A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

Basil, in a dull, dreamy mood, turned his horse towards London. He had seen the Hall for the last time. Had taken, as he then believed, a long farewell of its new possessors. In his indignation at the selfishness of Jericho, he felt a new strength in himself. He felt a spirit of independence. He would not owe the benefit of another shilling to such a man, upon whom fortune seemed to have fallen like a disease, withering and corrupting him. And there was a mystery in the means of the man, so suddenly rich, that, he was sure of it, would burst in some terrible catastrophe. Of course, Basil had no suspicion of the supernatural source of Jericho’s wealth: the young man’s imagination was insufficient to such a thought; again, even in the days of Jericho, the foolish old faith in fairy-works, and compacts with the devil, ensuring ready profit for future perdition,—was dead and scorned. If men came by strange modes to sudden, mysterious wealth, it could not be by conjuration; but by dull, prosaic craft. The wizard’s circle was of no more avail; the devil no longer rose in the infernal ring to barter wealth for souls. Nothing was left but the mere hocus-pocus of unromantic knavery. Hence, in the conviction of Basil, father-in-law Jericho had juggled with the dark spirits of fraud to possess himself of sudden substance. There could be no doubt of the horrid truth; and the wasted, and wasting condition of the rich man, proclaimed the ravages of his conscience; of the worm in his brain he could not kill. And then Basil suddenly thought of Jericho’s ghastly look, as the apple fell at his foot. And the next thought imparted to the young man a vigour of mind, a hopefulness of heart, he had hitherto unknown. As he rode on, the cloud cleared away. He had seemed to himself shut in, narrowed, dwarfed, whilst depending upon the aid of another. And now in his very contempt for the man—so strangely, so monstrously rich—the future stretched brightly before him. He would stand up, and fight the world in his own strength, and take no condescending help from any man. Armed and assured by this blithe determination, Basil, some ten miles still from home, and the evening closing in, spurred his horse. It would not be too late even that very evening—at least he would not suffer himself to think so—to call upon Bessy’s father. Yes: he would at once put his new faith in practice; he would not sleep without taking the first—and that the most important, most anxious step,—in the bright, open path that he would hereafter journey.

“Hey, hallo! Why, Basil—Mr. Pennibacker,” cried Doctor Mizzlemist, leaning far out of the first-floor window of the Silver Lion, the glad half-way house twixt Marigolds and London. “Hallo! Why so fast? If you knew what was in the cellar, you’d draw bridle, I take it.”

“That he would; humph?” cried Colonel Bones; who had joined Mizzlemist; both, it appeared upon evidence, then and there in the Silver Lion, enjoying what the Doctor in his meekness was wont to call his glass of wine and his nut.

“You haven’t seen anything of Mr. Jericho and the ladies?” asked Mizzlemist. “They must have gone the other road; and so we’ve missed. Very provoking; but we’re trying to comfort ourselves. Won’t you join us?”

“So you had an appointment with my honoured father, eh, Doctor?” asked Basil.

“Why, that is, rather an appointment. Not exactly a fixed thing, but come in; you haven’t dined,” said Mizzlemist. After a minute’s thought Basil turned about, and dismounted at the door. Instantly he stood in the best room of the Silver Lion, with both his hands pressed and shaken by Mizzlemist. “I suppose you’ve been to the Hall, eh? Been to pick out your own corner, I take it? Noble fabric, my dear young sir. Noble fabric! The very look of it is an honour to the hospitality of the country! Wasn’t I saying as much, Colonel? A palace for the king of good fellows?”

“What do I know of palaces?” cried Bones. “A beggar like me! I only wish you’d let me keep quiet in my own corner cupboard. With my own mutton chop and my pint of small ale,” and Bones poured out the wine, looked at it with an unctuous tremor of the lip, and threw it off.

“But you’ve not dined,” cried Mizzlemist to Basil. “What will you have? Country fare, you know.”

“Nothing. The fact is, I picked a bit with the gypsies; always dine with the gypsies when I come into the country; always,” said Basil with a laugh.

“With gypsies! Bless me—can’t be true—I mean, very odd company, Mr. Pennibacker. Very,” and Mizzlemist rubbed his hands, looking doubtfully askaunce at Basil.