“Baseness! Impossible! Dearest Solomon!” cried Mrs. Jericho.
“My love,” said Jericho: “I have acted weakly—I own it. Condescending to the prejudices of society, in a rash moment, I consented to fight a duel.”
“The rumour, Solomon, had reached me; but I would not reproach you: no; I have struggled with my feelings, and been silent. You cared not to make me a widow,” said Mrs. Jericho, “but heaven knows I forgive you.”
“I received my adversary’s ball here,”—said Jericho, spreading his hand over his heart. “A poor man must have been killed, but there is a fate that watches over property. I was providentially preserved by my money. I hope I am thankful,” and Jericho carefully wiped his dry eyes.
“Proceed—I conjure you,” exclaimed Mrs. Jericho, with an alarming gush of tenderness.
“I carried my pocket-book here: ’twas full of notes, the ball went through every one of them; and”—
Mrs. Jericho shrieked, as though the peril was imminent.
“And stopt short at my shirt,” and Jericho paused.
“I breathe again,” exclaimed the thankful wife.
“Well, my dear, I now come to my confession. I had intended to present your son with a handsome amount on his approaching birth-day. I sent him a thousand pounds. It now appears—for the circumstance had escaped me—that the notes were among those perforated by the pistol-ball. I might have thought”—and Jericho tried to feel much hurt—“that such perforation would have enhanced the value—yes, of a thousand pounds; but, I regret to say it, the young man is hardened—bronzed against the finest emotions of the soul—even when recommended by money. Madam, he is incorrigible.”