A Terrible Temptation. Charles Reade Reade

hard heart. Don't say anything more against her just now. She is trying so hard to be good. And, besides, it is all a mistake: she never told that old admiral; she never breathed a word out of her own house. Her own people have betrayed her and you. She has made me promise two things: to find out who told the admiral, and—”

      “Well?”

      “The second thing I have to do—Well, that is a secret between me and that unhappy woman. She is bad enough, but not so heartless as you think.”

      Sir Charles shook his head incredulously, but said no more; and soon after fell asleep.

      In the evening he woke, and found the Sister watching.

      She now turned her head away from him, and asked him quietly to describe Miss Bella Bruce to her.

      He described her in minute and glowing terms. “But oh, Sister,” said he, “it is not her beauty only, but the beauty of her mind. So gentle, so modest, so timid, so docile. She would never have had the heart to turn me off. But she will obey her father. She looked forward to obey me, sweet dove.”

      “Did she say so?”

      “Yes, that is her dream of happiness, to obey.”

      The Sister still questioned him with averted head, and he told her what had passed between Bella and him the last time he saw her, and all their innocent plans of married happiness. He told her, with the tear in his eye, and she listened, with the tear in hers. “And then,” said he, laying his hand on her shoulder, “is it not hard? I just went to Mayfair, not to please myself, but to do an act of justice—of more than justice; and then, for that, to have her door shut in my face. Only two hours between the height of happiness and the depth of misery.”

      The Sister said nothing, but she hid her face in her hands, and thought.

      The next morning, by her order, Polly came into the room, and said, “You are to go home. The carriage is at the door.” With this she retired, and Sir Charles's valet entered the room soon after to help him dress.

      “Where am I, James?”

      “Miss Somerset's house, Sir Charles.”

      “Then get me out of it directly.”

      “Yes, Sir Charles. The carriage is at the door.”

      “Who told you to come, James?”

      “Miss Somerset, Sir Charles.”

      “That is odd.”

      “Yes, Sir Charles.”

      When he got home he found a sofa placed by a fire, with wraps and pillows; his cigar case laid out, and a bottle of salts, and also a small glass of old cognac, in case of faintness.

      “Which of you had the gumption to do all this?”

      “Miss Somerset, Sir Charles.”

      “What, has she been here?”

      “Yes, Sir Charles.”

      “Curse her!”

      “Yes, Sir Charles.”

CHAPTER VII.

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“LOVE LIES BLEEDING.”

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      BELLA BRUCE was drinking the bitterest cup a young virgin soul can taste. Illusion gone—the wicked world revealed as it is, how unlike what she thought it was—love crushed in her, and not crushed out of her, as it might if she had been either proud or vain.

      Frail men and women should see what a passionate but virtuous woman can suffer, when a revelation, of which they think but little, comes and blasts her young heart, and bids her dry up in a moment the deep well of her affection, since it flows for an unworthy object, and flows in vain. I tell you that the fair head severed from the chaste body is nothing to her compared with this. The fair body, pierced with heathen arrows, was nothing to her in the days of old compared with this.

      In a word—for nowadays we can but amplify, and so enfeeble, what some old dead master of language, immortal though obscure, has said in words of granite—here

      “Love lay bleeding.”

      No fainting—no vehement weeping; but oh, such deep desolation; such weariness of life; such a pitiable restlessness. Appetite gone; the taste of food almost lost; sleep unwilling to come; and oh, the torture of waking—for at that horrible moment all rushed back at once, the joy that had been, the misery that was, the blank that was to come.

      She never stirred out, except when ordered, and then went like an automaton. Pale, sorrow-stricken, and patient, she moved about, the ghost of herself; and lay down a little, and then tried to work a little, and then to read a little; and could settle to nothing but sorrow and deep despondency.

      Not that she nursed her grief. She had been told to be brave, and she tried. But her grief was her master. It came welling through her eyes in a moment, of its own accord.

      She was deeply mortified too. But, in her gentle nature, anger could play but a secondary part. Her indignation was weak beside her grief, and did little to bear her up.

      Yet her sense of shame was vivid; and she tried hard not to let her father see how deeply she loved the man who had gone from her to Miss Somerset. Besides, he had ordered her to fight against a love that now could only degrade her; he had ordered, and it was for her to obey.

      As soon as Sir Charles was better, he wrote her a long, humble letter, owning that, before he knew her, he had led a free life; but assuring her that, ever since that happy time, his heart and his time had been solely hers; as to his visit to Miss Somerset, it had been one of business merely, and this he could prove, if she would receive him. The admiral could be present at that interview, and Sir Charles hoped to convince him he had been somewhat hasty and harsh in his decision.

      Now the admiral had foreseen Sir Charles would write to her; so he had ordered his man to bring all letters to him first.

      He recognized Sir Charles's hand, and brought the latter in to Bella. “Now, my child,” said he, “be brave. Here is a letter from that man.”

      “Oh, papa! I thought he would. I knew he would.” And the pale face was flushed with joy and hope all in a moment.

      “Do what?”

      “Write and explain.”

      “Explain? A thing that is clear as sunshine. He has written to throw dust in your eyes again. You are evidently in no state to judge. I shall read this letter first.”

      “Yes, papa,” said Bella, faintly.

      He did read it, and she devoured his countenance all the time.

      “There is nothing in it. He offers no real explanation, but only says he can explain, and asks for an interview—to play upon your weakness. If I give you this letter, it will only make you cry, and render your task more difficult. I must be strong for your good, and set you an example. I loved this young man too; but, now I know him”—then he actually thrust the letter into the fire.

      But this was too much. Bella shrieked at the act, and put her hand to her heart, and shrieked again. “Ah! you'll kill us, you'll kill us both!” she cried. “Poor Charles! Poor Bella! You don't love your child—you have no pity.” And, for the first time, her misery was violent. She writhed and wept, and at last went into violent hysterics, and frightened that stout old warrior more than cannon had ever frightened him; and presently she became quiet, and wept at his knees,