Poor Basil! he felt awe-struck by the passion he had roused. He wished the floor to open, and himself—to use his own afterphrase—to be repealed for ever. “If I had thought”—he stammered.
“Oh thank you, sir—a thousand thanks,” cried Bessy, and she wept anew.
“My dear madam,” said Basil, “I am a foolish person; a very foolish person. Another time I hope to be permitted to assure you that I meant no folly; upon my soul, I mean truth—earnest, honest, eternal truth, if truth be in this world. I”—And here Basil distressed, discomfited, rushed from the room.
In another hour, Bessy was calm and sad—yet not altogether sad. The heartsease were placed in a glass, and again and again Bessy would go to them, and, as though putting her finger under the chin of baby loveliness, as though the flower were a sentient thing, she would lift the curl of the blossom as it hung over the vessel. She was gazing at the heartsease when Jenny Topps was shown into the room.
“Well, Mrs. Topps,” said Bessy with a melancholy smile.
“Now, not that I’m ashamed of Topps’s name, why should I be?”—said the young wife, looking very proud of it,—“but do call me Jenny, Miss, as afore. Do, please.”
“Well, then, Jenny”—
“Well, then, what do you think Miss? We went to the Hall yesterday. Ha, you should only see it now! No; I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t have you see it for any money. We’ve brought away what you wanted. But that’s not it. What do you think? Now, don’t cry—promise me, you won’t cry.”
“Well, then, Jenny, I promise you,” and somehow Bessy made the promise with better self-assurance than she could have boasted a little more than an hour ago.
“Well, then, them nasty Jerichos—for I hate ’em”—