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Updated: May 11, 2025
I am coming; and you shall do to me what you will. And then what do you think? O my God! she smiled one of her own old smiles, only sad too, very sad, and vanished. I woke, and she seemed only to have just left the room, for there was a stir in the darkness. Do you believe in ghosts, George?" Leopold was not one of George's initiated, I need hardly say. "No," answered Bascombe. "I don't wonder.
At last he took up the odd one that which could come into use but once in a week of years and this was the sermon Bascombe heard and commented upon. Having read it over, and found nothing to compromise him with his conscience, which was like an irritable man trying to find his way in a windy wood by means of a broken lantern, he laid all the rest aside and felt a little relieved.
A soft west wind, issuing as from the heart of a golden vase filled with roses, met them the instant they turned out of the street, walking their horses towards the park-gate. Something was it in the evening, or was it in his own soul? had prevailed to the momentary silencing of George Bascombe: it may have been but the influence of the cigar which Helen had begged him to finish.
"It IS a foolish form of speech, no doubt," returned Bascombe, a little disconcerted, as was natural. " But to be serious, Helen, I do love you." "How long will you love me if I tell you I don't love you?" "Really, Helen, I don't see how to answer such a question. I don't understand you at all to-day! Have I offended you?
An easy mind may take a shroud on its shoulders for wings, but when trouble comes and it wants to fly, then it knows the difference. Leopold will not be misled by Mr. Bascombe." Helen grew paler. She would have him misled so far as not to betray himself. "I am far more afraid of your influence than of his," added the curate.
Bascombe was chagrined to find that the persuasive eloquence with which he hoped soon to play upon the convictions of jurymen at his own sweet will, had not begotten even communicativenes, not to say confidence, in the mind of a parson who knew himself fooled, and partly that it gave him cause to doubt how far it might be safe to urge his attack in another and to him more important quarter.
What an objectionable young fellow that Bascombe was! presuming and arrogant to a degree rare, he hoped, even in a profession for which insolence was a qualification. What rendered it worse was that his good nature and indeed every one of his gifts, which were all of the popular order was subservient to an assumption not only self-satisfied but obtrusive!
A common, every-day, week-a-day pie, or even a Sunday pie, would be bad enough, but a Thanksgiving pie of all things. Why, everybody is happy at Thanksgiving. Well, not quite everybody, it seems, because if that was so Letty wouldn't be crying. Now let me tell you why poor Letty Bascombe, with her sunny temper, cried on this day while she was making pies.
It did not occur to him yet that, uupressed from without, his honesty unstung, he might have taken more time to find out where he was than would have been either honest or healthful. He came to a stile where his path joined another that ran both ways, and there seated himself, just as the same strange couple I have already described as met by Miss Lingard and Mr. Bascombe approached and went by.
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