Not with a blow? Yes. Stern truth against
the base-souled villain; with a blow.
No angry cries; no loud reproaches. Even her
weeping and her sobs were stifled by her clinging
round him. She only said, repeating it in agony
of heart, how could he, could he, could he—and
lost utterance in tears.
Oh woman, God beloved in old Jerusalem! The best
among us need deal lightly with thy faults, if only
for the punishment thy nature will endure, in bearing
heavy evidence against us, on the Day of Judgment!
In which some people are
precocious, others professional, and
others mysterious; all in their
several ways
It may have been the restless remembrance of what
he had seen and heard overnight, or it may have been
no deeper mental operation than the discovery that
he had nothing to do, which caused Mr Bailey, on the
following afternoon, to feel particularly disposed
for agreeable society, and prompted him to pay a visit
to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.
On the little bell giving clamorous notice of a visitor’s
approach (for Mr Bailey came in at the door with a
lunge, to get as much sound out of the bell as possible),
Poll Sweedlepipe desisted from the contemplation of
a favourite owl, and gave his young friend hearty welcome.
‘Why, you look smarter by day,’ said Poll,
’than you do by candle-light. I never see
such a tight young dasher.’
‘Reether so, Polly. How’s our fair
friend, Sairah?’
‘Oh, she’s pretty well,’ said Poll.
‘She’s at home.’
‘There’s the remains of a fine woman about
Sairah, Poll,’ observed Mr Bailey, with genteel
indifference.
‘Oh!’ thought Poll, ‘he’s
old. He must be very old!’
‘Too much crumb, you know,’ said Mr Bailey;
’too fat, Poll. But there’s many
worse at her time of life.’
‘The very owl’s a-opening his eyes!’
thought Poll. ’I don’t wonder at it
in a bird of his opinions.’
He happened to have been sharpening his razors, which
were lying open in a row, while a huge strop dangled
from the wall. Glancing at these preparations,
Mr Bailey stroked his chin, and a thought appeared
to occur to him.
‘Poll,’ he said, ’I ain’t
as neat as I could wish about the gills. Being
here, I may as well have a shave, and get trimmed close.’
The barber stood aghast; but Mr Bailey divested himself
of his neck-cloth, and sat down in the easy shaving
chair with all the dignity and confidence in life.
There was no resisting his manner. The evidence
of sight and touch became as nothing. His chin
was as smooth as a new-laid egg or a scraped Dutch
cheese; but Poll Sweedlepipe wouldn’t have ventured
to deny, on affidavit, that he had the beard of a Jewish
rabbi.
‘Go with the grain, Poll, all round, please,’
said Mr Bailey, screwing up his face for the reception
of the lather. ’You may do wot you like
with the bits of whisker. I don’t care for
’em.’
