“What remains for me,—what can I do? I shall be better away—much better.”
“Wherefore better? Have you not position—fortune? All that should make you happy?”
“My position, splendid serfdom”—answered Basil—“my fortune, money that would damn me.”
“Basil,” said his mother, startled by the passion of her son. “Your father’s money!”
“I would have avoided this; I hoped to avoid it,—but mother, I suspect your husband.” The wife drew herself up; nevertheless, a something in her heart seemed to baffle her. “There are odd tales told of Mr. Jericho. Have an eye upon him. I don’t believe the words in their vulgar, nursery meaning; but it is said that Mr. Jericho’s mines, whence he derives his wealth, is the very mine that some day”—
Basil’s mother grew pale. She tried to speak; and then to smile, as though in scorn and utter incredulity.
“I only repeat the rumour; of course, mother, I give no faith to bonds of brimstone. Still, I should like to be assured of the source of his means. Why, mother, you have eyes. You cannot, if you would, be blind to the daily, hourly waste of the man. Like a waxen figure made by a witch, he dwindles—dwindles. People say, too, such waste is the tribute exacted by the devil.”
“Basil!” shrieked the frightened woman.
“And, I take it,” answered the young man with solemn voice, and saddest looks, “I take it to be so. Come, you must hear me out. I shall not offend again; and you must hear me. What are the ravages of conscience but tribute paid to evil? What the pains, the tremors, the heartquakes that I know the man endures—for I have watched him—what are all, but the devil’s tribute?”
“You are a dreamer—an enthusiast—a foolish boy,” cried Mrs. Jericho, laughing and shuddering.