A Terrible Temptation. Charles Reade Reade

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      Then the stout admiral mingled his tears with hers, and began to realize what deep waters of affliction his girl was wading in.

      Yet he saw no way out but firmness. He wrote to Sir Charles to say that his daughter was too ill to write; but that no explanation was possible, and no interview could be allowed.

      Sir Charles, who, after writing, had conceived the most sanguine hopes, was now as wretched as Bella. Only, now that he was refused a hearing, he had wounded pride to support him a little under wounded love.

      Admiral Bruce, fearing for his daughter's health, and even for her life—she pined so visibly—now ordered her to divide her day into several occupations, and exact divisions of time—an hour for this, an hour for that; an hour by the clock—and here he showed practical wisdom. Try it, ye that are very unhappy, and tell me the result.

      As a part of this excellent system, she had to walk round the square from eleven to twelve A. M., but never alone; he was not going to have Sir Charles surprising her into an interview. He always went with her, and, as he was too stiff to walk briskly, he sat down, and she had to walk in sight. He took a stout stick with him—for Sir Charles. But Sir Charles was proud, and stayed at home with his deep wound.

      One day, walking round the square with a step of Mercury and heart of lead, Bella Bruce met a Sister of Charity pacing slow and thoughtful; their eyes met and drank, in a moment, every feature of each other.

      The Sister, apparently, had seen the settled grief on that fair face; for the next time they met, she eyed her with a certain sympathy, which did not escape Bella.

      This subtle interchange took place several times and Bella could not help feeling a little grateful. “Ah!” she thought to herself, “how kind religious people are! I should like to speak to her.” And the next time they met she looked wistfully in the Sister's face.

      She did not meet her again, for she went and rested on a bench, in sight of her father, but at some distance from him. Unconsciously to herself, his refusal even to hear Sir Charles repelled her. That was so hard on him and her. It looked like throwing away the last chance, the last little chance of happiness.

      By-and-by the Sister came and sat on the same bench.

      Bella was hardly surprised, but blushed high, for she felt that her own eyes had invited the sympathy of a stranger; and now it seemed to be coming. The timid girl felt uneasy. The Sister saw that, and approached her with tact. “You look unwell,” said she, gently, but with no appearance of extravagant interest or curiosity.

      “I am—a little,” said Bella, very reservedly.

      “Excuse my remarking it. We are professional nurses, and apt to be a little officious, I fear.”

      No reply.

      “I saw you were unwell. But I hope it is not serious. I can generally tell when the sick are in danger.” A peculiar look. “I am glad not to see it in so young and—good a face.”

      “You are young, too; very young, and—” she was going to say “beautiful,” but she was too shy—“to be a Sister of Charity. But I am sure you never regret leaving such a world as this is.”

      “Never. I have lost the only thing I ever valued in it.”

      “I have no right to ask you what that was.”

      “You shall know without asking. One I loved proved unworthy.”

      The Sister sighed deeply, and then, hiding her face with her hands for a moment, rose abruptly, and left the square, ashamed, apparently, of having been betrayed into such a confession.

      Bella, when she was twenty yards off, put out a timid hand, as if to detain her; but she had not the courage to say anything of the kind.

      She never told her father a word. She had got somebody now who could sympathize with her better than he could.

      Next day the Sister was there, and Bella bowed to her when she met her. This time it was the Sister who went and sat on the bench.

      Bella continued her walk for some time, but at last could not resist the temptation. She came and sat down on the bench, and blushed; as much as to say, “I have the courage to come, but not to speak upon a certain subject, which shall be nameless.”

      The Sister, as may be imagined, was not so shy. She opened a conversation. “I committed a fault yesterday. I spoke to you of myself, and of the past: it is discouraged by our rules. We are bound to inquire the griefs of others; not to tell our own.”

      This was a fair opening, but Bella was too delicate to show her wounds to a fresh acquaintance.

      The Sister, having failed at that, tried something very different.

      “But I could tell you a pitiful case about another. Some time ago I nursed a gentleman whom love had laid on a sick-bed.”

      “A gentleman! What! can they love as we do?” said Bella, bitterly.

      “Not many of them; but this was an exception. But I don't know whether I ought to tell these secrets to so young a lady.”

      “Oh, yes—please—what else is there in this world worth talking about? Tell me about the poor man who could love as we can.”

      The Sister seemed to hesitate, but at last decided to go on.

      “Well, he was a man of the world, and he had not always been a good man; but he was trying to be. He had fallen in love with a young lady, and seen the beauty of virtue, and was going to marry her and lead a good life. But he was a man of honor, and there was a lady for whom he thought it was his duty to provide. He set his lawyer to draw a deed, and his lawyer appointed a day for signing it at her house. The poor man came because his lawyer told him. Do you think there was any great harm in that?”

      “No; of course not.”

      “Well, then, he lost his love for that.”

      Miss Bruce's color began to come and go, and her supple figure to crouch a little. She said nothing.

      The Sister continued: “Some malicious person went and told the young lady's father the gentleman was in the habit of visiting that lady, and would be with her at a certain hour. And so he was; but it was the lawyer's appointment, you know. You seem agitated.”

      “No, no; not agitated,” said Bella, “but astonished; it is so like a story I know. A young lady, a friend of mine, had an anonymous letter, telling her that one she loved and esteemed was unworthy. But what you have told me shows me how deceitful appearances may be. What was your patient's name?”

      “It is against our rules to tell that. But you said an 'anonymous letter.' Was your friend so weak as to believe an anonymous letter? The writer of such a letter is a coward, and a coward always is a liar. Show me your friend's anonymous letter. I may, perhaps, be able to throw a light on it.”

      The conversation was interrupted by Admiral Bruce, who had approached them unobserved. “Excuse me,” said he, “but you ladies seem to have hit upon a very interesting theme.”

      “Yes, papa,” said Bella. “I took the liberty to question this lady as to her experiences of sick-beds, and she was good enough to give me some of them.”

      Having uttered this with a sudden appearance of calmness that first amazed the Sister, then made her smile, she took her father's arm, bowed politely, and a little stiffly, to her new friend, and drew the admiral away.

      “Oh!” thought the Sister. “I am not to speak to the old gentleman. He is not in her confidence. Yet she is very fond of him. How she hangs on his arm! Simplicity! Candor! We are all tarred with the same stick—we women.”

      That night Bella was a changed girl—exalted and depressed by turns, and with no visible reason.

      Her father was pleased. Anything better than that deadly languor.

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