“Be of good heart, master,” said old Plutus with a mischievous leer, “’tis a common case. The best of men have fallen in the snare; the best of women, too. Wasn’t mistress herself a little choused—-just a little?”
“What of that? When two beggars marry, still the she-beggar has the best of it: for the he-pauper—poor, damned devil!—has tatters to find for two. And this woman now defies me. And her young tiger kittens! Well, well, we shall see—we shall see,” cried Jericho; and again he rubbed his hands, warming them as with some horrid resolution. “They dare me in my own house. They will not stir, they cry. They will not—mother wolf, and young ones—they will not let go their hold. Well, I’ll sell them bare—bare. Their beds from under them; their clothes from off them. I will turn that woman—that lie—ha! ’tis a harder and a sharper lie than it was; older and baser looking, than when first it cheated me—I’ll turn her upon the world, without a shred, without a doit.”
“You can’t do it,” said the grimy serving-man, with a hard grin, “can’t do it, indeed, dear master. The law makes a man provide for his wife. Such is the world. More’s the pity!”
“Law! What’s the law to a man with millions of mercenaries? With fighting yellow-boys, fighting where still they’ve won—are still to win—the bloodiest of battles; though no blood is seen? In law’s very courts? In the very courts?” And then Jericho, with his brow in his hand, sat for some minutes, silently brooding; his filthy attendant looking steadily at him; and, it seemed strange—growing more and more like his horrid master. At length the Man of Money started from his meditation. “Why, what a brain is mine!” he cried: “sometimes I feel it fluttering in my skull—fluttering like a bird; and sometimes, humming and buzzing like a beetle.”
“It may be want of rest,” said the pliant Plutus.
“Liar!” roared Jericho: “but that’s no matter. Go; get me a crowbar. Stop. This will do,” and Jericho took the poker—the foreign luxury had been brought to the scullion’s bower by the serving-man—and balancing it, he repeated mutteringly: “This will do. Now, follow me down stairs. This will right me. This will punish the lie—the fine lie—the lie that first betrayed me.”
“Dear, good sir,” cried Plutus, with hypocritic whine, “you’ll do no violence, you won’t harm the dear ladies? Consider, dear, good master; consider your own safety. If you consider nobody else—and why, indeed, should you?—at least, consider your sweet self. Dear, dear master! Have mercy on your own days, and don’t hurt the ladies.”
“I’ll have my right—I’ll have my own. I’ll have what my blood, and flesh, and marrow are turned into. I’ll have it all back. You dog, follow me.”
“As in duty bound, dear master,” said the old slave; and with a smile and a light step, he followed Jericho who, as he descended the stairs, muttered revenge against the lie—the chain of lies—that as he said, had bound him.