And there was good reason for this new keenness of the face divine. Ere Jericho quitted Red Dragon House, he had lent upon the most satisfactory mortgage—so any way there was land for his money—no less than five-and-forty thousand pounds to his Grace of St. George. It was a great sacrifice; but the Man of Money could not withstand it. Truly an enormous sacrifice; but it should be the last—the last—the very last. And there was no doubt that the money, lent at such a season, and to such a man, with parliamentary service and the fame of wealth, would bring the peerage: a baronetcy Jericho had already refused. A peerage! Nevertheless, how he had shrunk—how horribly he had dwindled—how wretchedly small he had become to purchase it. Aye,—how small? He would again measure himself: he would know the exact waste. Whereupon Jericho took the silken cord, and passed it round his breast. Why, it would twice encircle him—twice, and a piece to spare. With horror and loathing, Jericho flung the cord in the fire: he would never again take damning evidence against himself. Yet, why should he fear? He lost no strength. On the contrary, as his flesh wasted, his spirit became stronger—his passions fiercer. He had waxed in dignity of soul—in might and vigour of self-assertion. He had wholly lost the weak, easy-tempered part of himself, and was a man of iron will; of all-subduing energy. And perhaps this was the tenor of the compact; the condition of his wealth; that, as he sloughed the fleshy weakness of human nature, his spirit should be strengthened, sublimated to the temper of the diviner creature. His very soul glowed and chuckled at the thought; and thus priding himself, in the triumph of his folly he sat and smiled a ghastly smile, and rubbed together his long, thin, bloodless hands.
“Why, what’s the matter, woman?” suddenly cried the Man of Money. Mrs. Jericho had abruptly entered the room, and shouted astonishment at the spectre of her husband. “What’s the matter?” The woman could not answer; she trembled; yet with a frosty smile tried to overcome her look of apprehension. Somehow, too, the strange manner of the man—his eye and voice terrified and thrilled her. “I ask, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, my dear; nothing,” stammered the wife; “nothing if you—you are well.”
“And why should I not be well? What ails me?” and Jericho frowned and rose erect.
“You were so late at the House, I thought, my love, you must be tired; that is all,” murmured Mrs. Jericho. “But my love, here is Sir Arthur,” and Sir Arthur Hodmadod—the bridegroom of to-morrow with the happy Agatha—came smiling into the room. Instantly, the smile was struck from his face; he let fall his cane, and as though he had looked upon Gorgon, stood with fixed eyes, dropt jaw, and face of whitest stone. His bride, with instinctive trust, alarmed at the spectre, clutched the coat skirt of her betrothed. Mrs. Jericho trembled anew at this new display of terror; and with heroic effort, tried to rattle the baronet back to himself.
“Well, my dear Sir Arthur; here are you and Agatha, like coupled doves. Well, bless ye both,” and the gallant woman affectionately patted the cheek of her future son, and gave an affectionate, but sharpish pinch to her daughter’s cheek, possibly to bring back the blood. “I only hope, my loves, that this time twenty years you’ll keep as close together. But I have no doubt of it, none;” and she violently shook Hodmadod’s hand, and gave another pinch to the other cheek of Agatha.
“No doubt of it,” stammered Hodmadod. “Always domestic and always together, like knife and fork; when I say knife and fork, of course I mean cup-and-saucer.”
“To be sure,” cried Mrs. Jericho very cordially.
“My dear sir,” and Hodmadod looked anxiously, warily at Jericho; “heavy debate last night; when I say heavy, I mean, you spoke of course. What a shame it is, Mr. Jericho, that they never print your speeches. Shameful. They print much worse, I’m sure. Didn’t divide till three, I perceive. And with committees and all, it’s butchering work. When I say butchering work, I mean that I look upon the House of Commons as quite a slaughter-house. Best lives of the country sacrificed there. Why, now, how ill you look!”
“Do you think so?” growled Jericho.