“There’s some of them,” said Jericho, turning up his cheek as the knocker struck through the house. The Man of Money, followed by his servant, descended the stairs, with tripping pace. “Bring them to me—here,” said Jericho, passing into a room; whilst the menial proceeded to the door. “Not gone, yet—not yet!” exclaimed the Man of Money to his weeping wife as, pale and trembling, she approached him.
“My dear Solomon,”—
“Well?” answered Jericho, with hyena laugh, “well, my very dear wife?”
“For the last time, let me supplicate you,” said the woman.
“I am content, for the last time. Well, go on; supplicate,” answered the Man of Money.
“You will destroy us,” exclaimed the poor wife—“utterly, utterly destroy us.”
“Well? I know it—I know it,” answered Jericho. “And may I not destroy what I have made? You were all beggars when I took ye, and to beggars ye shall return. The rags, with my blood, were changed into gold-cloth. Now, I’ll have my blood again—I will—and you shall have your rags.”
“Dear Jericho! This is madness,” cried the wife.
“No, it isn’t,” answered Jericho, with a strange calmness. “It isn’t madness, my dear, dear spouse, as the wise Doctor Mizzlemist has signified. Oh, it was a rare meeting! How happy you might have been! What rare junkettings, here! What a world of fashion, making this house a heaven,—and the poor devil, the madman owner, the maniac bone of your bone—the lunatic flesh of your flesh—fast bound, fast barred! What music you would have had—and he, the Bedlamite, howling to the moon. Go!” yelled the Man of Money, stamping his thin noiseless foot upon the floor; but the woman, drawing herself up, resolved to stand her ground. “What! you thought because you had not yet eaten the fruit, you would never taste its bitterness.”
“What fruit? What bitterness?” cried Mrs. Jericho, rising in spirit.