A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

And Mrs. Carraways seemed much amended. She appeared to have set aside her anxious aspect, and taken, as her husband jovially said, a new lease of heart. And so, she worked with happy zeal; and even hummed an old, old tune, as now and then she looked about her, and her eye rested, now upon a canvas bag, now upon a hat of tarpaulin,—things that, telling her of the long, long voyage to the other side of the world, made her only a few days ago sick with apprehension.

There was a sudden pause—a perfect silence. And then a carriage whirled up Primrose Place, and stopt short at the door. “Who can that be?” cried Mrs. Carraways, with a look of dread, and laying down her work. Miss Barnes immediately went to the window, and fluently enough described the brilliant carriage, and the many-coloured liveries.

“I thought so,” cried Mrs. Carraways, turning pale, “it’s Mr. Jericho.” As she spoke, the smitten knocker chattered—for it was a modest knocker, too light and small to thunder—through the house.

“No,” cried Miss Barnes. “Not Mr. Jericho. A lady.”

“Mrs. Jericho!” exclaimed Bessy, becoming nervous—looking very pale in her turn; and casting a strange, anxious glance at the lilac-coloured satin laid down by Miss Barnes. “Is she alone?”

“Quite alone,” said Miss Barnes; and without another word, the sempstress gathered up her work, and left the room.

In another moment, Susan entered with Mrs. Jericho’s card. “Show the lady up stairs,” said Mrs. Carraways in a very twitter—“And say, we will see her directly.” Susan descended upon her mission, and Mrs. Carraways and Bessy ran to their several rooms, like startled rabbits to their burrows.

Mrs. Jericho slowly ascended the stairs, and with prodigious dignity entered the second floor front. “Missus Carraways, mum, will be with you directly,” said Susan who, in her way, was a little flustered; inasmuch as she had been suddenly summoned from peeling turnips to wipe her hands for Mrs. Jericho’s card.

Mrs. Jericho stood alone in the apartment which, in all its details, she set herself with her best intelligence, to read. Very speedily she divined the meaning of the various articles about her; the checked shirting; the plaids; the tarpaulin; with here and there some tin utensil, bright and new for travel. They made her sad, melancholy. She could have almost wept; for somehow, she seemed to see in everything the loss of Basil. Pride was sinking; affection rising in her heart; when her eye glanced upon a piece of white satin—perhaps, it was for a bonnet, we cannot say—and in that white, unspotted web, her woman’s shrewdness read a whole history. Instantly she was herself; more than ever herself: full to overflowing with the wrongs of a mother. In that bit of white satin, did Mrs. Jericho read—as she firmly believed—the fatal marriage warrant of her son, her eldest born.

Mrs. Carraways had, of course, to change her cap. Such was her first intention; the serious purpose that had sent her flying to her room. However, let no woman say she will at a pinch change her cap and nothing more. For Mrs. Carraways had no sooner entered her room, and caught a bit of herself in her glass, than she was convinced she must also change her gown. She cared nothing for Mrs. Jericho; she had ceased to have respect or esteem for her; nevertheless, it was due to herself “not to be seen a figure.” These thoughts engaged Mrs. Carraways, as her fluttered hand, like the last minstrel’s, wandered among the strings. At length, however, in the best cap and gown that fortune had left her, Mrs. Carraways appeared before her visitor.