“Why, I’d put aside the money from a bill of Mr. Jericho’s. And only to think, if when you was at chapel, the cherry-coloured satin should turn upon your very back to sackcloth and ashes!”
“Breeks, my love,” said the wife with sudden energy, “I’ll risk it.”
“Mr. Jericho”—said the tailor—“is shamefully abused. ’Cause they can’t find a hole in his coat, they pick one in his heart. See, too, what we owe him! Any other man, when he got rich, would have left the tailor of his struggling years; would have cut him off like an end o’ thread,—and gone to the west. Has Mr. Jericho done so?”
“He hasn’t, love,” said Mrs. Breeks, melting.
“Has money made any difference in him—’xcept this? Afore he never paid, and now he does?”
“It’s a sweet truth,” cried the wife, continuing to soften.
“And as for this talk about the hole—it’s a venomous falsehood. Besides, what is it to us?”
“What, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Breeks.
“He pays his way like a prince—I only wish all princes paid like him,”—cried the emphatic Breeks—“’twould be better for some tailors. And are we to see a hole in such a customer’s heart? Not if the sun and moon and all the stars was shining through him. But I don’t believe it. No: it’s a wicked scandal.”
“Backbiters, as Mr. Spikenard says, are like locusts; they love to feed upon the fat of the land. They’ve no doubt bit the hole; nobody else. Yes, my love; you’ve made me quite happy; quite restored my confidence in our customer. I shall be proud to wear a gown out of his money; it will show I don’t turn against him. And I think this time, love”—and Mrs. Breeks patted the face of her lord with kitten playfulness—“this time, not a cherry-colour; no, dearest; a crimson.”