Jericho gave no direct reply. Hugging his arms about him, he swayed to and fro. “Some lies,” he cried, “like some truths, are of long growth ere they bear; but they do bear at last. Now, the lie you sowed”—
“I!” exclaimed the indignant wife.
“The lie you sowed,”—repeated Jericho doggedly—“fell upon hard ground, ’tis true. The altar stone, no less. Still, the lie has sprouted, has struck root; has shot up, and its fruit—like the fruit of every lie, I know that much now—is bitterness. The wine it makes is misery, to the dregs of life—and you shall drink your fill of it. No; I am not mad; even, saying this, I am not mad;” cried Jericho, for he marked the eloquent meaning of the woman’s looks—“not mad, but enlightened. This is not frenzy, madam; but wisdom—withering wisdom,” sighed Jericho, and there was such a sound of human suffering in the words that, with a smile in her face, the wife looked up at her persecutor.
“My dear, you are not well—this is”—
“Why stay you here?” cried the Man of Money, with the old ferocity. “Why will you not be warned? Well, well, take your own way—you know best; you know best. But in a few hours, and there’s not a bed left for your fine, costly bones to lie upon. Now, will you depart?” cried Jericho.
“No,” exclaimed the wife. “I know my course. I am advised.” Jericho laughed. “Oh, do not doubt that,” repeated the angry woman. “I will not quit the house while a tatter remains. It shall be your work to leave me destitute, and then”—
“Aye, destitute; as I took you. The rich widow—the Indian queen—the sultana”—
“The man of wealth—the shipowner—the holder of stocks—the golden merchant”—
“Well, and has it turned out otherwise?” asked Jericho, sullenly and proudly. “Has my wealth been wanting? Did I cheat you? Have you not shared and shared? Have you not cursed me? You married me for your money-drudge—your golden slave. And still, with your speech you goaded me; still with that whip of asp—a shrew’s tongue—you scourged me. Money—money! And despairingly I wished even of the fiend for money. I have my wish”—and Jericho slowly fixed his eyes upon his wife, whose sympathy returned with the man’s suffering—fixed his eyes, whilst his face became ghastly pale, though with the paleness came back something of the calmer look of former days—“I have my wish,” groaned Jericho, spreading his hand upon his breast—“and—I feel it—I am damned for it.”
“Husband!” cried the wife, and her arm sought to embrace him. “Heavens!” she screamed in terror; and with her arm—some time divorced—around her husband, her blood stood frozen at the change. His body seemed as a wand—a willow wand. The wife trembled, and did not dare to look at what she deemed monstrous—devilish. With her heart beating thick, her brow bedewed, her arm fell as dead to her side.