“Not with a great, a vital object in view,” responded his wife. “And as the world goes,” said Jericho, “people who would be somebody must make an appearance.” “It is the compulsion of our artificial state of life: I wish it were otherwise. But as it is so, my dear,—you will let me have the money?” At this question a strangely pleasurable thrill passed through the breast of Jericho; his heart glowed and expanded as it had never done before; and he felt his hand drawn—as though some fairy pulled at either finger end—to his bosom. His bare hand pressed his heart, that, at the pressure, gave a sudden and delicious flutter. “You will let me have the money?” repeated Mrs. Jericho. Jericho answered not a word, but withdrew his hand from his breast: between his finger and his thumb he held, in silver purity, a virgin Bank of England note! “What a dear, good creature you are, Jericho”—said his wife “to surprise me in this manner! To bring a note for the exact amount with you! Just a hundred! Well, you are a love,” and hastily pressing him round the neck, Mrs. Jericho ran from the room, as though embarrassed by the freedom. And Jericho sat, with his heart beating the faster. Again, he placed his hand to his breast; again drew forth another Bank note. He jumped to his feet; tore away his dress, and running to a mirror, saw therein reflected, not human flesh; but over the region of his heart a loose skin of Bank paper, veined with marks of ink. He touched it; and still in his hand there lay another note! His thoughtless wish had been wrought into reality. Solomon Jericho was, in very truth, a Man made of Money. [Pg 49] [Pg 49] CHAPTER V. Jogtrot Hall was the one central grandeur, the boast and the comfort of Marigolds; a village, it may be, overlooked, unknown to the town reader, although so near to London, that on soft, calm nights, with the light wind setting from the east, it is said the late villager has heard the bell of St. Paul’s humming of the huge city in the deep quietude of starlit fields. As yet, the iron arms of the rail had not clipped Marigolds close to London. As yet, it lay some two hours’ distant—reckoning the time by coach-horses. Therefore, it was a day of wondrous promise to the villagers,
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