A Terrible Temptation (Fiscle Part 3) by Charles Reade (best ereader for manga TXT) 📕

Self-Command,  She Broke Out,  Pointing Through The Window At Highmore,

_"He_ Has Got A Fine Boy--To Take Our Place Here. Kill Me,  Charles!

Send Me To Heaven To Pray For You,  And Take Another Wife That Will Love

You Less But Be Like Other Wives. That Villain Has Married A Fruitful

Vine,  And" (Lifting Both Arms To Heaven,  With A Gesture Unspeakably

Piteous,  Poetic,  And Touching) "I Am A Barren Stock."

Of All The Fools Nature Produces With The Help Of Society,  Fathers Of

First-Borns Are About The Most Offensive.

The Mothers Of Ditto Are Bores Too,  Flinging Their Human Dumplings At

Every Head; But,  Considering The Tortures They Have Suffered,  And The

Anguish The Little Egotistical Viper They Have Just Hatched Will Most

Likely Give Them,  And Considering Further That Their Love Of Their

Firstborn Is Greater Than Their Pride,  And Their Pride Unstained By

Vanity,  One Must Make Allowances For Them.

But The Male Parent Is Not So Excusable. His Fussy Vanity Is An

Inferior Article To The Mother's Silly But Amiable Pride. His Obtrusive

Affection Is Two-Thirds Of It Egotism,  And Blindish Egotism,  Too; For

If,  At The Very Commencement Of The Wife's Pregnancy The Husband Is

Sent To India,  Or Hanged,  The Little Angel,  As They Call It--Lord

Forgive Them!--Is Nurtured From A Speck To A Mature Infant By The Other

Parent,  And Finally Brought Into The World By Her Just As Effectually

As If Her Male Confederate Had Been Tied To Her Apron-String: All The

Time,  Instead Of Expatriated Or Hanged.

Therefore The Law--For Want,  I Suppose,  Of Studying Medicine--Is A

Little Inconsiderate In Giving Children To Fathers,  And Taking Them By

Force From Such Mothers _As Can Support Them;_ And Therefore Let

Gallina Go On Clucking Over Her First-Born,  But Gallus Be Quiet,  Or

Sing A Little Smaller.

With These Preliminary Remarks,  Let Me Introduce To You A Character New

In Fiction,  But Terribly Old In History--

         The Clucking Cock.

Upon The Birth Of A Son And Heir Mr. Richard Bassett Was Inflated

Almost To Bursting. He Became Suddenly Hospitable,  Collected All His

Few Friends About Him,  And Showed Them All The Boy At Great Length,  And

Talked Boy And Little Else. He Went Out Into The World And Made Calls

On People Merely To Remind Them He Had A Son And Heir.

His Self-Gratulation Took A Dozen Forms; Perhaps The Most Amusing,  And

The Richest Food For Satire,  Was The Mock-Querulous Style,  Of Which He

Showed Himself A Master.

"Don't You Ever Marry," Said He To Wheeler And Others. "Look At Me; Do

You Think I Am The Master Of My Own House? Not I; I Am A Regular Slave.

First,  There Is A Monthly Nurse,  Who Orders Me Out Of My Wife's

Presence,  Or Graciously Lets Me In,  Just As She Pleases; That Is Queen

1. Then There's A Wet-Nurse,  Queen 2,  Whom I Must Humor In Everything,

Or She Will Quarrel With Me,  And Avenge Herself By Souring Her Milk.

But These Are Mild Tyrants Compared With The Young King Himself. If He

Does But Squall We Must All Skip,  And Find Out What He Ails,  Or What He

Wants. As For Me,  I Am Looked Upon As A Necessary Evil; The Women Seem

To Admit That A Father Is An Incumbrance Without Which These Little

Angels Could Not Exist,  But That Is All."

He Had A Christening Feast,  And It Was Pretty Well Attended,  For He

Reminded All He Asked That The Young Christian Was The Heir To The

Bassett Estates. They Feasted,  And The Church-Bells Rang Merrily.

He Had His Pew In The Church New Lined With Cloth,  And Took His Wife To

Be Churched. The Nurse Was In The Pew Too,  With His Son And Heir. It

Squalled And Spoiled The Liturgy. Thereat Gallus Chuckled.

He Made A Gravel-Walk All Along The Ha-Ha That Separated His Garden

From Sir Charles's,  And Called It "The Heir's Walk." Here The Nurse And

Child Used To Parade On Sunny Afternoons.

He Got An Army Of Workmen,  And Built A Nursery Fit For A Duke's Nine

Children. It Occupied Two Entire Stories,  And Rose In The Form Of A

Square Tower High Above The Rest Of His House,  Which,  Indeed,  Was As

Humble As "The Heir's Tower" Was Pretentious. "The Heir's Tower" Had A

Flat Lead Roof Easy Of Access,  And From It You Could Inspect

Huntercombe Hall,  And See What Was Done On The Lawn Or At Some Of The

Windows.

Here,  In The August Afternoons,  Mr. And Mrs. Bassett Used To Sit

Drinking Their Tea,  With Nurse And Child; And Bassett Would Talk To His

Unconscious Boy,  And Tell Him That The Great House And All That

Belonged To It Should Be His In Spite Of The Arts That Had Been Used To

Rob Him Of It.

Now,  Of Course,  The Greater Part Of All This Gratulation Was Merely

Amusing,  And Did No Harm Except Stirring Up The Bile Of A Few Old

Bachelors,  And Imbittering Them Worse Than Ever Against Clucking Cocks,

Crowing Hens,  Inflated Parents,  And Matrimony In General.

But The Overflow Of It Reached Huntercombe Hall,  And Gave Cruel Pain To

The Childless Ones,  Over Whom This Inflated Father Was,  In Fact,

Exulting.

As For The Christening,  And The Bells That Pealed For It,  And The

Subsequent Churching,  They Bore These Things With Sore Hearts,  And

Bravely,  Being Things Of Course. But When It Came To Their Ears That

Bassett And His Family Called His New Gravel-Walk "The Heir's Walk,"

And His Ridiculous Nursery "The Heir's Tower," This Roused A Bitter

Animosity,  And,  Indeed,  Led To Reprisals. Sir Charles Built A Long Wall

At The Edge Of His Garden,  Shutting Out "The Heir's Walk" And

Intercepting The View Of His Own Premises From That Walk.

Then Mr. Bassett Made A Little Hill At The End Of His Walk,  So That The

Heir Might Get One Peep Over The Wall At His Rich Inheritance.

Then Sir Charles Began To Fell Timber On A Gigantic Scale. He Went To

Work With Several Gangs Of Woodmen,  And All His Woods,  Which Were Very

Extensive,  Rang With The Ax,  And The Trees Fell Like Corn. He Made No

Secret That He Was Going To Sell Timber To The Tune Of Several Thousand

Pounds And Settle It On His Wife.

Then Richard Bassett,  Through Wheeler,  His Attorney,  Remonstrated In

His Own Name,  And That Of His Son,  Against This Excessive Fall Of

Timber On An Entailed Estate.

Sir Charles Chafed Like A Lion Stung By A Gad-Fly,  But Vouchsafed No

Reply: The Answer Came From Mr. Oldfield; He Said Sir Charles Had A

Right Under The Entail To Fell Every Stick Of Timber,  And Turn His

Woods Into Arable Ground,  If He Chose; And Even If He Had Not,  Looking

At His Age And His Wife's,  It Was Extremely Improbable That Richard

Bassett Would Inherit The Estates: The Said Richard Bassett Was Not

Personally Named In The Entail,  And His Rights Were All In Supposition:

If Mr. Wheeler Thought He Could Dispute Both These Positions,  The Court

Of Chancery Was Open To His Client.

Then Wheeler Advised Bassett To Avoid The Court Of Chancery In A Matter

So Debatable; And Sir Charles Felled All The More For The Protest. The

Dead Bodies Of The Trees Fell Across Each Other,  And Daylight Peeped

Through The Thick Woods. It Was Like The Clearing Of A Primeval Forest.

Richard Bassett Went About With A Witness And Counted The Fallen.

The Poor Were Allowed The Lopwood: They Thronged In For Miles Round,

And Each Built Himself A Great Wood Pile For The Winter; The Poor

Blessed Sir Charles: He Gave The Proceeds,  Thirteen Thousand Pounds,  To

His Wife For Her Separate Use. He Did Not Tie It Up. He Restricted Her

No Further Than This: She Undertook Never To Draw Above 100 Pounds At A

Time Without Consulting Mr. Oldfield As To The Application. Sir Charles

Said He Should Add To This Fund Every Year; His Beloved Wife Should Not

Be Poor,  Even If The Hated Cousin Should Outlive Him And Turn Her Out

Of Huntercombe.

And So Passed The Summer Of That Year; Then The Autumn; And Then Came A

Singularly Mild Winter. There Was More Hunting Than Usual,  And Richard

Bassett,  Whom His Wife's Fortune Enabled To Cut A Better Figure Than

Before,  Was Often In The Field,  Mounted On A Great Bony Horse That Was

Not So Fast As Some,  Being Half-Bred,  But A Wonderful Jumper.

Even In This Pastime The Cousins Were Rivals. Sir Charles's Favorite

Horse Was A Magnificent Thoroughbred,  Who Was Seldom Far Off At The

Finish: Over Good Ground Richard's Cocktail Had No Chance With Him; But

Sometimes,  If Toward The Close Of The Run They Came To Stiff Fallows

And Strong Fences,  The Great Strength Of The Inferior Animal,  And That

Prudent Reserve Of His Powers Which Distinguishes The Canny Cocktail

From The Higher-Blooded Animal,  Would Give Him The Advantage.

Of This There Occurred,  On A Certain 18th Of November,  An Example

Fraught With Very Serious Consequences.

That Day The Hounds Met On Sir Charles's Estate. Sir Charles And Lady

Bassett Breakfasted In Pink; He Had On His Scarlet Coat,  White Tie,

Irreproachable Buckskins,  And Top-Boots. (It Seemed A Pity A Speck Of

Dirt Should Fall On Them.) Lady Bassett Was In Her Riding-Habit; And

When She Mounted Her Pony,  And Went To Cover By His Side,  With Her

Blue-Velvet Cap And Her Red-Brown Hair,  She Looked More Like A

Brilliant Flower Than A Mere Woman.

A Veteran Fox Was Soon Found,  And Went Away With Unusual Courage And

Speed,  And Lady Bassett Paced Homeward To Wait