CHAPTER XVI.
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 excusebe 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—doesnot 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 fivethousand 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—andI 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 daresay, 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 proposeto 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, Imustask—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 isyet 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.
Excitement of the Man of Money.
Excitement of the Man of Money.
Excitement of the Man of Money.