A Terrible Temptation. Charles Reade Reade

round, and there was Miss Somerset lying on her back, grinding her white teeth and clutching the air.

      He ran to the bell and rang it violently, then knelt down and did his best to keep her from hurting herself; but, as generally happens in these cases, his interference made her more violent. He had hard work to keep her from battering her head against the floor, and her arms worked like windmills.

      Hearing the bell tugged so violently, a pretty page ran headlong into the room—saw—and; without an instant's diminution of speed, described a curve, and ran headlong out, screaming “Polly! Polly!”

      The next moment the housekeeper, an elderly woman, trotted in at the door, saw her mistress's condition, and stood stock-still, calling, “Polly,” but with the most perfect tranquillity the mind can conceive.

      In ran a strapping house-maid, with black eyes and brown arms, went down on her knees, and said, firmly though respectfully, “Give her me, sir.”

      She got behind her struggling mistress, pulled her up into her own lap, and pinned her by the wrists with a vigorous grasp.

      The lady struggled, and ground her teeth audibly, and flung her arms abroad. The maid applied all her rustic strength and harder muscle to hold her within bounds. The four arms went to and fro in a magnificent struggle, and neither could the maid hold the mistress still, nor the mistress shake off the maid's grasp, nor strike anything to hurt herself.

      Sir Charles, thrust out of the play looked on with pity and anxiety, and the little page at the door—combining art and nature—stuck stock-still in a military attitude, and blubbered aloud.

      As for the housekeeper, she remained in the middle of the room with folded arms, and looked down on the struggle with a singular expression of countenance. There was no agitation whatever, but a sort of thoughtful examination, half cynical, half admiring.

      However, as soon as the boy's sobs reached her ear she wakened up, and said, tenderly, “What is the child crying for? Run and get a basin of water, and fling it all over her; that will bring her to in a minute.”

      The page departed swiftly on this benevolent errand.

      Then the lady gave a deep sigh, and ceased to struggle.

      Next she stared in all their faces, and seemed to return to consciousness.

      Next she spoke, but very feebly. “Help me up,” she sighed.

      Sir Charles and Polly raised her, and now there was a marvelous change. The vigorous vixen was utterly weak, and limp as a wet towel—a woman of jelly. As such they handled her, and deposited her gingerly on the sofa.

      Now the page ran in hastily with the water. Up jumps the poor lax sufferer, with flashing eyes: “You dare come near me with it!” Then to the female servants: “Call yourselves women, and water my lilac silk, not two hours old?” Then to the housekeeper: “You old monster, you wanted it for your Polly. Get out of my sight, the lot!”

      Then, suddenly remembering how feeble she was, she sank instantly down, and turned piteously and languidly to Sir Charles. “They eat my bread, and rob me, and hate me,” said she, faintly. “I have but one friend on earth.” She leaned tenderly toward Sir Charles as that friend; but before she quite reached him she started back, her eyes filled with sudden horror. “And he forsakes me!” she cried; and so turned away from him despairingly, and began to cry bitterly, with head averted over the sofa, and one hand hanging by her side for Sir Charles to take and comfort her. He tried to take it. It resisted; and, under cover of that little disturbance, the other hand dexterously whipped two pins out of her hair. The long brown tresses—all her own—fell over her eyes and down to her waist, and the picture of distressed beauty was complete.

      Even so did the women of antiquity conquer male pity—“solutis crinibus.”

      The females interchanged a meaning glance, and retired; then the boy followed them with his basin, sore perplexed, but learning life in this admirable school.

      Sir Charles then, with the utmost kindness, endeavored to reconcile the weeping and disheveled fair to that separation which circumstances rendered necessary. But she was inconsolable, and he left the house, perplexed and grieved; not but what it gratified his vanity a little to find himself beloved all in a moment, and the Somerset unvixened. He could not help thinking how wide must be the circle of his charms, which had won the affections of two beautiful women so opposite in character as Bella Bruce and La Somerset.

      The passion of this latter seemed to grow. She wrote to him every day, and begged him to call on her.

      She called on him—she who had never called on a man before.

      She raged with jealousy; she melted with grief. She played on him with all a woman's artillery; and at last actually wrung from him what she called a reprieve.

      Richard Bassett called on her, but she would not receive him; so then he wrote to her, urging co-operation, and she replied, frankly, that she took no interest in his affairs; but that she was devoted to Sir Charles, and should keep him for herself. Vanity tempted her to add that he (Sir Charles) was with her every day, and the wedding postponed.

      This last seemed too good to be true, so Richard Bassett set his servant to talk to the servants in Portman Square. He learned that the wedding was now to be on the 15th of June, instead of the 31st of May.

      Convinced that this postponement was only a blind, and that the marriage would never be, he breathed more freely at the news.

      But the fact is, although Sir Charles had yielded so far to dread of scandal, he was ashamed of himself, and his shame became remorse when he detected a furtive tear in the dove-like eyes of her he really loved and esteemed.

      He went and told his trouble to Mr. Oldfield. “I am afraid she will do something desperate,” he said.

      Mr. Oldfield heard him out, and then asked him had he told Miss Somerset what he was going to settle on her.

      “Not I. She is not in a condition to be influenced by that, at present.”

      “Let me try her. The draft is ready. I'll call on her to-morrow.” He did call, and was told she did not know him.

      “You tell her I am a lawyer, and it is very much to her interest to see me,” said Mr. Oldfield to the page.

      He was admitted, but not to a tete-a-tete. Polly was kept in the room. The Somerset had peeped, and Oldfield was an old fellow, with white hair; if he had been a young fellow, with black hair, she might have thought that precaution less necessary. “First, madam,” said Oldfield, “I must beg you to accept my apologies for not coming sooner. Press of business, etc.”

      “Why have you come at all? That is the question,” inquired the lady, bluntly.

      “I bring the draft of a deed for your approval. Shall I read it to you?”

      “Yes; if it is not very long.” He began to read it. The lady interrupted him characteristically.

      “It's a beastly rigmarole. What does it mean—in three words?”

      “Sir Charles Bassett secures to Rhoda Somerset four hundred pounds a year, while single; this is reduced to two hundred if you marry. The deed further assigns to you, without reserve, the beneficial lease of this house, and all the furniture and effects, plate, linen, wine, etc.”

      “I see—a bribe.”

      “Nothing of the kind, madam. When Sir Charles instructed me to prepare this deed he expected no opposition on your part to his marriage; but he thought it due to him and to yourself to mark his esteem for you, and his recollection of the pleasant hours he has spent in your company.”

      Miss Somerset's eyes searched the lawyer's face. He stood the battery unflinchingly. She altered her tone, and asked, politely and almost respectfully, whether she might see that paper.

      Mr. Oldfield gave it her. She took it, and ran her eye