“Well? Has it come?” cried the master.
“Here it is,” answered the servant; and he laid a letter upon the table.
“Well, now for their conscience!” exclaimed the Man of Money. “Go, while I read it,” and the servant departed. “Stay, dog. A light—I cannot read else. Do you hear? A light.”
The fellow came not in; but his voice was heard without. “There is a candle on the table; and paper prepared to light it.”
Most precious paper! The heart’s flesh and blood of the Man of Money. For the devilish serving-man had folded a note—(how obtained, can it matter?)—a note peeled from the breast of his master; a piece of money, a part of the damned Jericho, sympathising with him.
The Man of Money took the paper,—the devil with his ear upturned crept closer to the door—and thrust it amidst the dying coals. A moment, and the garret is rent as with a lightning flash.
Yelling, and all on fire, the Man of Money falls prostrate, with hell in his face. Then his lips move, but not a sound is heard. And the fire communicated by the sympathy of the living note—the flesh of his flesh—like a snake of flame, glides up his limbs, devouring them. And so he is consumed. A minute; and the Man of Money is a thin, black paper ash. Now, the night wind stirs it; and now, a sudden breeze carries the cinerous corpse away, flattering it to dust impalpable.
And at the moment, the possessions of Jericho—all he had bought with his flesh, and blood, and soul—all was blasted to tinder, consumed to ashes. The pictures dropt in dust from the walls; the walls crumbled; the very gold the wretch had hoarded became as nought.
Candituft looked at his diamond ring—the gift of Jericho—and it was a speck of charcoal. Bones and Thrush, drawing forth their golden snuff-boxes, found in their hands two lumps of soot.
Mrs. Jericho and her daughters were alike disenchanted. The very moment Jericho passed away in flame, they found themselves in garments of tinder.