“Yes—a ship,” answered Carraways. “And I remember, I have an appointment with the Captain. So if you will, you shall walk part of the way with me?” A proposition that, as the reader will conclude, the politic lover immediately assented to.
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 excuse be 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—does not 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 five thousand 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?