A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

“No, no, Mr. Jericho; not of this family,” and Mrs. Jericho hissed on the pronoun: “not this.”

“My good woman,” cried Jericho, falling back in his seat with a hopeless stare, “what do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean; and—no, no, Mr. Jericho—I am not to be deceived by such hypocrisy. I have tried to smother the dark thought as it rose; I have struggled to crush the scorpion suspicion that preys upon my peace; I have wrestled with myself to hide my sorrow from the world, that my wound”—

“Wound!” cried Jericho, striking the table; “in heaven’s name, woman, what wound?”

“That my wound might bleed inwardly”—continued the wife—“but it is impossible for me to consent to be quite a fool: no, indeed, you ask too much. Not quite a fool, Mr. Jericho.”

Let us at once explain. Let us possess the reader with the dark thought that, fitfully, would shadow the clear day of Mrs. Jericho’s life; let us at once produce upon the page the scorpion complained of.

Mrs. Jericho was so convinced that her household expenses were of such petty amount; was so assured that the family, in its various outlay, cost the head of the house next to nothing,—that when Mr. Jericho pleaded lack of means, the scorpion aforesaid, with the malice of its kind, would insinuate the cruellest, the falsest suspicion of the truth and constancy of the husband. Not, however, that Mrs. Jericho believed it: let us do her so much justice. Hence, when—to the first horror of Jericho—she hazarded an opinion that “there must be another wife and family out of doors, or where could the money go to?”—when to Jericho’s contempt, astonishment, and wrath, his honoured wife implied so withering an accusation, the good woman herself had really no belief in the treason. It was the very waywardness of affection; it was love-in-idleness frolicking now with a thorn, and now a nettle. This, however, was in earlier days. As time wore on, Mrs. Jericho would press the thorn, would flourish the nettle, with greater force and purpose, and possibly for this reason; she had found the instruments of unexpected value. Jericho, to escape them, would make the required concession, would consent to the expense demanded. Briefly, Mrs. Jericho had only to call up the shadowy wife and family out-of-doors, to compel Jericho to concede to any request for the living spouse and children beneath his roof. So useful, so valuable were these shadows found by Mrs. Jericho, that it is not to be wondered at that the good woman, without even confessing it to herself, should, as time wore on, believe them to be something more than shades; and yet not real things; on the other hand, not altogether ideal mist. Having explained this much, the reader will take the taunts of Mrs. Jericho at their real worth; will value them as so much thistle-down that, blown about by idle air, nevertheless contains in its floating lightness the seed of thistles.

Mrs. Jericho remained the undisputed possessor of the last word. With a despairing twitch, Jericho had again seized the newspaper. “Well, then”—said the wife—“it is no use my wasting my time; I will write to the Carraways that we shan’t come.”

“You will do just as you please, I am sure, my dear. You always do,” said Jericho.

“Not I indeed; oh dear no. But, I dare say, your wife out of doors does as she likes; I have no doubt of that. I am sure, again and again have I wished I had been a Hindoo wife; then I had sacrificed myself upon the pyre and been happy—but I am rightly served.” Jericho, resolutely, held fast by the newspaper, determining to forego his allowed share of the conversation in favour of his wife: she should have all the talk; he would not deprive her of a single syllable. “And, Mr. Jericho, you have decided? We are not to go to Jogtrot Lodge? We are to miss—what I consider, thinking of my poor dear girls—miss one of the greatest opportunities of the season! And this because you spend out of doors what should go to your own family. I dare say, if I could only see—and I will, if I live, that I am determined upon—if I could only see how other people are drest; if I could only know the jewellery that’s lavished upon them; if I could only know what they cost, it would be pretty plain why we are debarred the common decencies of life. Once, I was foolish, weak enough to believe that your wife and family—I mean the wife and family under this roof—had all your money, and all your thoughts; but I have lived to find the bitter contrary.” Still Jericho held manfully by the newspaper; and with his blood burning and bubbling in his ears, would not make reply—not one word. “And you are resolved that the dear girls shall not go? You have made your mind up to blight their future prospects? You are determined to keep us all here like nuns, that other people—I said other people, Mr. Jericho—should run riot in what lawfully belongs to your own family? And your excuse is—you haven’t the means! But I know better.”