Thomas Wingfold, Curate | Page 9

threshold of the high gates of
wrought iron, he turned involuntarily and looked back at the house. It
was of red brick, and flat-faced in the style of Queen Anne's time, so
that the light could do nothing with it in the way of shadow, and dwelt
only on the dignity of its unpretentiousness. But aloft over its ridge the
moon floated in the softest, loveliest blue, with just a cloud here and
there to show how blue it was, and a sparkle where its blueness took
fire in a star. It was autumn, almost winter, below, and the creepers that
clung to the house waved in the now gentle wind like the straggling
tresses of old age; but above was a sky that might have overhung the
last melting of spring into summer. At the end of the street rose the
great square tower of the church, seeming larger than in the daylight.
There was something in it all that made the curate feel there ought to be
more--as if the night knew something he did not; and he yielded
himself to its invasion.
His companion having carefully lighted his cigar all round its extreme
periphery, took it from his mouth, regarded its glowing end with a
smile of satisfaction, and burst into a laugh. It was not a scornful laugh,
neither was it a merry or a humorous laugh; it was one of satisfaction

and amusement.
"Let me have a share in the fun," said the curate.
"You have it," said his companion--rudely, indeed, but not quite
offensively, and put his cigar in his mouth again.
Wingfold was not one to take umbrage easily. He was not important
enough in his own eyes for that, but he did not choose to go farther.
"That's a fine old church," he said, pointing to the dark mass invading
the blue--so solid, yet so clear in outline.
"I am glad the mason-work is to your mind," returned Bascombe,
almost compassionately. "It must be some satisfaction, perhaps
consolation to you."
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. "I like you," he went on, "for you seem
reasonable; and besides, a man ought to speak out what he thinks. So
here goes!--Tell me honestly--do you believe one word of all that!"
And he in his turn pointed in the direction of the great tower.
The curate was taken by surprise and made no answer: it was as if he
had received a sudden blow in the face. Recovering himself presently,
however, he sought room to pass the question without direct encounter.
"How came the thing there?" he said, once more indicating the
church-tower.
"By faith, no doubt," answered Bascombe, laughing,--"but not your

faith; no, nor the faith of any of the last few generations."
"There are more churches built now, ten times over, than in any former
period of our history."
"True; but of what sort? All imitation--never an original amongst them
all!"
"If they had found out the right way, why change it?"
"Good! But it is rather ominous for the claim of a divine origin to your
religion that it should be the only one thing that in these days takes the
crab's move--backwards. You are indebted to your forefathers for your
would-be belief, as well as for their genuine churches. You hardly
know what your belief is. There is my aunt--as good a specimen as I
know of what you call a Christian!--so accustomed is she to think and
speak too after the forms of what you heard my cousin call heathenism,
that she would never have discovered, had she been as wide awake as
she was sound asleep, that the song I sung was anything but a good
Christian ballad."
"Pardon me; I think you are wrong there."
"What! did you never remark how these Christian people, who profess
to believe that their great man has conquered death, and all that
rubbish--did you never observe the way they look if the least allusion is
made to death, or the eternity they say they expect beyond it? Do they
not stare as if you had committed a breach of manners? Religion itself
is the same way: as much as you like about the church, but don't
mention Christ! At the same time, to do them justice, it is only of death
in the abstract they decline to hear; they will listen to the news of the
death of a great and good man, without any such emotion. Look at the
poetry of death--I mean