“Humph! Where is he? You said it was an engagement. To be sure. He was to meet us here,” interrupted Jericho, tetchily.
“The engagement was provisional; it was, indeed, love; and he may come yet. Well, Solomon, the Doctor tells me that the whole estate may be had for thirty thousand pounds,” and Mrs. Jericho at the moment looked as artless, as innocent, as though she had said thirty thousand pence. There are people who make even a million a very small matter, merely by the condescending way of speaking of it. Mrs. Jericho had the art in perfection. “Only thirty thousand”—
“Only thirty thousand!” cried Jericho,—“Do you know where the money comes from?”
“Why, where should it come from,” said the wife, with a sparkling smile, and tapping Jericho’s cheek,—“where, but from where it grows?”
Jericho’s jaw fell. Had his wife discovered his secret? “And where,” he asked grimly,—“where is that?”
“Why, my dear, in our mine, of course. Did you not say ’twas inexhaustible? and, to be sure, I asked no further. Besides, I’ve a great faith in nature; nature’s a pattern maid-of-all-work, and does best when least meddled with. So you’ll buy the estate? You must: your position in Parliament requires it. All statesmen love the country.”
“Mr. Pitt lived at Wimbledon,” said Jericho, willing to be won.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Jericho. And in a very few minutes the member for Toadsham consented to live at Marigolds; and to become the squire and patron of the village. Yet as he promised, he winced; for he thought of his wasting bank. Such was his life; urged by the devil expense upon one hand, and plucked by the devil remorse on the other. Never mind. He had a way to win back all. He would stop the waste; and once again grow plump and fat: though he was never better; never stronger. Still, people wondered to see him wither. Moreover, they looked oddly at him; and he had heard them drop strange, mystic words. Only twice more; only twice would he draw upon his bosom bank.
Mrs. Jericho, as she turned with her lord to meet her daughters, in the prettiest manner twitched a slip of laurel from a shrub, and waved it over Jericho’s head. “I have conquered”—said Mrs. Jericho—“here is the lord for life of Jogtrot Hall.”
“Oh, mamma! you will change the horrid name, I hope?” said Monica.