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A Terrible Temptation

C >> Charles Reade >> A Terrible Temptation




"Sign, you d--d old fool!" cried Reginald, seizing Mary Meyrick roughly
by the arm.

Strange to say, Lady Bassett interfered, with a sort of majestic
horror. She held up her hand, and said, "Do not dare to lay a finger on
her!"

Then Mary burst into tears, and said she would sign the paper.

While she was signing it, Sir Charles's step was heard in the corridor.

He knocked at the door just as she signed. Reginald had signed already.

Lady Bassett put the paper into the manuscript book, and the book into
the bureau, and said "Come in," with an appearance of composure belied
by her beating heart.

"Here is Mrs. Meyrick, my dear."

In those few seconds so perfect a liar as Mary Meyrick had quite
recovered herself.

"If you please, sir," said she, "I be come to ast if you will give us a
new lease, for ourn it is run out."

"You had better talk to the steward about that."

"Very well, sir," and she made her courtesy.

Reginald remained, not knowing exactly what to do.

"My dear," said Lady Bassett, "Reginald has come to bid us good-by. He
is going to visit Mr. Rolfe, and take his advice, if you have no
objection."

"None whatever; and I hope he will treat it with more respect than he
does mine."

Reginald shrugged his shoulders, and was going out, when Lady Bassett
said, "Won't you kiss me, Reginald, as you are going away?"

He came to her: she kissed him, and whispered in his ear, "Be true to
me, as I will be to you."

Then he left her, and she felt like a dead thing, with exhaustion. She
lay on the sofa, and Sir Charles sat beside her, and made her drink a
glass of wine.

She lay very still that afternoon; but at night she slept: a load was
off her mind for the present.

Next day she was so much better she came down to dinner.

What she now hoped was, that entire separation, coupled with the memory
of the boy's misdeeds, would cure Sir Charles entirely of his affection
for Reginald; and so that, after about twenty years more of conjugal
fidelity, she might find courage to reveal to her husband the fault of
her youth at a time when all its good results remained to help excuse
it, and all its bad results had vanished.

Such was the plan this extraordinary woman conceived, and its success
so far had a wonderful effect on her health.

But a couple of days passed, and she did not hear either from Reginald
or Mr. Rolfe. That made her a little anxious.

On the third day Compton asked her, with an angry flush on his brow,
whether she had not sent Reginald up to London.

"Yes, dear," said Lady Bassett.

"Well, he is not gone, then."

"Oh!"

"He is living at his nurse's. I saw him talking to an old gypsy that
lives on the farm."

Lady Bassett groaned, but said nothing.

"Never mind, mamma," said Compton. "Your other children must love you
all the more."

This news caused Lady Bassett both anxiety and terror. She divined bad
faith and all manner of treachery, none the less terrible for being
vague.

Down went her health again and her short-lived repose.

Meantime Reginald, in reality, was staying at the farm on a little
business of his own.

He had concerted an expedition with the foreign gent, and was waiting
for a dark and gusty night.

He had undertaken this expedition with mixed motives, spite and greed,
especially the latter. He would never have undertaken it with a 500
pound check in his pocket; but some minds are so constituted they
cannot forego a bad design once formed: so Mr. Reginald persisted,
though one great motive existed no longer.

On this expedition it is now our lot to accompany him.

The night was favorable, and at about two o'clock Reginald and the
foreign gent stood under Richard Bassett's dining-room window, with
crape over their eyes, noses and mouths, and all manner of unlawful
implements in their pockets.

The foreign gent prized the shutters open with a little crowbar; he
then, with a glazier's diamond, soon cut out a small pane, inserted a
cunning hand and opened the window.

Then Reginald gave him a leg, and he got into the room.

The agile youth followed him without assistance.

They lighted a sort of bull's-eye, and poured the concentrated light on
the cupboard door, behind which lay the treasure of glorious old plate.

Then the foreign gent produced his skeleton keys, and after several
ineffective trials, opened the door softly and revealed the glittering
booty.

At sight of it the foreign gent could not suppress an ejaculation, but
the younger one clapped his hand before his mouth hurriedly.

The foreign gent unrolled a sort of green baize apron he had round him;
it was, in reality, a bag.

Into this receptacle the pair conveyed one piece of plate after another
with surprising dexterity, rapidity, and noiseless-ness. When it was
full, they began to fill the deep pockets of their shooting-jackets.

While thus employed, they heard a rapid footstep, and Richard Bassett
opened the door. He was in his trousers and shirt, and had a pistol in
his hand.

At sight of him Reginald uttered a cry of dismay; the foreign gent blew
out the light.

Richard Bassett, among whose faults want of personal courage was not
one, rushed forward and collared Reginald.

But the foreign gent had raised the crowbar to defend himself, and
struck him a blow on the head that made him stagger back.

The foreign gent seized this opportunity, and ran at once at the window
and jumped at it.

If Reginald had been first, he would have gone through like a cat, but
the foreign gent, older, and obstructed by the contents of his pocket,
higgled and stuck a few seconds in the window.

That brief delay was fatal; Richard Bassett leveled his pistol
deliberately at him, fired, and sent a ball through his shoulder; he
fell like a log upon the ground outside.

Richard then leveled another barrel at Reginald, but he howled out for
quarter, and was immediately captured, and with the assistance of the
brave Jessie, who now came boldly to her master's aid, his hands were
tied behind him and he was made prisoner, with the stolen articles in
his pocket.

When they were tying him, he whimpered, and said it was only a lark; he
never meant to keep anything. He offered a hundred pounds down if they
would let him off.

But there was no mercy for him.

Richard Bassett had a candle lighted, and inspected the prisoner. He
lifted his crape veil, and said "Oho!"

"You see it was only a lark," said Reginald, and shook in every limb.

Richard Bassett smiled grimly, and said nothing. He gave Jessie strict
orders to hold her tongue, and she and he between them took Reginald
and locked him up in a small room adjoining the kitchen.

They then went to look for the other burglar.

He had emptied his pockets of all the plate, and crawled away. It is
supposed he threw away the plate, either to soften Reginald's offense,
or in the belief that he had received his death wound, and should not
require silver vessels where he was going.

Bassett picked up the articles and brought them in, and told Jessie to
light the fire and make him a cup of coffee.

He replaced all the plate, except the articles left in Reginald's
pocket.

Then he went upstairs, and told his wife that burglars had broken into
the house, but had taken nothing; she was to give herself no anxiety.
He told her no more than this, for his dark and cruel nature had
already conceived an idea he did not care to communicate to her, on
account of the strong opposition he foresaw from so good a Christian:
besides, of late, since her daughter came home to back her, she had
spoken her mind more than once.

He kept them then in the dark, and went downstairs again to his coffee.

He sat and sipped it, and, with it, his coming vengeance.

All the defeats and mortifications he had endured from Huntercombe
returned to his mind; and now, with one masterstroke he would balance
them all.

Yet he felt a little compunction.

Active hostilities had ceased for many years.

Lady Bassett, at all events, had held out the hand to his wife. The
blow he meditated was very cruel: would not his wife and daughter say
it was barbarous? Would not his own heart, the heart of a father,
reproach him afterward?

These misgivings, that would have restrained a less obstinate man,
irritated Richard Bassett: he went into a rage, and said aloud, "I must
do it: I will do it, come what may."

He told Jessie he valued her much: she should have a black silk gown
for her courage and fidelity; but she must not be faithful by halves.
She must not breathe one word to any soul in the house that the burglar
was there under lock and key; if she did, he should turn her out of the
house that moment.

"Hets!" said the woman, "der ye think I canna haud my whist, when the
maister bids me? I'm nae great clasher at ony time, for my pairt."

At seven o'clock in the morning he sent a note to Sir Charles Bassett,
to say that his house had been attacked last night by two armed
burglars; he and his people had captured one, and wished to take him
before a magistrate at once, since his house was not a fit place to
hold him secure. He concluded Sir Charles would not refuse him the
benefit of the law, however obnoxious he might be.

Sir Charles's lips curled with contempt at the man who was not ashamed
to put such a doubt on paper.

However, he wrote back a civil line, to say that of course he was at
Mr. Bassett's service, and would be in his justice-room at nine
o'clock.

Meantime, Mr. Richard Bassett went for the constable and an assistant;
but, even to them, he would not say precisely what he wanted them for.

His plan was to march an unknown burglar, with his crape on his face,
into Sir Charles's study, give his evidence, and then reveal the son to
the father.

Jessie managed to hold her tongue for an hour or two, and nothing
occurred at Highmore or in Huntercombe to interfere with Richard
Bassett's barbarous revenge.

Meantime, however, something remarkable had occurred at the distance of
a mile and a quarter.

Mrs. Meyrick breakfasted habitually at eight o'clock.

Reginald did not appear.

Mrs. Meyrick went to his room, and satisfied herself he had not passed
the night there.

Then she went to the foreign gent's shed.

He was not there.

Then she went out, and called loudly to them both.

No answer.

Then she went into the nearest meadow, to see if they were in sight.

The first thing she saw was the foreign gent staggering toward her.

"Drunk!" said she, and went to scold him; but, when she got nearer, she
saw at once that something very serious had happened. His dark face was
bloodless and awful, and he could hardly drag his limbs along; indeed
they had failed him a score of times between Highmore and that place.

Just as she came up with him he sank once more to the ground, and
turned up two despairing eyes toward her.

"Oh, daddy! what is it? Where's Reginald? Whatever have they done to
you?"

"Brandy!" groaned the wounded man.

She flew into the house, and returned in a moment with a bottle. She
put it to his lips.

He revived and told her all, in a few words.

"The young bloke and I went to crack a crib. I'm shot with a bullet.
Hide me in that loose hay there; leave me the bottle, and let nobody
come nigh me. The beak will be after me very soon."

Then Mrs. Meyrick, being a very strong woman, dragged him to the
haystack, and covered him with loose hay.

"Now," said she, trembling, "where's my boy?"

"He's nabbed."

"Oh!"

"And he'll be lagged, unless you can beg him off."

Mary Meyrick uttered a piercing scream.

"You wretch! to tempt my boy to this. And him with five hundred pounds
in his pocket, and my lady's favor. Oh, why did we not keep our word
with her? She was the wisest, and our best friend. But it is all your
doing; you are the devil that tempted him, you old villain!"

"Don't miscall me," said the gypsy.

"Not miscall you, when you have run away, and left them to take my boy
to jail! No word is bad enough for you, you villain!"

_"I'm your father--and a dying man,"_ said the old gypsy, calmly, and
folded his hands upon his breast with Oriental composure and decency.

The woman threw herself on her knees.

Forgive me, father--tell me, where is he?"

"Highmore House."

At that simple word her eyes dilated with wild horror, she uttered a
loud scream, and flew into the house.

In five minutes she was on her way to Highmore.

She reached that house, knocked hastily at the door, and said she must
see Mr. Richard Bassett that moment.

"He is just gone out," said the maid.

"Where to?"

The girl knew her, and began to gossip. "Why, to Huntercombe Hall.
What! haven't you heard, Mrs. Meyrick? Master caught a robber last
night. Laws! you should have seen him: he have got crape all over his
face; and master, and the constable, and Mr. Musters, they be all gone
with him to Sir Charles, for to have him committed--the villain! Why,
what ails the woman?"

For Mary Meyrick turned her back on the speaker, and rushed away in a
moment.

She went through the kitchen at Huntercombe: she was so well known
there, nobody objected: she flew up the stairs, and into Lady Bassett's
bedroom. "Oh, my lady! my lady!"

Lady Bassett screamed, at her sudden entrance and wild appearance.

Mary Meyrick told her all in a few wild words. She wrung her hands with
a great fear.

"It's no time for that," cried Mary, fiercely. "Come down this moment,
and save him."

"How can I?"

"You must! You shall!" cried the other. "Don't ask me how. Don't sit
wringing your hands, woman. If you are not there in five minutes to
save him, I'll tell all."

"Have mercy on me!" cried Lady Bassett. "I gave him money, I sent him
away. It's not my fault."

"No matter; he must be saved, or I'll ruin you. I can't stay here: I
must be there, and so must you."

She rushed down the stairs, and tried to get into the justice-room, but
admission was refused her.

Then she gave a sort of wild snarl, and ran round to the small room
adjoining the justice-room. Through this she penetrated, and entered
the justice-room, but not in time to prevent the evidence from being
laid before Sir Charles.

What took place in the meantime was briefly this: The prisoner,
handcuffed now instead of tied, was introduced between the constable
and his assistant; the door was locked, and Sir Charles received Mr.
Bassett with a ceremonious bow, seated himself, and begged Mr. Bassett
to be seated.

"Thank you," said Mr. Bassett, but did not seat himself. He stood
before the prisoner and gave his evidence; during which the prisoner's
knees were seen to knock together with terror: he was a young man fit
for folly, but not for felony.

Said Richard Bassett, "I have a cupboard containing family plate. It is
valuable, and some years ago I passed a piece of catgut from the door
through the ceiling to a bell at my bedside.

"Very late last night the bell sounded. I flung on my trousers, and
went down with a pistol. I caught two burglars in the act of rifling
the cupboard. I went to collar one; he struck me on the head with a
crowbar--constable, show the crowbar--I staggered, but recovered
myself, and fired at one of the burglars: he was just struggling
through the window. He fell, and I thought he was dead, but he got
away. I secured the other, and here he is--just as he was when I took
him. Constable, search his pockets."

The constable did so, and produced therefrom several pieces of silver
plate stamped with the Bassett arms.

"My servant here can confirm this," added Mr. Bassett.

"It is not necessary here," said Sir Charles. Then to the criminal,
"Have you anything to say?"

"It was only a lark," quavered the poor wretch.

"I would not advise you to say that where you are going."

He then, while writing out the warrant, said, as a matter of course,
"Remove his mask."

The constable lifted it, and started back with a shout of dismay and
surprise: Jessie screamed.

Sir Charles looked up, and saw in the burglar he was committing for
trial his first-born, the heir to his house and his lands.

The pen fell from Sir Charles's fingers, and he stared at the wan face,
and wild, imploring eyes that stared at him.

He stared at the lad, and then put his hand to his heart, and that
heart seemed to die within him.

There was a silence, and a horror fell on all. Even Richard Bassett
quailed at what he had done.

"Ah! cruel man! cruel man!" moaned the broken father. "God judge you
for this--as now I must judge my unhappy son. Mr. Bassett, it matters
little to you what magistrate commits you, and I must keep my oath. I
am--going--to set you an--example, by signing a warrant--"

"No, no, no!" cried a woman's voice, and Mary Meyrick rushed into the
room.

Every person there thought he knew Mary Meyrick; yet she was like a
stranger to them now. There was that in her heart at that awful moment
which transfigured a handsome but vulgar woman into a superior being.
Her cheek was pale, her black eyes large, and her mellow voice had a
magic power. "You don't know what you are doing!" she cried. "Go no
farther, or you will all curse the hand that harmed a hair of his head;
you, most of all, Richard Bassett."

Sir Charles, in any other case, would have sent her out of the room;
but, in his misery, he caught at the straw.

"Speak out, woman," he said, "and save the wretched boy, if you can. I
see no way."

"There are things it is not fit to speak before all the world. Bid
those men go, and I'll open your eyes that stay."

Then Richard Bassett foresaw another triumph, so he told the constable
and his man they had better retire for a few minutes, "while," said he,
with a sneer, "these wonderful revelations are being made."

When they were gone, Mary turned to Richard Bassett, and said "Why do
you want him sent to prison?--to spite Sir Charles here, to stab his
heart through his son."

Sir Charles groaned aloud.

The woman heard, and thought of many things. She flung herself on her
knees, and seized his hand. "Don't you cry, my dear old master; mine is
the only heart shall bleed. HE IS NOT YOUR SON."

"What!" cried Sir Charles, in a terrible voice.

"That is no news to me," said Richard. "He is more like the parson than
Sir Charles Bassett."

"For shame! for shame!" cried Mary Meyrick. "Oh, it becomes you to give
fathers to children when you don't know your own flesh and blood! He is
YOUR SON, RICHARD BASSETT."



_"My_ son!" roared Bassett, in utter amazement.

"Ay. I should know; FOR I AM HIS MOTHER."

This astounding statement was uttered with all the majesty of truth,
and when she said "I am his mother," the voice turned tender all in a
moment.

They were all paralyzed; and, absorbed in this strange revelation, did
not hear a tottering footstep: a woman, pale as a corpse, and with eyes
glaring large, stood among them, all in a moment, as if a ghost had
risen from the earth.

It was Lady Bassett.

At sight of her, Sir Charles awoke from the confusion and amazement
into which Mary had thrown him, and said, "Ah--! Bella, do you hear
what she says, that he is not our son? What, then, have you agreed with
your servant to deceive your husband?"

Lady Bassett gasped, and tried to speak; but before the words would
come, the sight of her corpse-like face and miserable agony moved Mary
Wells, and she snatched the words out of her mouth.

"What is the use of questioning _her?_ She knows no more than you do. I
done it all; and done it for the best. My lady's child died; I hid that
from her; for I knew it would kill her, and keep you in a mad-house. I
done for the best: I put my live child by her side, and she knew no
better. As time went on, and the boy so dark, she suspected; but know
it she couldn't till now. My lady, I am his mother, and there stands
his cruel father; cruel to me, and cruel to him. But don't you dare to
harm him; I've got all your letters, promising me marriage; I'll take
them to your wife and daughter, and they shall know it is your own
flesh and blood you are sending to prison. Oh, I am mad to threaten
him! my darling, speak him fair; he is your father; he may have a bit
of nature in his heart somewhere, though I could never find it."

The young man put his hands together, like an Oriental, and said,
"Forgive me," then sank at Richard Bassett's knees.

Then Sir Charles, himself much shaken, took his wife's arm and led her,
trembling like an aspen leaf, from the room.

Perhaps the prayers of Reginald and the tears of his mother would alone
have sufficed to soften Richard Bassett, but the threat of exposure to
his wife and daughter did no harm. The three soon came to terms.

Reginald to be liberated on condition of going to London by the next
train, and never setting his foot in that parish again. His mother to
go with him, and see him off to Australia. She solemnly pledged herself
not to reveal the boy's real parentage to any other soul in the world.

This being settled, Richard Bassett called the constable in, and said
the young gentleman had satisfied him that it was a practical joke,
though a very dangerous one, and he withdrew the charge of felony.

The constable said he must have Sir Charles's authority for that.

A message was sent to Sir Charles. He came. The prisoner was released,
and Mary Meyrick took his arm sharply, as much as to say, "Out of my
hands you go no more."

Before they left the room, Sir Charles, who was now master of himself,
said, with deep feeling, "My poor boy, you can never be a stranger to
me. The affection of years cannot be untied in a moment. You see now
how folly glides into crime, and crime into punishment. Take this to
heart, and never again stray from the paths of honor. Lead an honorable
life; and, if you do, write to me as if I was still your father."

They retired, but Richard Bassett lingered, and hung his head.

Sir Charles wondered what this inveterate foe could have to say now.

At last Richard said, half sullenly, yet with a touch of compunction,
"Sir Charles, you have been more generous than I was. You have laid me
under an obligation."

Sir Charles bowed loftily.

"You would double that obligation if you would prevail on Lady Bassett
to keep that old folly of mine secret from my wife and daughter. I am
truly ashamed of it; and, whatever my faults may have been, they love
and respect me."

"Mr. Bassett," said Sir Charles, "my son Compton must be told that he
is my heir; but no details injurious to you shall transpire: you may
count on absolute secrecy from Lady Bassett and myself."

"Sir Charles," said Richard Bassett, faltering for a moment, "I am very
much obliged to you, and I begin to be sorry we are enemies.
Good-morning."

The agitation and terror of this scene nearly killed Lady Bassett on
the spot. She lay all that day in a state of utter prostration.

Meantime Sir Charles put this and that together, but said nothing. He
spoke cheerfully and philosophically to his wife--said it had been a
fearful blow, terrible wrench: but it was all for the best; such a son
as that would have broken his heart before long.

"Ah, but your wasted affections!" groaned Lady Bassett; and her tears
streamed at the thought.

Sir Charles sighed; but said, after a while, "Is affection ever
entirely wasted? My love for that young fool enlarged my heart. There
was a time he did me a deal of good."

But next day, having only herself to think of now, Lady Bassett could
live no longer under the load of deceit. She told Sir Charles Mary
Meyrick had deceived him. "Read this," she said, "and see what your
miserable wife has done, who loved you to madness and crime."

Sir Charles looked at her, and saw in her wasted form and her face
that, if he did read it, he should kill her; so he played the man: he
restrained himself by a mighty effort, and said, "My dear, excuse me;
but on this matter I have more faith in Mary Meyrick's exactness than
in yours. Besides, I know your heart, and don't care to be told of your
errors in judgment, no, not even by yourself. Sorry to offend an
authoress; but I decline to read your book, and, more than that, I
forbid you the subject entirely for the next thirty years, at least.
Let by-gones be by-gones."



That eventful morning Mr. Rutland called and proposed to Ruperta. She
declined politely, but firmly.

She told Mrs. Bassett, and Mrs. Bassett told Richard in a nervous way,
but his answer surprised her. He said he was very glad of it; Ruperta
could do better.

Mrs. Bassett could not resist the pleasure of telling Lady Bassett. She
went over on purpose, with her husband's consent.

Lady Bassett asked to see Ruperta. "By all means," said Richard
Bassett, graciously.

On her return to Highmore, Ruperta asked leave to go to the Hall every
day and nurse Lady Bassett. "They will let her die else," said she.
Richard Bassett assented to that, too. Ruperta, for some weeks, almost
lived at the Hall, and in this emergency revealed great qualities. As
the malevolent small-pox, passing through the gentle cow, comes out the
sovereign cow-pox, so, in this gracious nature, her father's vices
turned to their kindred virtues; his obstinacy of purpose shone here a
noble constancy; his audacity became candor, and his cunning wisdom.
Her intelligence saw at once that Lady Bassett was pining to death, and
a weak-minded nurse would be fatal: she was all smiles and brightness,
and neglected no means to encourage the patient.

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