“When I ring the bell,” said the haggard Jericho.
“Come, girls, ’tis only Basil’s frolic, but certainly a very—very foolish one.” And Mrs. Jericho, with an arm about the neck of either daughter, led her weeping offspring from the room.
“The thousand pounds must be paid,” thought Jericho. “They shall be paid; and at once I’ll be resolved.” A few minutes the Man made of Money sat in a maze of thought: he then drew a thousand pounds—ten notes—from his mysterious bank; he rang the bell; the jeweller was shown in, and laid the receipt before his customer. Jericho, with offended dignity, cold and silent, pointed to the ten bank notes. The jeweller took them up—counted them. As they rustled, Jericho felt as though his heart was compressed within a cold iron hand.
“A thousand pounds—very much obliged to you, sir,” said the jeweller, and took his leave.
For some minutes Jericho sat motionless—all but breathless. He would, however, know his fate. He took out the silk lace with which an hour ago he had measured his chest. Again he passed it round his body. He had drawn upon the bank, and he had shrunk an inch.
Truly he was a Man made of Money. Money was the principle of his being; for with every note he paid away a portion of his life.
CHAPTER IX.
In due season, Mr. Jericho—on the authority of his wife—was a pillar and an ark; a staff and a sword; a flambeau and a pair of scales; a buckler and a British lion. For, in the metaphoric mind of Mrs. Jericho all these things were contained in a member of Parliament; even as a variety of spoons may be held in a single cherry-stone.
In addition to this, Mr. Jericho, on the like conjugal assurance, found himself to his passing pleasure, one of the trees of the constitution. He wanly smiled when he learned that, with his giant arms, he was to shelter the altar and the throne. He was a little flattered in his self-love, when he heard that the weary would seek for comfort in his shadow, and the multitude feed with thankfulness upon his fruit.