth—the shipowner—the holder of stocks—the golden
merchant”—
“Well, and has it turned out otherwise?” asked Jericho, sullenly
and proudly. “Has my wealth been wanting? Did I cheat you? Have you
not shared and shared? Have you not cursed me? You married me for
your money-drudge—your golden slave. And still, with your speech you
goaded me; still with that whip of asp—a shrew’s tongue—you scourged
me. Money—money! And despairingly I wished even of the fiend for
money. I have my wish”—and Jericho slowly fixed his eyes upon his
wife, whose sympathy returned with the man’s suffering—fixed his
eyes, whilst his face became ghastly pale, though with the paleness
came back something of the calmer look of former days—“I have my
wish,” groaned Jericho, spreading his hand upon his breast—“and—I
feel it—I am damned for it.”
“Husband!” cried the wife, and her arm sought to embrace him.
“Heavens!” she screamed in terror; and with her arm—some time
divorced—around her husband, her blood stood frozen at the change.
His body seemed as a wand—a willow wand. The wife trembled, and did
not dare to look at what she deemed monstrous—devilish. With her
heart beating thick, her brow bedewed, her arm fell as dead to her
side.
“The brain burns brightest, I have heard,” said Jericho, with
mournful, meaning voice—with features pale and tranquil, and with a
gleam of their old expression—“brightest a while before ’tis clay—if
it be so, in the running of some minutes, I _was_. My God! What do
I see?” and Jericho stared with eyes suddenly lustrous, “What do
I see?” he groaned. “The skeletons of things! Outside beauty has
departed, and here—here I stand—in a house of dust. I know that was
some fine thing upon you—some silken rag of pride—and now it is a
web of dust—of woven dust! I look upon your face—that fine, large,
glowing, breathing lie that was, and it is a lie no longer. No; it is
resolved into the one truth—the universal dust, the _caput mortuum_
of the last day.”
“My love,” said the wife, with a voice of terror; but the man
possessed would not hear.
“Why could I not see this before? Why, I know that thing about your
neck was gold; _is_ gold still to the blind ignorance of the world.
It is a piece of yellow dust; so light, a breath must scatter it. All
dust. Your fine, proud, sweeping body! Why, now I see it as it is.
I could crumble it with my hands. And your heart, I see that too!
And what is called the blood passing through it. Blood! why, it is a
gush of sand. And your brain?—as busy as an ant-hill; as busy and as
earthy.”
“My dear,” said the wife, struck with the change, yet fain to play
the comforter, “you are better now.”
“Much better; for I can see through all things. Why had I not one
glance of this before? Are we only to know what dirt is pride and
pomp, only to know it when the tongue begins to taste the clay? But
it is no matter,” and the wild look again dawned in the sick man’s
face. Again, the fierce, wild, violent spirit grew strong within him.
“It is no matter. All’s well. Very well! As I said—as I said. I am
rich, and I am damned for it. I have earned hell—well earned it”—
“For the love of heaven,” cried the woman in despair, for the moment
feeling a partner in the horror.
“None of that! No cowardice! No craven—twelfth-hour puling. Be honest
when you can’t help it. ’Twas a bargain; a fair bargain with hell.
So let the devil have his own. And mark you! Woman of sin—thing of
smiles and fraud! you and your young hags take a witch’s flight, and
be gone. You had best: much best. Wait another day, and there’ll not
be a broomstick to fly with.”
And here, introduced by Plutus—how Mrs. Jericho shuddered at the
creature’s presence!—came certain tradesmen; wreckers never absent
when a fortune founders. Israel, Laban, and Issachar stood before
the Man of Money, who, on the instant, returned to his hungry,
ravenous self. Yes; at sight of the dealers, the face of Jericho
put on its former wickedness; and philosophy and remorse were dumb
and dead, and cunning and avarice again active and voluble. With a
contemptuous chuck of the head, Jericho acknowledged the presence
of the chapmen, and then turned fiercely upon his wife. “Are you
advised now? A few hours, and if you will stay here, you shall rule
the mistress of naked walls. Go!” And the poor woman, with terror in
her looks, fled from the spot. How—in that moment—she accused the
lingering, guilty pride, that had withheld her from communing with
Basil! How willingly would she have followed him! With what alacrity
have flung aside, like tarnished finery, her present life, and drawn
the breath of simplicity and peace! And with this thought she sought
her daughters. This thought she uttered with fervent utterance; and
found no according sympathy. But youth is apt to be disdainful.
And so it was with Monica, so even with the less courageous Agatha.
Both of them bade their mother—she herself had taught the lesson,
and now her pupils bade her not forget it—have a nobler spirit. They
were prepared to defy the tyrant to the last! Indeed, in a wild,
passionate moment, burning with revenge, Monica laughing and clapping
her hands, declared it would be noble sport to set fire to the house,
and all perish in the flames. Poor girl! We verily believe she had no
such wicked intention. She only spoke from a desperate waywardness
of spirit; for it must not be forgotten that the treasonous letter
of the dastard Candituft—(he married, ten years after, a tyrannous
old maid, with enormous expectations that ripened into nothing better
than erysipelas)—the coward letter, like a live coal, was eating up
Monica’s heart. However, the mother was re-assured by the spirit of
her children; and having gathered together all the property—body
goods, no other—allowed them by the tyrant Man of Money, was resolved
to stay to the last. Neither would she take the judgment of the jury
of friends as final. She must believe—moreover Monica, upon the
strength of her grey experience was convinced—that the law was too
kind, too just and benevolent towards feeble woman, not to dethrone
and confine for life, her maniac despot.
In the meantime, the dealers, accompanied by Jericho, prowled from
room to room. Furniture, plate, pictures—all that had made the
glory of Jericho—were duly considered and duly debased by the men
who wished to make them their own. For a while, Jericho endured the
chaffering of the tribe. At length, he suddenly drew up. “Look ye
here,” said the Man of Money, prepared at once to make clean work of
it; for his impatience subdued his avarice,—“Look ye, here. I treat
with men of honour; with scrupulous merchants whose only wish is a
fair profit. I know this, gentlemen. The tone of your voices, the
clear look of your eyes, the sterling worth of your words, as we have
passed from room to room, considering the goods,—all convince me
that I am safe in your hands.”
Israel, Laban, and Issachar, staring somewhat, bowed.
“Safe in your hands,” repeated Jericho. “Well, then, why should we
waste time? I want to be quit of this. I want, at a thought, to melt
all you see and have seen, into ready money. I know I must be a
mighty loser. Oh yes! For money never was so scarce—trade never so
very dead. This I knew before; so not a word about it now. Well then,
worthy gentlemen, princely dealers, take counsel with yourselves, and
to save a public hubbub—for I would pass from this fiery furnace of a
house, this mansion burning with gold, to the peaceful corner I have
provided me. You understand?”—
Again Israel, Laban, and Issachar, bowed. They understood perfectly.
“Take counsel, I say, and make me an offer, a lumping offer for the
whole. Eh?”
Israel, Laban, and Issachar were impressed with the comprehensive
largeness of the thought. It would save time, and trouble, and the
liberal, the right royal Jericho would be a gainer—there could be no
doubt of it—a great gainer in the end.
“Fellow,” and Jericho turned to his serf, “conduct the merchants into
every corner. And gentlemen, let me have your offer—be it ever so
rough a guess, still something like it—your offer to-night. No later;
to-night.”
Israel, Laban, and Issachar, with their hearts glowing in their eyes,
and smiling at their mouths, rubbed their hands, and promised. The
magnificent Jericho should have their offer in the evening. They, the
merchant friends—old associates, time-tried fellows—with one another
would soon decide; and—there should be no miss in the matter—a plain,
distinct offer should be made in the evening.
Whereupon, the Man of Money ascended to his garret, and the dealers
pursued their occupation. There was only one apartment shut against
them. And here, Mrs. Jericho and her daughters defied a siege. Every
other place was searched, and every article scanned by the dealers,
who at length with a grave joy departed from the house, big with the
belief in a glorious pennyworth.
The Man of Money sat alone in his garret. Evening closed in, and the
moon rose, and looked reproachfully at the miser. The same moon that
looked so tenderly upon millions; the same moon that shone upon the
silvery sails of the _Halcyon_, flying like a sea-bird to its home.
The Man of Money started in his chair. “What’s that?” The garret door
opened. “You,—is’t not?”
“I,” answered the slave Plutus.
“Well? Has it come?” cried the master.
“Here it is,” answered the servant; and he laid a letter upon the
table.
“Well, now for their conscience!” exclaimed the Man of Money. “Go,
while I read it,” and the servant departed. “Stay, dog. A light—I
cannot read else. Do you hear? A light.”
The fellow came not in; but his voice was heard without. “There is a
candle on the table; and paper prepared to light it.”
Most precious paper! The heart’s flesh and blood of the Man of Money.
For the devilish serving-man had folded a note—(how obtained, can
it matter?)—a note peeled from the breast of his master; a piece of
money, a part of the damned Jericho, sympathising with him.
The Man of Money took the paper,—the devil with his ear upturned
crept closer to the door—and thrust it amidst the dying coals. A
moment, and the garret is rent as with a lightning flash.
Yelling, and all on fire, the Man of Money falls prostrate, with
hell in his face. Then his lips move, but not a sound is heard. And
the fire communicated by the sympathy of the living note—the flesh
of his flesh—like a snake of flame, glides up his limbs, devouring
them. And so he is consumed. A minute; and the Man of Money is a
thin, black paper ash. Now, the night wind stirs it; and now, a
sudden breeze carries the cinerous corpse away, flattering it to dust
impalpable.
And at the moment, the possessions of Jericho—all he had bought with
his flesh, and blood, and soul—all was blasted to tinder, consumed to
ashes. The pictures dropt in dust from the walls; the walls crumbled;
the very gold the wretch had hoarded became as nought.
Candituft looked at his diamond ring—the gift of Jericho—and it was
a speck of charcoal. Bones and Thrush, drawing forth their golden
snuff-boxes, found in their hands two lumps of soot.
Mrs. Jericho and her daughters were alike disenchanted. The very
moment Jericho passed away in flame, they found themselves in
garments of tinder.
And thus were all things of the Man made of Money—things of dust and
ashes.
* * * * *
The night has passed, and day—lovely summer time—smiles a benison
upon the world. The _Halcyon_, with her sea-pilgrims aboard,
lies-to off the western shore. There are two voyagers yet to come.
And there—a thing no bigger than a nautilus—a boat comes shooting
out; tussling and bounding with the breeze and sea, and now fairly
leaping from wave to wave towards the ship, as with the instinct of
some creature towards its parent breast. “There they are!” shouts
Carraways, and his wife cries and laughs—and Jenny Topps jumps
about—and Robert claps his hands—and Old White blesses himself—and
Doctor Dodo smiles, and Mrs. Dodo is so happy—and the nine children
Dodos—baby at the breast counting for nothing—give a scream and a
shout of delight!
[Illustration: _The end of the Man of Money._]
Another minute, and the boat is alongside. And there are bride and
bridegroom,—there is Bessy with such happiness filling her good face,
with Basil’s arm around her—and Basil looking proud of his treasure!
Another minute, and Bessy is upon the deck in her mother’s arms; and
Basil grasps the hand of father Carraways.
Captain Goodbody’s eye—he sees all but says little—glistens at the
meeting. The boat’s cast off—all’s right.
“’Bout ship!” cries the Captain. The yards swing round; the canvas
fills as with the breath of good spirits. May such await the trusting
and courageous hearts our vessel carries—await on them and all who,
seeking a new home, sail the mighty deep!
THE END.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 45 Changed: you havn’t the means
to: you haven’t the means
pg 98 Changed: paid the money for his saet
to: paid the money for his seat
pg 114 Changed: and his wife sittin at the fireside
to: and his wife sitting at the fireside
pg 122 Changed: put a horse-collar round about the the
to: put a horse-collar round about the
pg 127 Changed: I could’nt go into the City
to: I couldn’t go into the City
pg 132 Changed: But natur that makes us love
to: But nature that makes us love
pg 136 Changed: committed in wine must be betwen
to: committed in wine must be between
pg 140 Changed: has thrown an undying ustre
to: has thrown an undying lustre
pg 147 Changed: with a smile and a waive
to: with a smile and a wave
pg 267 Changed: Wont they be surprised
to: Won’t they be surprised