A Terrible Temptation. Charles Reade Reade

at a chair in a way that seemed to say, “I permit you to sit down;” and that done, she carried the glass to her lips with the same admirable firmness of hand she showed in driving. Her lofty manner, coupled with her beautiful but rather haughty features, smacked of imperial origin. Yet she was the writer to “jorge,” and four years ago a shrimp-girl, running into the sea with legs as brown as a berry.

      So swiftly does merit rise in this world which, nevertheless, some morose folk pretend is a wicked one.

      I ought to explain, however, that this haughty reception was partly caused by a breach of propriety. Vandeleur ought first to have written to her and asked permission to present Richard Bassett. He had no business to send the man and the introduction together. This law a Parliament of Sirens had passed, and the slightest breach of it was a bitter offense Equilibrium governs the world. These ladies were bound to be overstrict in something or other, being just a little lax in certain things where other ladies are strict.

      Now Bassett had pondered well what he should say, but he was disconcerted by her superb presence and demeanor and her large gray eyes, that rested steadily upon his face.

      However, he began to murmur mellifluously. Said he had often seen her in public, and admired her, and desired to make her acquaintance, etc., etc.

      “Then why did you not ask Sir Charles to bring you here?” said Miss Somerset, abruptly, and searching him with her eyes, that were not to say bold, but singularly brave, and examiners pointblank.

      “I am not on good terms with Sir Charles. He holds the estates that ought to be mine; and now he has robbed me of my love. He is the last man in the world I would ask a favor of.”

      “You came here to abuse him behind his back, eh?” asked the lady with undisguised contempt.

      Bassett winced, but kept his temper. “No, Miss Somerset; but you seem to think I ought to have come to you through Sir Charles. I would not enter your house if I did not feel sure I shall not meet him here.”

      Miss Somerset looked rather puzzled. “Sir Charles does not come here every day, but he comes now and then, and he is always welcome.”

      “You surprise me.”

      “Thank you. Now some of my gentlemen friends think it is a wonder he does not come every minute.”

      “You mistake me. What surprises me is that you are such good friends under the circumstances.”

      “Circumstances! what circumstances?”

      “Oh, you know. You are in his confidence, I presume?”—this rather satirically. So the lady answered, defiantly:

      “Yes, I am; he knows I can hold my tongue, so he tells me things he tells nobody else.”

      “Then, if you are in his confidence, you know he is about to be married.”

      “Married! Sir Charles married!”

      “In three weeks.”

      “It's a lie! You get out of my house this moment!”

      Mr. Bassett colored at this insult. He rose from his seat with some little dignity, made her a low bow, and retired. But her blood was up: she made a wonderful rush, sweeping down a chair with her dress as she went, and caught him at the door, clutched him by the shoulder and half dragged him back, and made him sit down again, while she stood opposite him, with the knuckles of one hand resting on the table.

      “Now,” said she, panting, “you look me in the face and say that again.”

      “Excuse me; you punish me too severely for telling the truth.”

      “Well, I beg your pardon—there. Now tell me—this instant. Can't you speak, man?” And her knuckles drummed the table.

      “He is to be married in three weeks.”

      “Oh! Who to?”

      “A young lady I love.”

      “Her name?”

      “Miss Arabella Bruce.”

      “Where does she live?”

      “Portman Square.”

      “I'll stop that marriage.”

      “How?” asked Richard, eagerly.

      “I don't know; that I'll think over. But he shall not marry her—never!”

      Bassett sat and looked up with almost as much awe as complacency at the fury he had evoked; for this woman was really at times a poetic impersonation of that fiery passion she was so apt to indulge. She stood before him, her cheek pale, her eyes glittering and roving savagely, and her nostrils literally expanding, while her tall body quivered with wrath, and her clinched knuckles pattered on the table.

      “He shall not marry her. I'll kill him first!”

CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

      RICHARD BASSETT eagerly offered his services to break off the obnoxious match. But Miss Somerset was beginning to be mortified at having shown so much passion before a stranger.

      “What have you to do with it?” said she, sharply.

      “Everything. I love Miss Bruce.”

      “Oh, yes; I forgot that. Anything else? There is, now. I see it in your

      eye. What is it?”

       “Sir Charles's estates are mine by right, and they will return to my

      line if he does not marry and have issue.”

      “Oh, I see. That is so like a man. It's always love, and something more important, with you. Well, give me your address. I'll write if I want you.”

      “Highly flattered,” said Bassett, ironically-wrote his address and left her.

      Miss Somerset then sat down and wrote:

      “DEAR SIR CHARLES—please call here, I want to speak to you.

      yours respecfuly,

      “RHODA SOMERSET.”

      Sir Charles obeyed this missive, and the lady received him with a gracious and smiling manner, all put on and catlike. She talked with him of indifferent things for more than an hour, still watching to see if he would tell her of his own accord.

      When she was quite sure he would not, she said,

      “Do you know there's a ridiculous report about that you are going to be married?”

      “Indeed!”

      “They even tell her name—Miss Bruce. Do you know the girl?”

      “Yes.”

      “Is she pretty?”

      “Very.”

      “Modest?”

      “As an angel.”

      “And are you going to marry her?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you are a villain.”

      “The deuce I am!”

      “You are, to abandon a woman who has sacrificed all for you.”

      Sir Charles looked puzzled, and then smiled; but was too polite to give his thoughts vent. Nor was it necessary; Miss Somerset, whose brave eyes never left the person she was speaking to, fired up at the smile alone, and she burst into a torrent of remonstrance, not to say vituperation. Sir Charles endeavored once or twice to stop it, but it was not to be stopped; so at last he quietly took up his