A Terrible Temptation. Charles Reade Reade

the better. Where she is the door cannot be closed in your face. She is at Baden. Follow her there. She has heard the truth from Mr. Oldfield, and she knows who wrote the anonymous letter.”

      “And who did?”

      “Mr. Richard Bassett.”

      This amazed Sir Charles.

      “The scoundrel!” said he, after a long silence.

      “Well, then, why let that fellow defeat you, for his own ends? I would go at once to Baden. Your leaving England would be one more proof to her that she has no rival. Stick to her like a man, sir, and you will win her, I tell you.”

      These words from a nun amazed and fired him. He rose from his chair, flushed with sudden hope and ardor. “I'll leave for Baden to-morrow morning.”

      The Sister rose to retire.

      “No, no,” cried Sir Charles. “I have not thanked you. I ought to go down on my knees and bless you for all this. To whom am I so indebted?”

      “No matter, sir.”

      “But it does matter. You nursed me, and perhaps saved my life, and now you give me back the hopes that make life sweet. You will not trust me with your name?”

      “We have no name.”

      “Your voice at times sounds very like—no, I will not affront you by such a comparison.”

      “I'm her sister,” said she, like lightning.

      This announcement quite staggered Sir Charles, and he was silent and uncomfortable. It gave him a chill.

      The Sister watched him keenly, but said nothing.

      Sir Charles did not know what to say, so he asked to see her face. “It must be as beautiful as your heart.”

      The Sister shook her head. “My face has been disfigured by a frightful disorder.”

      Sir Charles uttered an ejaculation of regret and pity.

      “I could not bear to show it to one who esteems me as you seem to do. But perhaps it will not always be so.”

      “I hope not. You are young, and Heaven is good. Can I do nothing for you, who have done so much for me?”

      “Nothing—unless—” said she, feigning vast timidity, “you could spare me that ring of yours, as a remembrance of the part I have played in this affair.”

      Sir Charles colored. It was a ruby of the purest water, and had been two centuries in his family. He colored, but was too fine a gentleman to hesitate. He said, “By all means. But it is a poor thing to offer you.”

      “I shall value it very much.”

      “Say no more. I am fortunate in having anything you deign to accept.”

      And so the ring changed hands.

      The Sister now put it on her middle finger, and held up her hand, and her bright eyes glanced at it, through her veil, with that delight which her sex in general feel at the possession of a new bauble. She recovered herself, however, and told him, soberly, the ring should return to his family at her death, if not before.

      “I will give you a piece of advice for it,” said she. “Miss Bruce has foxy hair; and she is very timid. Don't you take her advice about commanding her. She would like to be your slave! Don't let her. Coax her to speak her mind. Make a friend of her. Don't you put her to this—that she must displease you, or else deceive you. She might choose wrong, especially with that colored hair.”

      “It is not in her nature to deceive.”

      “It is not in her nature to displease. Excuse me; I am too fanciful, and look at women too close. But I know your happiness depends on her. All your eggs are in that one basket. Well, I have told you how to carry the basket. Good-by.”

      Sir Charles saw her out, and bowed respectfully to her in the hall, while his servant opened the street door. He did her this homage as his benefactress.

      When admiral and Miss Bruce reached Baden Mrs. Molineux was away on a visit; and this disappointed Admiral Bruce, who had counted on her assistance to manage and comfort Bella. Bella needed the latter very much. A glance at her pale, pensive, lovely face was enough to show that sorrow was rooted at her heart. She was subjected to no restraint, but kept the house of her own accord, thinking, as persons of her age are apt to do, that her whole history must be written in her face. Still, of course, she did go out sometimes; and one cold but bright afternoon she was strolling languidly on the parade, when all in a moment she met Sir Charles Bassett face to face.

      She gave an eloquent scream, and turned pale a moment, and then the hot blood came rushing, and then it retired, and she stood at bay, with heaving bosom—and great eyes.

      Sir Charles held out both hands pathetically. “Don't you be afraid of me.”

      When she found he was so afraid of offending her she became more courageous. “How dare you come here?” said she, but with more curiosity than violence, for it had been her dream of hope he would come.

      “How could I keep away, when I heard you were here?”

      “You must not speak to me, sir; I am forbidden.”

      “Pray do not condemn me unheard.”

      “If I listen to you I shall believe you. I won't hear a word. Gentlemen can do things that ladies cannot even speak about. Talk to my aunt Molineux; our fate depends on her. This will teach you not to be so wicked. What business have gentlemen to be so wicked? Ladies are not. No, it is no use; I will not hear a syllable. I am ashamed to be seen speaking to you. You are a bad character. Oh, Charles, is it true you had a fit?”

      “Yes.”

      “And have you been very ill? You look ill.”

      “I am better now, dearest.”

      “Dearest! Don't call me names. How dare you keep speaking to me when I request you not?”

      “But I can't excuse myself, and obtain my pardon, and recover your love, unless I am allowed to speak.”

      “Oh, you can speak to my aunt Molineux, and she will read you a fine lesson.”

      “Where is she?”

      “Nobody knows. But there is her house, the one with the iron gate. Get her ear first, if you really love me; and don't you ever waylay me again. If you do, I shall say something rude to you, sir. Oh, I'm so happy!”

      Having let this out, she hid her face with her hands, and fled like the very wind.

      At dinner-time she was in high spirits.

      The admiral congratulated her.

      “Brava, Bell! Youth and health and a foreign air will soon cure you of that folly.”

      Bella blushed deeply, and said nothing. The truth struggled within her, too, but she shrank from giving pain, and receiving expostulation.

      She kept the house, though, for two days, partly out of modesty, partly out of an honest and pious desire to obey her father as much as she could.

      The third day Mrs. Molineux arrived, and sent over to the admiral.

      He invited Bella to come with him. She consented eagerly, but was so long in dressing that he threatened to go without her. She implored him not to do that; and after a monstrous delay, the motive of which the reader may perhaps divine, father and daughter called on Mrs. Molineux. She received them very affectionately. But when the admiral, with some hesitation, began to enter on the great subject, she said, quietly, “Bella, my dear, go for a walk, and come back to me in half an hour.”

      “Aunt Molineux!” said Bella, extending both her hands imploringly to that lady.

      Mrs. Molineux was proof against