As we are modestly convinced that every tittle of this history will in a hundred years or more be a theme for commentators—(the worthy folks who too often write on books, as men with diamonds write on glass, obscuring light with scratches)—as we know that this volume will be very thickly annotated, we shall make one point clear; namely, the precise spot where Carraways pronounced his consent. Well, then; it was exactly opposite the Royal Exchange, under the shadow of the grasshopper. No bad emblem of a poor yet cheerful lover, with little but hope and blithe spirits to begin the world upon.
Nevertheless—says somebody—an odd neighbourhood for men to ask and give in marriage. Well, it may be. Still, Hymen has been known to have his walk on ’Change, as well as common merchants; and what is more, with as fine a sense of profit and loss, as though in boyhood he had sat on the same form and thumbed the same arithmetic with Mercury.
And Carraways, true to his promise, presented himself at Jericho’s house. The Man of Money felt a joyous revenge as he eyed the ruined merchant’s card. It was very natural to Jericho. Sir Gilbert Carraways, the beggar, had treated him in the most shameful—the most insolent spirit. The poor wretch had, in no way, acknowledged the supremacy of his old friend’s wealth. No; his studied silence, his absence from the house, conveyed the contemptuous feeling of the pauper towards the rightful majesty of money. To be sure, Jericho had not offered assistance; certainly not; it was not his place to undraw his purse-strings, if people—ruined people—had not the due humility to ask it. But now—there could be no doubt of it—Carraways was come to beg for aid: he was at length taught by suffering a proper reverence for cash. And with this thought, Jericho armed himself to receive him. We write knowingly—armed himself. For as carefully, as cunningly as ever knight endued his frame with plates of steel or brass,—so did Jericho hang upon that thin, cold, shivering soul of his, the tremendous panoply of bank paper.
It is a curious sight—is it not?—to see the Man of Money sternly awaiting the advent of the rude, forgetful beggar. “Show him in,” brays Jericho to the servant. John quits the room, to serve up the pauper. But two minutes pass—and there sits Solomon Jericho dreadful in his arms of money: his visage sharp and cruel, newly whetted, gleaming with scorn. The fat, ruddy, good-tempered face—with meat and wine in the look of it—that was wont to glow and grin at Carraways’ board, is prematurely old, and shrunk, and sharpened; the hungry outline of felonious age.
Carraways enters the room. “Gracious heaven! Why, what is this?” For never since the merriment at the Hall, had Carraways and Jericho met. Never, of course, since Carraways departed this life in the gazette, had he seen the Man of Money. Therefore was the merchant astounded at the thing that sat before him—for Jericho did not rise to his old friend; oh no—he knew the prerogative of money better than that—and therefore, in his own natural way did Carraways give utterance to his wonderment. “Is it possible?”
“I believe, sir,” said Jericho, and contempt wrinkled his face, and his voice croaked, frog-like—“I believe I see Gilbert Carraways, who was a merchant?”
“Who was a merchant, and is Gilbert Carraways still,” said the old man.
“Late of Jogtrot Hall?” said Jericho, with a low chuckle.
“Yes,” repeated Carraways clearly, sonorously ringing the words, “late of Jogtrot Hall, of Marigolds. Now, of a second floor, of Primrose Place.”
“Ha! ha! Well, now, I like that,” cried Jericho. “I like a man who can play with fortune. I like a man who, when the wench—she’s a queer cat, fortune, isn’t she, Mr. Gilbert Carraways?—when she spatters him with mud, can give her as good as she sends. Ha! ha! Well, if you have been covered with dirt, you’re merry still. But, why haven’t you come to see me?” asked Jericho with a sneer.