CHAPTER XXII.
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. Hewouldhave 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’sbower 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 wouldallow. 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 madmanshould 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 mustnotthink 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, asthough 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—wasnotmarried?”
“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.”
“And there stood Jericho!”
“And there stood Jericho!”
“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, “thismust 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.