A Terrible Temptation: A Story of To-Day
passed worth recording at that time.
Next day Lady Bassett, with instinctive curiosity, asked Master
Reginald how he came to put such a question as that to Mr. Rolfe.
“Because I wanted to know.”
“But what put such words into your head? I never heard a gentleman say
such words; and you must never say them again, Reginald.”
“Tell me what it means, and I won't,” said he.
“Oh,” said Lady Bassett, “since you bargain with me, sir, I must
bargain with you. Tell me first where you ever heard such words.”
“When I was staying at nurse's. Ah, that was jolly.”
“You like that better than being here?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for that. Well, dear, did nurse say that? Surely not?”
“Oh, no; it was the man.”
“What man?”
“Why, the man that came to the gate one morning, and talked to me, and
I talked to him, and that nasty nurse ran out and caught us, and
carried me in, and gave me such a hiding, and all for nothing.”
“A hiding! What words the poor child picks up! But I don't understand
why nurse should beat _you.”_
“For speaking to the man. She said he was a bad man, and she would kill
me if ever I spoke to him again.”
“Oh, it was a bad man, and said bad words--to somebody he was
quarreling with?”
“No, he said them to nurse because she took me away.”
“What _did_ he say, Reginald?” asked Lady Bassett, becoming very grave
and thoughtful all at once.
“He said, 'That's too late; I've seen the parson's brat.'”
“Oh!”
“And I've asked nurse again and again what it meant, but she won't tell
me. She only says the man is a liar, and I am not to say it again; and
so I never did say it again--for a long time; but last night, when
Rolfe the writer said he knew everything, it struck my head--what is
the matter, mamma?”
“Nothing; nothing.”
“You look so white. Are you ill, mamma?” and he went to put his arms
round her, which was a mighty rare thing with him.
She trembled a good deal, and did not either embrace him or repel him.
She only trembled.
After some time she recovered herself enough to say, in a voice and
with a manner that impressed itself at once on this sharp boy:
“Reginald, your nurse was quite right. Understand this: the man was
your enemy--and mine; the words he said you must not say again. It
would be like taking up dirt and flinging some on your own face and
some on mine.”
“I won't do that,” said the boy, firmly. “Are you afraid of the man
that you look so white?”
“A man with a woman's tongue--who can help fearing?”
“Don't you be afraid; as soon as I'm big enough, I'll kill him.”
Lady Bassett looked with surprise at the child, he uttered this resolve
with such a steady resolution.
She drew him to her, and kissed him on the forehead.
“No, Reginald,” said she; “we must not shed blood; it is as wicked to
kill our enemies as to kill any one else. But never speak to him, never
even listen to him; if he tries to speak to you, run away from him, and
don't let him--he is our enemy.”
That same day she went to Mrs. Meyrick, to examine her. But she found
the boy had told her all there was to tell.
Mrs. Meyrick, whose affection for her was not diminished, was downright
vexed. “Dear me!” said she; “I did think I had kept that from vexing of
you. To think of the dear child hiding it for nigh two years, and then
to blurt it out like that! Nobody heard him I hope?”
“Others heard; but--”
“Didn't heed; the Lord be praised for that.”
“Mary,” said Lady Bassett, solemnly, “I am not equal to another battle
with Mr. Richard Bassett; and such a battle! Better tell all, and die.”
“Don't think of it,” said Mary. “You're safe from Richard Bassett now.
Times are changed since he came spying to my gate. His own boy is gone.
You have got two. He'll lie still if you do. But if you tell your tale,
he must hear on't, and he'll tell his. For God's sake, my lady, keep
close. It is the curse of women that they can't just hold their
tongues, and see how things turn. And is this a time to spill good
liquor? Look at Sir Charles! why, he is another man; he have got flesh
on his bones now, and color into his cheeks, and 'twas you and I made a
man of him. It is my belief you'd never have had this other little
angel but for us having sense and courage to see what _must_ be done.
Knock down our own work, and send him wild again, and give that Richard
Bassett a handle? You'll never be so mad.”
Lady Bassett replied. The other answered; and so powerfully that Lady
Bassett yielded, and went home sick at heart, but helpless, and in a
sea of doubt.
Mr. Angelo did not call. Sir Charles asked Lady Bassett if he had
called on her.
She said “No.”
“That is odd,” said Sir Charles. “Perhaps he thinks we ought to welcome
him home. Write and ask him to dinner.”
“Yes, dear. Or you can write.”
“Very well, I will. No, I will call.”
Sir Charles called, and welcomed him home, and asked him to dinner.
Angelo received him rather stiffly at first, but accepted his
invitation.
He came, looking a good deal older and graver, but almost as handsome
as ever; only somewhat changed in mind. He had become a zealous
clergyman, and his soul appeared to be in his work. He was distant and
very respectful to Lady Bassett; I might say obsequious. Seemed almost
afraid of her at first.
That wore off in a few months; but he was never quite so much at his
ease with her as he had been before he left some years ago.
And so did time roll on.
Every morning and every night Lady Bassett used to look wistfully at
Sir Charles, and say--
“Are you happy, dear? Are you sure you are happy?”
And he used always to say, and with truth, that he was the happiest man
in England, thanks to her.
Then she used to relax the wild and wistful look with which she asked
the question, and give a sort of sigh, half content, half resignation.
In due course another fine boy came, and filled the royal office of
baby in his turn.
But my story does not follow him.
Reginald was over ten years old, and Compton nearly six. They were as
different in character as complexion--both remarkable boys.
Reginald, Sir Charles's favorite, was a wonderful boy for riding,
running, talking; and had a downright genius for melody; he whistled to
the admiration of the village, and latterly he practiced the fiddle in
woods and under hedges, being aided and abetted therein by a gypsy boy
whom he loved, and who, indeed, provided the instrument.
He rode with Sir Charles, and rather liked him; his brother he never
noticed, except to tease him. Lady Bassett he admired, and almost loved
her while she was in the act of playing him undeniable melodies. But he
liked his nurse Meyrick better, on the whole; she flattered him more,
and was more uniformly subservient.
With these two exceptions he despised the whole race of women, and
affected male society only, especially of grooms, stable-boys, and
gypsies; these last welcomed him to their tents, and almost prostrated
themselves before him, so dazzled were they by his beauty and his
color. It is believed they suspected him of having gypsy blood in his
veins. They let him into their tents, and even into some of their
secrets, and he promised them they should have it all their own way as
soon as he was Sir Reginald; he had outgrown his original theory that
he was to be Sir Charles on his father's death.
He hated in-doors; when fixed by command to a book, would beg hard to
be allowed to take it into the sun; and at night would open his window
and poke his black head out to wash in the moonshine, as he said.
He despised ladies and gentlemen, said they were all affected fools,
and gave imitations of all his father's guests to prove it; and so keen
was this child of nature's eye for affectation that very often his
disapproving parents were obliged to confess the imp had seen with his
fresh eye defects custom had made them overlook, or the solid good
qualities that lay beneath had overbalanced.
Now all this may appear amusing and eccentric, and so on, to strangers;
but after the first hundred laughs or so with which paternal indulgence
dismisses the faults of childhood, Sir Charles became very grave.
The boy was his darling and his pride. He was ambitious for him. He
earnestly desired to solve for him a problem which is as impossible as
squaring the circle, viz., how to transmit our experience to our
children. The years and the health he had wasted before he knew Bella
Bruce, these he resolved his successor should not waste. He looked
higher for this beautiful boy than for himself. He had fully resolved
to be member for the county one day; but he did not care about it for
himself; it was only to pave the way for his successor; that Sir
Reginald, after a long career in the Commons, might find his way into
the House of Peers, and so obtain dignity in exchange for antiquity;
for, to tell the truth, the ancestors of four-fifths of the British
House of Peers had been hewers of wood and drawers of water at a time
when these Bassetts had already been gentlemen of distinction for
centuries.
All this love and this vicarious ambition were now mortified daily.
Some fathers could do wonders for a brilliant boy, and with him; they
expect him, and a dull boy appears; that is a bitter pill; but this was
worse. Reginald was a sharp boy; he could do anything; fasten him to a
book for twenty minutes, he would learn as much as most boys in an
hour; but there was no keeping him to it, unless you strapped him or
nailed him, for he had the will of a mule, and the suppleness of an eel
to carry out his will. And then his tastes--low as his features were
refined; he was a sort of moral dung-fork; picked up all the slang of
the stable and scattered it in the dining-room and drawing-room; and
once or twice he stole out of his comfortable room at night, and slept
in a gypsy's tent with his arm round a gypsy boy, unsullied from his
cradle by soap.
At last Sir Charles could no longer reply to his wife at night as he
had done for this ten years past. He was obliged to confess that there
was one cloud upon his happiness. “Dear Reginald grieves me, and makes
me dread the future; for if the child is father to the man, there is a
bitter disappointment in store for us. He is like no other boy; he is
like no human creature I ever saw. At his age, and long after, I was a
fool; I was a fool till I knew you; but surely I was a gentleman. I
cannot see myself again--in my first-born.”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
LADY BASSETT was paralyzed for a minute or two by this speech. At last
she replied by asking a question--rather a curious one. “Who nursed
you, Charles?”
“What, when I was a baby? How can I tell? Yes, by-the-by, it was my
mother nursed me--so I was told.”
“And your mother was a Le Compton. This poor boy was nursed by a
servant. Oh, she has some good qualities, and is certainly devoted to
us--to this day her face brightens at sight of me--but she is
essentially vulgar; and do you remember, Charles, I wished to wean him
early; but I was overruled, and the poor child drew his nature from
that woman for nearly eighteen months; it is a thing unheard of
nowadays.”
“Well, but surely it is from our parents we draw our nature.”
“No; I think it is from our nurses. If Compton or Alec ever turn out
like Reginald, blame nobody but their nurse, and that is Me.”
Sir Charles smiled faintly at this piece of feminine logic, and asked
her what he should do.
She said she was quite unable to advise. Mr. Rolfe was coming to see
them soon; perhaps he might be able to suggest something.
Sir Charles said he would consult him; but he was clear on one
thing--the boy must be sent from Huntercombe, and so separated from all
his present acquaintances.
Mr. Rolfe came, and the distressed father opened his heart to him in