“Does he?” asked Hodmadod, a little staggered by the courtesy.
Excitement of the Man of Money.
CHAPTER XVII.
A man may be possessed with an evil spirit, and yet be wholly unconscious of the presence of his tenant. This may seem, at the first blush, an impossible circumstance; nevertheless, we are upon reflection convinced that thousands of good, well-meaning people, carry about with them fitful, moody, captious, disorderly spirits, and are, notwithstanding, the very last folks to acknowledge the existence of the inmates. Now, it would seem that Mr. Jericho had this ignorance in especial strength and perfection. He was blessed with the happiest forgetfulness of the demon that, as was shown in the last chapter, afflicted his wife, and astonished his acquaintance. He had no after-thought of the unseemly words, of the vulgar violence uttered and committed by his evil spirit. Poor man! He was spared the pain, the humiliation of such knowledge; hence, the fit over, the spirit laid, Jericho was as gay and debonair as ever—quite.
To be sure, Mrs. Jericho had affectionate misgivings; and the young ladies, with a keen memory of the wildness of their father-in-law, looked with hopefulness quite natural to the day when they should be delivered from his tyranny by the new benevolence of a husband. The girls, with the simple confidence of their sex, were assured of the devotion of their lovers. Poor things! Now Sir Arthur Hodmadod, with sudden treachery, had contemplated instant flight. He was alarmed, terrified, at the thought of marrying the daughter of a man with such strange, such diabolic notions. Sir Arthur thought of the beneficial effect of a run through Italy. He could not disguise it from himself, that his heart was broken; and therefore, he was in the most interesting situation for a few months’ exile. He would forget the living beauties of Agatha in the refined abstractions of paint and marble. He had promised himself some day to cultivate his taste for art, and it was plain, the proper time was come. And then—and then the lover remembered—(how, for an instant, could he have forgotten it?)—that Agatha bore no taint of Jericho’s blood. No: she was a Pennibacker; the daughter of a warrior! And with this happy thought, Sir Arthur, with the mixed remorse and generosity of true affection, arrayed the dear one with newer, richer graces. But a mistress is never so captivating as when considered through the penitence of love.
The Hon. Cæsar Candituft had sterner thoughts of marriage. Perhaps, too, he had larger views than his simple, gentle friend; and so, placed upon himself a corresponding value. We believe Sir Arthur—could he have been induced to think at all—would have considered matrimony as a very pleasant little trip in a gay little boat; with a bright sky, a smooth sea, and now and then a mermaid to come up, and warble a song of love. Now, Candituft would not attempt the voyage so embarked. He was for a secure craft, extremely well victualled, and—to be ready for the worst—carrying the heaviest metal. Therefore had Candituft resolved on the most guarded civility to Monica: he would, if possible, kill the love within her by the cutting coldness of his courtesy. For he had well-considered himself: he had sat in impartial judgment upon his own claims to a wife; and he was convinced that if he could be brought to persuade himself to marry into the family of a lunatic, at least he would be well paid for the daring. Thus, if Monica’s determination towards marriage could live through the cold season that was immediately to set in—if the hardy rose would smile through the frost—why, the flower, like the Druid’s misletoe, should only be gathered with a golden blade.
A week wore on, and Candituft was only the more hardened in civility. A week wore on, and Hodmadod was only the more melted in love. But Monica would not feel the bitter season—whilst Agatha smiled and glowed in the full flush of the sunny time. Sir Arthur, on his part, was a little astonished that Candituft could for a moment hesitate to seize his happiness at the altar’s foot, at the very time that he, the baronet, was to be crowned with joy for ever. Whereupon Candituft assured Sir Arthur that, for one day, it would be more than sufficient bliss to see his friend made happy. He doubted his strength to stand up against the double delight of double nuptials. Hence, for his part, he would wait. But we have a little anticipated; and have now to introduce a third party come upon a nuptial errand, to the Man of Money.
Basil, it may be remembered, left Primrose Place with Mr. Carraways, bent—as the old gentleman declared—upon business with the captain of a ship bound for the antipodes. It is needless to repeat any part of the conversation between the lover and the father, as they took their way to the Halcyon, a magnificent vessel, lying in the docks in all the seeming confusion of outfit. We will at once come to the result of the dialogue carried on—oddly enough—amid all the activity and clamour of London streets. Earnest as were the words of Basil, passionate as were his looks—was there a single passenger, of the hundreds that passed and passed, who could have divined that the young man was at such an hour, and in such a place, telling the story of his heart, pleading the passion of a life? Yet it was even so. And the old man, in his best blunt way, opposed the ardour of the youth; even whilst his father’s heart glowed and throbbed at the expression. And then, as they walked onward, the old man spoke less and less, and Basil became more voluble. At length, Carraways stopt, and taking Basil’s hand, said in a low, thick voice—“Well lad; thus it is. If there is no objection at your home, and you are sure of Bessy,—she’s your’s. And now, not another word upon the matter; for I see we’ve no time to lose.”