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Updated: May 11, 2025
And now in truth for the first time, with any shadow of purpose, that is, did the thought of Helen as a wife occur to Bascombe.
Before he had thus concluded the sentence a little scorn had crept into his tone. "You make some allusion which I do not quite apprehend," said the curate. "Now, I am going to be honest with you," said Bascombe abruptly, and stopping, he turned towards his companion, and took the full-flavoured Havannah from his lips.
Wingfold found himself filled with contempt, but the next moment was not sure whether this Bascombe or one Wingfold were the more legitimate object of it. One thing was undeniable his friends HAD put him into the priest's office, and he had yielded to go, that he might eat a piece of bread.
He did not fancy himself the holder of any Mephistophelean commission for the general annihilation of belief like George Bascombe, only one from nature's bureau of ways and means for the cure of the ailing body which, indeed, to him, comprised all there was of humanity.
The knowing craft comes creeping up into the shadow of the rich galleon, and lo, with all her bountiful sails gleaming in the sun, the ship of God glides off in the wake of the felucca to the sweltering hollows betwixt the winds! "You perplex me, my dear cousin," said Bascombe. "It is plain your nursing has been too much for you. You see everything with a jaundiced eye."
Sooner would she go to George Bascombe from whom she not only could look for no spiritual comfort, but whose theories were so cruel against culprits of all sorts! Alas, alas! she was alone! absolutely alone in the great waste, death-eyed universe! But for a man to talk so of the tenderness of Jesus Christ, and then serve her as the curate had done it was indeed shameless!
Nor could it be want of society, for George Bascombe was to dine with them. So was the curate, but he did not count for much. Neither was she weary of herself. That, indeed, might be only a question of time, for the most complete egotist, Julius Caesar, or Napoleon Bonaparte, must at length get weary of his paltry self; but Helen, from the slow rate of her expansion, was not old enough yet.
When Bascombe left for London in the morning, he carried with him the lingering rustle of silk, the odour of lavender, and a certain blueness, not of the sky, which seemed to have something behind it, as never did the sky to him.
"Do you think poetry and common sense necessarily opposed to each other?" asked Wingfold. "I confess a leaning to that opinion," replied Bascombe, with a half-conscious smile. "What do you say of Horace, now?" suggested Wingfold. "Unfortunately for me, you have mentioned the one poet for whom I have any respect. But what I like in him is just his common sense.
And as they still galloped, and the light-maddened colours sank into smoky peach, and yellow green, and blue gray, the something swelled and swelled in her soul, and pulled and pulled at her heart, until the tears were running down her face: for fear Bascombe should see them, she gave her horse the rein, and fled from him into the friendly dusk that seemed to grade time into eternity.
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