“What?” asked Jericho, with a grim and ghastly smile.
“Why, it says that—common report, by the way, isn’t very choice in its language—it says that you have sold yourself to the devil.”
Jericho rose, and with his sternest dignity and best composure, asked—“Will you take the stairs, young man, or shall I have you thrown out of the window?”
“Just one moment, sir, and when I’ve finished my business, I’ll make my choice. You sent me some bank-notes, Mr. Jericho,” said Basil, taking a letter from his pocket.
“I am almost ashamed to own it,” answered Jericho. “But I knew that to a young man—-a youth of generous feelings—money was always acceptable; and—yes I am ashamed to confess it—I was weak, foolish, fond enough to supply you with a large sum of money.” Here Mr. Jericho took out his pocket-handkerchief.
“I did not believe the story of the diabolic transfer,” said Basil; and Jericho believed he had softened his son-in-law;—“not for want of witnesses; because, we know, when the devil buys, two parties are sufficient to the deed. That I know, allow me to say, as a moralist and a lawyer.”
Jericho ventured to bow.
“I had heard the story of the duel; and inquired into it. As for the bullet going through your heart, Mr. Jericho, and you still paying the world the politeness to remain among us, I did not—though it posed me at first—I did not believe that, either. The bullet was a figure—the hole a metaphor—I was satisfied, and thought my mother safe.”
“I respect your filial anxiety, Mr. Pennibacker, though it is so ridiculously needless. Ha! ha! Then you were satisfied of the insanity of Doctor Dodo? By the way, poor man! I’m sorry for him—sorry for his family. Of course, his practice is gone; no man’s life safe in his hands. Poor fellow! Well, well, we’re frail, feeble creatures. Very arrogant in our wisdom, and yet—let a pin’s point touch the brain, as Doctor Stubbs well observes—and where are we? However, the poor Doctor’s family shall not starve. No: I shall most assuredly provide for his widow and children.” But with all this, Jericho failed to call forth any cordial love from Basil’s face. He sat stern and self-sustained.
“You sent me this letter, Mr. Jericho,”—said Basil—“with bank-notes?”