Fourteen days only has Solomon Jericho been new-made; that is, made of money; and wondrous in the new-made man is the new change! Once was he an easy, slipshod sort of fellow, with a high relish for a joke; or when the joke itself was not to be had, with anything that at a short notice could be supplied in its place. Frequently was it the painful duty of his wife to rebuke him for his humour; humour being, Mrs. Jericho would ever insist, beneath a gentleman. Now only fourteen days, and what an improvement! “Money has its duties, Mr. Jericho,” the wife observed; “duties that are above a joke.” And to her great satisfaction, she acknowledged that Jericho in his new dull dignity solemnly carried out her own conviction. She was almost delighted with the man; he was such an improvement upon himself. She confessed it to him.—“He had greatly improved: now he never laughed; he never joked; he never talked of people below his own station; he had given up buffoonery, and philanthropy, and vulgar notions of all kinds; and, really she must say it, he showed himself worthy of the good fortune that had fallen upon him. Moreover, she always knew—she always felt—a presentiment of what the mines would produce; hence she had borne the privations of former years without word, without a tear. She had always loved him; and it had often caused her a struggle to disguise her affection: nevertheless, she did not think she could love him as she did; and for this reason—she could not deny it—she had not believed in the moral dignity his wealth had developed in him. She would say it—she was proud of him!”
“Lovely weather, madam,” says Basil Pennibacker, prancing up to the phaeton. “But, my dear lady, may I be permitted to ask your unprejudiced opinion of the dust?”
“A slight drawback; very slight, my love,” says Mrs. Jericho, heroically. “But what a heavenly sky!”
“Over-head unexceptionable; the other extremity detestable. And with such distress as there is, old Carraways might have hired all the workhouse cheap, to weep in the highway. Such very queer dust, too!” and Basil smacks his lips. “Not at all the Rotten Bow flavour. Full of sand! Agatha, duck, keep your mouth shut; or you’ll be turned into an hour-glass.”
“There, now, Basil, set your spurs to your gallant steed like a good boy, and run away,” says Monica.
“A wonderful animal, sir,” observes Basil confidentially to Mr. Jericho. “Hallo! not well, sir?”
“Well? Admirable! Never so well,” says Jericho, in a cold voice, and with a dim smile.
“’Pon my life, you look so wire-drawn and so thin! Blessed if you don’t look as if you’d been locked out last night, and dragged to bed through the keyhole.”
“Basil! My child!” cries Mrs. Jericho; and Jericho smiles, but dimmer than before.
“Extraordinary animal, sir,” says Basil, thinking it best to return to the horse. “Only three hundred. I’m satisfied, and shall buy him. Only three hundred. Cheap, my honourable sir—cheap for a water-cart. Look at him, sir. None of your horses, put together with skewers for a day out, to tumble to the dogs as soon as they get home: shall, certainly, lay down the loyalty for him. Take care of yourself, my good sir; men like you can’t be spared. Good bye, we shall meet on the daisies.”