“The brain burns brightest, I have heard,” said Jericho, with mournful, meaning voice—with features pale and tranquil, and with a gleam of their old expression—“brightest a while before ’tis clay—if it be so, in the running of some minutes, I was. My God! What do I see?” and Jericho stared with eyes suddenly lustrous, “What do I see?” he groaned. “The skeletons of things! Outside beauty has departed, and here—here I stand—in a house of dust. I know that was some fine thing upon you—some silken rag of pride—and now it is a web of dust—of woven dust! I look upon your face—that fine, large, glowing, breathing lie that was, and it is a lie no longer. No; it is resolved into the one truth—the universal dust, the caput mortuum of the last day.”
“My love,” said the wife, with a voice of terror; but the man possessed would not hear.
“Why could I not see this before? Why, I know that thing about your neck was gold; is gold still to the blind ignorance of the world. It is a piece of yellow dust; so light, a breath must scatter it. All dust. Your fine, proud, sweeping body! Why, now I see it as it is. I could crumble it with my hands. And your heart, I see that too! And what is called the blood passing through it. Blood! why, it is a gush of sand. And your brain?—as busy as an ant-hill; as busy and as earthy.”
“My dear,” said the wife, struck with the change, yet fain to play the comforter, “you are better now.”
“Much better; for I can see through all things. Why had I not one glance of this before? Are we only to know what dirt is pride and pomp, only to know it when the tongue begins to taste the clay? But it is no matter,” and the wild look again dawned in the sick man’s face. Again, the fierce, wild, violent spirit grew strong within him. “It is no matter. All’s well. Very well! As I said—as I said. I am rich, and I am damned for it. I have earned hell—well earned it”—
“For the love of heaven,” cried the woman in despair, for the moment feeling a partner in the horror.
“None of that! No cowardice! No craven—twelfth-hour puling. Be honest when you can’t help it. ’Twas a bargain; a fair bargain with hell. So let the devil have his own. And mark you! Woman of sin—thing of smiles and fraud! you and your young hags take a witch’s flight, and be gone. You had best: much best. Wait another day, and there’ll not be a broomstick to fly with.”
And here, introduced by Plutus—how Mrs. Jericho shuddered at the creature’s presence!—came certain tradesmen; wreckers never absent when a fortune founders. Israel, Laban, and Issachar stood before the Man of Money, who, on the instant, returned to his hungry, ravenous self. Yes; at sight of the dealers, the face of Jericho put on its former wickedness; and philosophy and remorse were dumb and dead, and cunning and avarice again active and voluble. With a contemptuous chuck of the head, Jericho acknowledged the presence of the chapmen, and then turned fiercely upon his wife. “Are you advised now? A few hours, and if you will stay here, you shall rule the mistress of naked walls. Go!” And the poor woman, with terror in her looks, fled from the spot. How—in that moment—she accused the lingering, guilty pride, that had withheld her from communing with Basil! How willingly would she have followed him! With what alacrity have flung aside, like tarnished finery, her present life, and drawn the breath of simplicity and peace! And with this thought she sought her daughters. This thought she uttered with fervent utterance; and found no according sympathy. But youth is apt to be disdainful. And so it was with Monica, so even with the less courageous Agatha. Both of them bade their mother—she herself had taught the lesson, and now her pupils bade her not forget it—have a nobler spirit. They were prepared to defy the tyrant to the last! Indeed, in a wild, passionate moment, burning with revenge, Monica laughing and clapping her hands, declared it would be noble sport to set fire to the house, and all perish in the flames. Poor girl! We verily believe she had no such wicked intention. She only spoke from a desperate waywardness of spirit; for it must not be forgotten that the treasonous letter of the dastard Candituft—(he married, ten years after, a tyrannous old maid, with enormous expectations that ripened into nothing better than erysipelas)—the coward letter, like a live coal, was eating up Monica’s heart. However, the mother was re-assured by the spirit of her children; and having gathered together all the property—body goods, no other—allowed them by the tyrant Man of Money, was resolved to stay to the last. Neither would she take the judgment of the jury of friends as final. She must believe—moreover Monica, upon the strength of her grey experience was convinced—that the law was too kind, too just and benevolent towards feeble woman, not to dethrone and confine for life, her maniac despot.
In the meantime, the dealers, accompanied by Jericho, prowled from room to room. Furniture, plate, pictures—all that had made the glory of Jericho—were duly considered and duly debased by the men who wished to make them their own. For a while, Jericho endured the chaffering of the tribe. At length, he suddenly drew up. “Look ye here,” said the Man of Money, prepared at once to make clean work of it; for his impatience subdued his avarice,—“Look ye, here. I treat with men of honour; with scrupulous merchants whose only wish is a fair profit. I know this, gentlemen. The tone of your voices, the clear look of your eyes, the sterling worth of your words, as we have passed from room to room, considering the goods,—all convince me that I am safe in your hands.”
Israel, Laban, and Issachar, staring somewhat, bowed.