A Terrible Temptation: A Story of To-Day
I dressed my lady's hair, and handled it like old chaney; by the same
token, she is so pleased with me you can't think. She is a real lady;
not like our Rhoda. Speaks as civil to me as if I was one of her own
sort; and, says she, 'I should like to have you about me, if I might.'
I had it on my tongue to tell her she was mistress; but I was a little
skeared at her at first, you know. But she will have me about her; I
see it in her eye.”
Bassett was delighted at this news, but he did not speak his mind all
at once; the time was not come. He let the gypsy rattle on, and bided
his time. He flattered her, and said he envied Lady Bassett to have
such a beautiful girl about her. “I'll let my hair grow,” said he.
“Ay, do,” said she, “and then I'll pull it for you.”
This challenge ended in a little struggle for a kiss, the sincerity of
which was doubtful. Polly resisted vigorously, to be sure, but briefly,
and, having given in, returned it.
One day she told him Sir Charles had met her plump, and had given a
great start.
This made Bassett very uneasy. “Confound it, he will turn you away. He
will say, 'This girl knows too much.'”
“How simple you be!” said the girl. “D'ye think I let him know? Says
he, 'I think I have seen you before.' 'Yes, sir,' says I, 'I was
housemaid here before my lady had me to dress her.' 'No,' says he, 'I
mean in London--in Mayfair, you know.' I declare you might ha' knocked
me down wi' a feather. So I looks in his face, as cool as marble, and I
said, 'No, sir; I never had the luck to see London, sir,' says I. 'All
the better for you,' says he; and he swallowed it like spring water, as
sister Rhoda used to say when she told one and they believed it.”
“You are a clever girl,” said Bassett. “He would have turned you out of
the house if he had known who you were.”
She disappointed him in one thing; she was bad at answering questions.
Morally she was not quite so great an egotist as himself, but
intellectually a greater. Her volubility was all egotism. She could
scarcely say ten words, except about herself. So, when Bassett
questioned her about Sir Charles and Lady Bassett, she said “Yes,” or
“No,” or “I don't know,” and was off at a tangent to her own sayings
and doings.
Bassett, however, by great patience and tact, extracted from her at
last that Sir Charles and Lady Bassett were both sore at not having
children, and that Lady Bassett bore the blame.
“That is a good joke,” said he. “The smoke-dried rake! Polly, you might
do me a good turn. You have got her ear; open her eyes for me. What
might not happen?” His eyes shone fiendishly.
The young woman shook her head. “Me meddle between man and wife! I'm
too fond of my place.”
“Ah, you don't love me as I love you. You think only of yourself.”
“And what do you think of? Do you love me well enough to find me a
better place, if you get me turned out of Huntercombe Hall?”
“Yes, I will; a much better.”
“That is a bargain.”
Mary Wells was silly in some things, but she was very cunning, too; and
she knew Richard Bassett's hobby. She told him to mind himself, as well
as Sir Charles, or perhaps he would die a bachelor, and so his flesh
and blood would never inherit Huntercombe. This remark entered his
mind. The trial, though apparently a drawn battle, had been fatal to
him--he was cut; he dared not pay his addresses to any lady in the
county, and he often felt very lonely now. So everything combined to
draw him toward Mary Wells--her swarthy beauty, which shone out at
church like a black diamond among the other women; his own loneliness;
and the pleasure these stolen meetings gave him. Custom itself is
pleasant, and the company of this handsome chatterbox became a habit,
and an agreeable one. The young woman herself employed a woman's arts;
she was cold and loving by turns till at last he gave her what she was
working for, a downright promise of marriage. She pretended not to
believe him, and so led him further; he swore he would marry her.
He made one stipulation, however. She really must learn to read and
write first.
When he had sworn this Mary became more uniformly affectionate; and as
women who have been in service learn great self-government, and can
generally please so long as it serves their turn, she made herself so
agreeable to him that he began really to have a downright liking for
her--a liking bounded, of course, by his incurable selfishness; but as
for his hobby, that was on her side.
Now learning to read and write was wormwood to Mary Wells; but the
prize was so great; she knew all about the Huntercombe estates, partly
from her sister, partly from Bassett himself. (He must tell his wrongs
even to this girl.) So she resolved to pursue matrimony, even on the
severe condition of becoming a scholar. She set about it as follows:
One day that she was doing Lady Bassett's hair she sighed several
times. This was to attract the lady's attention, and it succeeded.
“Is there anything the matter, Mary?”
“No, my lady.”
“I think there is.”
“Well, my lady, I am in a little trouble; but it is my own people's
fault for not sending of me to school. I might be married to-morrow if
I could only read and write.”
“And can you not?”
“No, my lady.”
“Dear me! I thought everybody could read and write nowadays.”
“La, no, my lady! not half of them in our village.”
“Your parents are much to blame, my poor girl. Well, but it is not too
late. Now I think of it, there is an adult school in the village. Shall
I arrange for you to go to it?”
“Thank you, my lady. But then--”
“Well?”
“All my fellow-servants would have a laugh against me.”
“The person you are engaged to, will he not instruct you?”
“Oh, he have no time to teach me. Besides, I don't want him to know,
either. But I won't be his wife to shame him.” (Another sigh.)
“Mary,” said Lady Bassett, in the innocence of her heart, “you shall
not be mortified, and you shall not lose a good marriage. I will try
and teach you myself.”
Mary was profuse in thanks. Lady Bassett received them rather coldly.
She gave her a few minutes' instruction in her dressing-room every day;
and Mary, who could not have done anything intellectual for half an
hour at a stretch, gave her whole mind for those few minutes. She was
quick, and learned very fast. In two months she could read a great deal
more than she could understand, and could write slowly but very
clearly.
Now by this time Lady Bassett had become so interested in her pupil
that she made her read letters and newspapers to her at those parts of
the toilet when her services were not required.
Mary Wells, though a great chatterbox, was the closest girl in England.
Limpet never stuck to a rock as she could stick to a lie. She never
said one word to Bassett about Lady Bassett's lessons. She kept strict
silence till she could write a letter, and then she sent him a line to
say she had learned to write for love of him, and she hoped he would
keep his promise.
Bassett's vanity was flattered by this. But, on reflection, he
suspected it was a falsehood. He asked her suddenly, at their next
meeting, who had written that note for her.
“You shall see me write the fellow to it when you like,” was the reply.
Bassett resolved to submit the matter to that test some day. At
present, however, he took her word for it, and asked her who had taught
her.
“I had to teach myself. Nobody cares enough for me to teach me. Well,
I'll forgive you if you will write me a nice letter for mine.”
“What! when we can meet here and say everything?”
“No matter; I have written to you, and you might write to me. They all
get letters, except me; and the jades hold 'em up to me: they see I
never get one. When you are out, post me a letter now and then. It will
only cost you a penny. I'm sure I don't ask you for much.”
Bassett humored her in this, and in one of his letters called her his
wife that was to be.
This pleased her so much that the next time they met she hung round his
neck with a good deal of feminine grace.
Richard Bassett was a man who now lived in the future. Everybody in the
county believed he had written that anonymous letter, and he had no
hope of shining by his own light. It was bitter to resign his personal
hopes; but he did, and sullenly resolved to be obscure himself, but the
father of the future heirs of Huntercombe. He would marry Mary Wells,
and lay the blame of the match upon Sir Charles, who had blackened him
in the county, and put it out of his power to win a lady's hand.
He told Wheeler he was determined to marry; but he had not the courage
to tell him all at once what a wife he had selected.
The consequence of this half confession was that Wheeler went to work
to find him a girl with money, and not under county influence.
One of Wheeler's clients was a retired citizen, living in a pretty
villa near the market town. Mr. Wright employed him in little matters,
and found him active and attentive. There was a Miss Wright, a meek
little girl, palish, on whom her father doted. Wheeler talked to this
girl of his friend Bassett, his virtues and his wrongs, and interested
the young lady in him. This done, he brought him to the house, and the
girl, being slight and delicate, gazed with gentle but undisguised
admiration on Bassett's _torso._ Wheeler had told Richard Miss Wright
was to have seven thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and that excited
a corresponding admiration in the athletic gentleman.
After that Bassett often called by himself, and the father encouraged
the intimacy. He was old, and wished to see his daughter married before
he left her and this seemed an eligible match, though not a brilliant
one; a bit of land and a good name on one side, a smart bit of money on
the other. The thing went on wheels. Richard Bassett was engaged to
Jane Wright almost before he was aware.
Now he felt uneasy about Mary Wells, very uneasy; but it was only the
uneasiness of selfishness.
He began to try and prepare; he affected business visits to distant
places, etc., in order to break off by degrees. By this means their
meetings were comparatively few. When they did meet (which was now
generally by written appointment), he tried to prepare by telling her
he had encountered losses, and feared that to marry her would be a bad
job for her as well as for him, especially if she should have children.
Mary replied she had been used to work, and would rather work for a
husband than any other master.
On another occasion she asked him quietly whether a gentleman ever
broke his oath.
“Never,” said Richard.
In short, she gave him no opening. She would not quarrel. She adhered
to him as she had never adhered to anything but a lie before.
Then he gave up all hope of smoothing the matter. He coolly cut her;
never came to the trysting-place; did not answer her letters; and,
being a reckless egotist, married Jane Wright all in a hurry, by
special license.
He sent forward to the clerk of Huntercombe church, and engaged the
ringers to ring the church-bells from six o'clock till sundown. This
was for Sir Charles's ears.
It was a balmy evening in May. Lady Bassett was commencing her toilet
in an indolent way, with Mary Wells in attendance, when the
church-bells of Huntercombe struck up a merry peal.
“Ah!” said Lady Bassett; “what is that for? Do you know, Mary?”
“No, my lady. Shall I ask?”
“No; I dare say it is a village wedding.”
“No, my lady, there's nobody been married here this six weeks. Our
kitchen-maid and the baker was the last, you know. I'll send, and know
what it is for.” Mary went out and dispatched the first house-maid she
caught for intelligence. The girl ran into the stable to her
sweetheart, and he told her directly.
Meantime Lady Bassett moralized upon church-bells.