CHAPTER XII.
Already had Mr. Jericho banked the purchase-money for Jogtrot Hall. Thirty thousand pounds’ worth of flesh had he sacrificed to buy to himself a country mansion; the better, in the flattering words of his wife, to fill the world; who delighted as she was with the obedient ambition of her lord, was, nevertheless, touched in her tenderest affections when she contemplated his diminished presence. Even Jericho himself, prepared as he was for the astonishment of his family and familiars, winced as he caught the astounded glances of his circle. Breeks, the tailor, began to measure, and to re-measure with an increasing wonder, that in a little time deepened into awe, and threatened to explode into terror. “It’s like measuring a penknife for a sheath,” Breeks declared to his wife. “That Mr. Jericho’s quite a puzzle, Julia; quite. There’s no knowing where the paddin’ ends and the man begins. Man, Julia! He isn’t a man at all, but a cotton-pod. Why he can’t have no more stomach than a ’bacco-pipe.” Such were the confidential communings of man with wife; and, after certain intervals, with a whole round of Mrs. Breeks’s bosom gossips. In a little time, it was the growing-belief of a large circle that Jericho was no flesh, no man at all. “He was made up of coats,” ran the rumour, “like an onion.”
Jericho, we have said, was tenderly alive to his daily waste. Again and again had he passed the silken lace about his chest; the lace that, if the bank continued to be drawn upon, soon promised to wind round and round the anatomy of Jericho, like whipcord round a boy’s peg-top. Jericho, however, comforted himself—so had he taken measures—that the bank should be closed for many a day. He would not peel himself to a leaf, let his wife conjure as she might. Fortunately, he was never in better health. If he lost in substance, mere flesh, he somehow obtained an unusual toughness and strength of fibre. He was lithe, elastic asa rod of steel. And after all, what was flesh? Animal grossness. The less he had of it, the more spiritual the human creature.
But Mrs. Jericho would not thus be comforted. She had half-uttered her fears to Mr. Candituft. Would introduce Doctor Dodo, a friend of his, as a friend; not to alarm Mr. Jericho. Certainly not. But merely to lead him in the meanderings of a pleasant morning talk to his own individual case. Mrs. Jericho might depend upon the care of Candituft. He would study even the weakness of dear Jericho as a weakness to be reverenced. “Some weaknesses,” said Candituft, “were like flawed China: quite as good as the perfect thing, if not too rudely handled.” Mrs. Jericho declared the thought to be true and beautiful.
Now, it grieves us, as faithful chroniclers of this history to pain the reader with the intelligence that at the very time conjugal love and manly friendship were sweetly plotting for better health and insured life in the person of Solomon Jericho, there were men—certainly two constructive homicides—who contemplated the probable funeral of the Man of Money, and never once winced at the thought of the sable feathers. Let the reader judge.
Almost at the exact time that Basil Pennibacker fled in sorrow and confusion from the door of Carraways, Commissioner Thrush knocked at the postern of Solomon Jericho. And had Jericho’s household gods been as anxious, waking, instead—as we fear it too often happens with household gods in general—instead of sleeping, like pet spaniels at the fireside, sure we are that the chimney deities would have given a sympathetic shriek, or howl, or cry, or squall—hearing murder’s messenger at the door. “Is Mr. Jericho within?” asked the assistant homicide with a serene gravity worthy of the coming funeral. The victim was at home. The undertaker might walk up stairs; and making due allowance, might measure the living customer. And all this time, though the household gods might see in the burning embers, the splendid funeral of their master prefigured in glowing rays, with—if it further pleased them—a view, between the second and third bar, of the widow weeping over a pyramidal monument, weeping in a cloud of veil, with streaming wisp ofhandkerchief,—although every part and piece of this alarming spectacle were to be seen in the live coals of Jericho’s hearth, nevertheless Jericho’s household gods took no more account of the show than if it were a congregation of burning vapours brought together to roast the family goose, or cook the family mutton.
Commissioner Thrush walks placidly up to Mr. Jericho, and offers him his hand. And Jericho takes the palm in his own, never dreaming that, probably, he grasped a piece of churchyard clod.
“Though I come upon an unpleasant business, my dear sir—by the way I think you get thinner and thinner,” said Thrush.
“I believe Commissioner,” said Jericho very austerely, “I believe in polite society, a man’s flesh is silently permitted to be quite a matter for his own contemplation.”
“Mr. Jericho, I am corrected, and very properly. A thousand pardons. I bring this from my friend Colonel Bones,” and fixing his eye like a snake upon Jericho, Thrush discharged a letter upon him.
Jericho read the letter. With a stony face of contempt he looked down upon it. “This is quite ridiculous,” said Jericho.
“It may be droll, devilish droll,” said Thrush. “Men differ so in their tastes. You may think a challenge a joke; may, indeed, think pistols when they click, merelydiseurs de bons mots. Every man as he likes.”
“You do not intend to say, Commissioner Thrush, that this Colonel Bones—this gingerbread hero—this”—
“Colonel Bones is my friend,” said Thrush. “Colonel Bones has served her Majesty: at least, if not her Majesty, her Majesty’s uncle. It’s all in the family; just the same thing. You insulted the Colonel.”
“The fact is”—Jericho paused, but only one instant, for a lie—“The fact is, the day was hot; I had drunk too much—”
“I am sorry to hear it. For now it is impossible to accommodate matters. Now, sir, the Colonel must be a charcoal-burner; you must taste his saltpetre,” and Thrush smacked his lips, as recommending its flavour.
“Impossible to accommodate! When it was abuse in a moment of wine,” cried Jericho.
“Sir, an offence committed in wine must be between intimates a double offence; and for this reason; this iron-bound reason. It implies long-smouldering malice,” cried Thrush.
“I don’t see that,” exclaimed Jericho, becoming interested in the question. “How do you prove it?”
“You shall hear, sir, in a very few words; and those, the very words of my late excellent and sagacious friend, the king of Siam.”
“I don’t see,” cried Jericho, “that the king of Siam”—
“If you please; one moment,” said Thrush, with mild authority. “‘Drunkards’ his majesty would say ’are of two sorts. The good-natured and the malicious. Now, the good-natured man in his drink babbles his praises and his affections; and with all his goodness, would blush when sober to say the loving things that run from him in his wine. His sober thoughts are written in his heart in the milk of human goodness. Now, the malicious man, who in his steady hours, has kept a fair face and a clean lip to his fellow—in his time of drink talks reviling and abuse. His thoughts are written not in milk, but in vinegar: but the fire of the wine brings out either character, showing both true, the words of milk and the words of verjuice.’ Now, this, sir, was the judgment of the king of Siam.”
“I—I do not see it. I can’t see it. Ridiculous! Preposterous,” cried Jericho.
“The king of Siam though in his royal tomb, and sprinkled with the loving ashes of fifty of his wives burnt at a great expense for that occasion only—the king of Siam” said Thrush with ominous gravity, “is still my friend. When we have disposed of our present business, I shall be happy to give the readiest attention to any disparagement you may feel disposed to vent upon the lamented potentate.”
“I am not at all the man, sir, to do anything of the sort,” cried Jericho. “I respect the—the—yes, the constituted authorities, in their tombs or out of ’em.”
“I am very happy to hear it. Because you must at once concede, on the authority of my friend, the king, that an affront in drink is a double insult. You called my friend, Colonel Bones, an officer in her Majesty’s uncle’s service”—
Jericho who, though he trod upon thorns, could not resist the sneer, asked, “What regiment?”
“No matter, sir,” said Thrush, “I have forgotten it. The Colonel himself may have forgotten it. Any regiment you like. The 59th Harlequins, or the 74th Pantaloons—it is no matter. You have insulted an officer; it may be, insulted him for years. You called him toad-eater—pauper—bone-picker! Now, sir, who shall say how long you may have carried about you those opprobrious epithets, written in the strongest vinegar upon your heart? Written, and only waiting the required volume of hot, fruity port, to dawn and break out into diabolic blackness? At length you drink; you become drunk; and thereupon immediately publish to the world the calumny writ in withering acid.” Jericho was astonished. Thrush, wiping his forehead after the exertion, dropt his voice, and in the politest, meekest manner, asked, “To whom will you do me the honour to refer me? Who is your friend?”
“Certainly; to be sure,” said Jericho with alacrity; and he immediately sat down, and penned a note to the Hon. Cesar Candituft. With what a halo of benevolence was that good creature immediately surrounded! With something of a smile at his lip, Jericho penned a few familiar lines. “He would leave the matter entirely in his hands.” This done, he handed the missive to Thrush, who took it with the satisfied air of a man who felt that he was proceeding in a manner most satisfactory to the feelings of all parties.
“Good morning, Mr. Jericho, this little affair—end as it may—will, I trust, make no alteration in our intimacy. I give you my word of honour, so impartial am I in this matter—so little personal feeling have I mixed up in this business, that had you instead of the Colonel called upon me, I should have had equal pleasure in attending upon yourself.”
“You are very good, very good,” said Jericho very icily.
“Not at all. I consider that in going out with any man, I merely fulfil a great social duty, and think upon that account I have an equal claim—should the occasion fall—upon equal services from any of my fellow-creatures. Dear sir, good morning.” And Thrush went his way.
It may seem odd, when we aver that Jericho sat in the completest state of ease. He was never more tranquil, and for this reason,—he was profoundly secure in the friendship, the sweet humanity, of Candituft.He, he an accomplice to draw him into a duel! That noble fellow would rather meet the ball himself. Besides, he recollected—and very much soothed was he by the recollection—that Candituft abhorred duelling. He had heard him denounce the practice as murderous, fratricidal. “A duellist!” Candituft would say,—“A duellist is only Cain in higher life.” Very much comforted was Jericho with this sweet philanthropic sentence. Again and again did he speak it to himself: pass the beautiful words one by one before his moral vision, as a girl admires bead by bead of a new necklace.
Only half-an-hour had passed, and Candituft was announced. “A duellist is only Cain in high life,” thought Jericho triumphantly, as he rose to press the hand of his friend.
“Dear, good sir,” said Candituft, “I am delighted to see you look so happy. Yes; it is a moment like this that shows the true man. That proves the constitutional serenity of his soul. That shows him ready, if it must be, at the call of honour—ready to quit life when life has its best blandishments—ready to leave the flowery path of wealth and prosperity, and to descend into the cold and comfortless tomb. The friendship of such a man makes me proud indeed;” and Candituft shook Jericho’s hand.
“Tomb! What do you mean by tomb?” cried Jericho. “Don’t talk to me of tombs.”
“Of course, my dear friend, only as a figure of speech. Goodness forbid anything graver,” said Candituft.
“You have seen that Thrush?” asked Jericho, trying to be careless.
“I met him as I was coming here. An unpleasant business. But I’ve settled matters, I think, very comfortably,” said Candituft.
“I knew you would. My best of friends,” cried Jericho, clapping Candituft on the shoulder.
“My friend’s honour is as dear—I don’t know if it isn’t dearer—than my own. You were quite safe in my hands.” Here Candituft pulled out his pocket-handkerchief, used it with considerable vigour; and after a seemly pause, said, “We fight at eight.”
“Eight!” shrieked Jericho, and he leaped as though already struck by the bullet.
“Everything is settled quite according to routine, and we’ll take a light, early dinner, and”—
“And do you mean, sir,” exclaimed Jericho, “to call yourself my friend, and want me to fight?”
“I do assure you, my dear sir, it is the most touching proof of—I will not stop at friendship—I will say, of affection. Yes, sir, brotherly affection,” said Candituft, a little moved by a sample of the emotion.
“Why, sir, I have heard you call duelling murder! Have you not?” cried Jericho.
Candituft was instantly explicit. “Murder it is, sir.”
“Fratricide!” exclaimed Jericho.
“There can be no doubt of it: slaughter carried among the brotherhood of man.”
At length Jericho came to the clenching sentence.—“Have you not called a duellist, Cain in high life?”
“Very true, my dear sir. But if Cain is admitted into the circles, it is not for us to object to his introduction. I trust, sir, that I love my fellow-creatures. I hope I know what is due to the family of man; nevertheless I can’t be expected to give up my place in society, from the mere weakness of affection.”
“Seriously, Mr. Candituft,” asked Jericho, “do you expect me to fight Colonel Bones?”
“You placed yourself in my hands, my very dear sir—and though I should lament any fatal issue on your side—when I say lament it, I feel ’twould blight my future existence—nevertheless, as my friend, and as a man in society, as a man owing to the world the efficacy of high example, you must fight.” Thus judged the Hon. Cesar Candituft.
“But I won’t fight,” exclaimed Jericho. “Fighting isn’t in my way.”
Candituft merely observed—“Kicking may be.” Jericho drew himself up. “Pardon me, my dear friend—I”—Candituft struggled with his feelings; at length, he fell upon Jericho’s neck, and in an agony of friendship exclaimed—“Worthiest of beings! Best of creatures! You must fight!”
Jericho was a little subdued by such devotion.—“You really think I must fight?”
“Do you think,” said Candituft, “that the Duke of St. George would suffer a man who refused a challenge to sully the door-step of Red Dragon House? Noblest of men as he is, and kindest of the human race, he would feel it to be his duty to spit upon you. Metaphorically, my dear friend, of course.”
“You are right,” said Jericho, giving his courage a wrench—“I will fight.”
“I knew it”—and Candituft seized Jericho’s hand between his own—“I was sure of it.”
“At eight you say. And where”—Jericho felt a little dizzy—“where the place?”
“The best, the noblest, the most heroic spot,” said Candituft. “Battersea-Fields, of course.”
“Humph! I thought Wimbledon was more genteel,” observed Jericho, wanderingly.
“It was: but surely, my dear sir, you can’t forget. The Duke himself—the immortal Wellington, has thrown an undying lustre upon Battersea-Fields.”
“I recollect,” said Jericho. “Of course—to be sure he has.”
“Such being the case, I suffer no friend of mine to receive any man’s fire on any meaner ground. For my own part, I have always considered Battersea-Fields, as a sort of battle-field-of-ease to Waterloo. Possibly, my dear friend, the same thought may have struck you.”
“I can’t say that it has”—replied Jericho—“but I shall remember it for the future no doubt.”
“And now, my dear Solomon”—Jericho winced at the affectionate familiarity; there sounded in it a raven note—“my dear friend, you may have a few matters to settle. You may have to speak to Mrs. Jericho”—
“Why, I mus’n’t tell her of it!” asked Jericho.
“Not for ten thousand worlds! it would spoil all. We know what women are, dear creatures! They smell powder, and they scream police.” Mr. Jericho never felt a warmer admiration of the wisdom of the sex. “Not a word to Mrs. Jericho. Nevertheless you may manage indirectly to convey certain wishes. I’ve said enough. Adieu; I’ll not fail at seven, to the minute. Good bye,” and the friend and philanthropist took an affectionate leave.
Ever since Mr. Candituft had blown the praises of Doctor Dodo, Mrs. Jericho, like an earnest and affectionate wife, wished to introduce him to her husband: even though by stratagem. Responsive to the lady’s call, the Doctor came to the house; arriving some half-hour before the return of Candituft. After a brief, confidential gossip, the Doctor suggested that Mrs. Jericho should introduce him as called in by herself. She had the vapours; was nervous; failing in appetite. Happily, an excuse could never be wanted by a fine lady for a physician. Fortunately, Mr. Jericho—anxiously seeking his wife, to give some indirect council ere Candituft should return—came upon the doctor in consultation with the lady. “My dear,” said Mrs. Jericho, “Doctor Dodo. I have called him in about my horrid nerves.”
“Why, what’s the matter with them? I never heard that anything ailed them. Nevertheless, I’m very happy to see Doctor Dodo. Surely, a friend of Mr. Candituft’s?” said Jericho.
“We are very old friends, very old,” said the Doctor, and he took hold of Jericho’s hand, treating it to a somewhat prolonged shake.
“Don’t let me hurry you, my dear,” said Jericho, about to retire. “I shall be in the library. Doctor Dodo, I shall be very happy to make your acquaintance. Very happy;” and Jericho walked restlessly to the window.
Doctor Dodo shook his head, saying in a whisper, “Mr. Jericho must be seen to, dear madam. His appetite is not good?”
“Excellent,” whispered Mrs. Jericho, with emphasis.
“It looks a decided case of—however, we shall see. Pulse, very extraordinary—very extraordinary,” said the Doctor.
“Doctor Dodo, will you take a short notice,” said Mrs. Jericho, aloud, “and in a homely sort dine with us to-day?”
“I dine out, my dear,” said Jericho: “dine at the Club with Candituft, and”—a deep, sepulchral knock shook the door—“and here he is to fetch me.”
Candituft was delighted to see Doctor Dodo. The very man whom he wanted to meet. Perhaps, in the doctor’s way, he would set Jericho and himself, Candituft, down at the Club. It was exactly in the Doctor’s drive, and he would be only too happy. “Come along, dear sir,” said Candituft to Jericho significantly, “or they may wait dinner for us.”
“Good bye, Sabilla, my love,” said Jericho, and squeezed his wife’s hand a little to his wife’s astonishment.
“And now, Doctor,” said Candituft, when the three were in the carriage, “Your work is over for the day. You must oblige us with a drive—we have a little call to make; therefore, allow me to direct the coachman. After our call—we shan’t be long—we’ll all dine together.”
The Duel.
The Duel.
The Duel.
“Doctor Dodo was the most polite of men. He at once acceded to the request; and the coachman, guided by Candituft,at eight precisely drove on Battersea-Fields. “Eh!” cried the Doctor—“What! I smell powder!”
“And there’s the game,” cried Candituft, and he pointed to Colonel Bones and Thrush who had just alighted from a cab, driven to the field by the unconscious Bob Topps.
“This is not fair, Mr. Candituft. You’ve entrapped me here; I shall not stop,” said the Doctor.
“Nay, only five minutes, for Mrs. Jericho’s sake,” said Candituft. “You may be needful, Doctor.”
“I can be of no use, none whatever. You’ll please to remember I’m a physician, not a surgeon. However, as I’m here, if you’ll use dispatch”—and the Doctor looked at his watch—“I’ll see the business through.”
“Thank you—a thousand thanks,” said Candituft, and immediately he and Thrush conferred. The parties came to fight—not to explain: the seconds ruled that. Whereupon, the men were immediately placed. Candituft looked at them with an eye of admiration; saying to himself,—“I think, as near as possible, precisely on the Duke’s own ground.”
All ready. Colonel Bones, with a grunt and a grin, fires at the signal. His ball goes clear through Jericho’s bosom, knocking off a button in its passage, and striking itself flat against a pile of bricks.
“A dead man!” cried the doctor, running to Jericho.
“My friend!” exclaimed Candituft. “Have you made your will?”
“Eh! What’s the matter?” said Jericho.
“Matter!” exclaimed Doctor Dodo, and he pointed his cane to the hole in the front of Jericho’s coat, immediately over the region of his heart; and then, walking round him, stared at the hole between the fourth and fifth rib. “Matter! It’s the first time, I ever heard a man with a bullet clean through his heart, ask—what’s the matter!”
“I’m blessed if here ain’t the ball, as flat as a penny, with the waddin about it,” cried Bob Topps, picking up the lead.
“What! Eh? Why, gentlemen,” said the Doctor, taking the ball, and peeling from it the fragments of paper—“are you so rich that you wad with bank-notes?”
The Colonel’s ball had passed through Jericho’s bank-note-paper heart; and Jericho lived and moved, and was none the worse for it. Jericho fired in the air; whereupon the Colonel and Thrush, with a strange leer at him avowed themselves more than satisfied. Jericho declared the whole matter to be a good joke, and was about to enter the Doctor’s carriage. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the Doctor, “but no man, or devil, or whatever he may be, rides in my carriage, who can live with a hole through his heart.” And the Doctor jumped inside, shouted “home,” and was whirled from the ground.
Neither Thrush nor Bones cared to ride back; indeed, they proposed to walk. Whereupon, Jericho beckoned to Topps—“Not if you’d turn these fields into gold and give ’em me,” cried Bob; and he jumped on his box, and drove away.
“Dev’lish impudent fellow,” said Jericho to Candituft: but Candituft made no answer. He cared not to talk even to the Man of Money, the money having a hole in its heart.