A Simpleton

C >> Charles Reade >> A Simpleton


She was the belle of the ball beyond dispute, and danced with ethereal
grace and athletic endurance. She was madly fond of waltzing, and here
she encountered what she was pleased to call a divine dancer. It was
a Mr. Reginald Falcon, a gentleman who had retired to the seaside to
recruit his health and finances sore tried by London and Paris. Falcon
had run through his fortune, but had acquired, in the process, certain
talents which, as they cost the acquirer dear, so they sometimes repay
him, especially if he is not overburdened with principle, and adopts the
notion that, the world having plucked him, he has a right to pluck the
world. He could play billiards well, but never so well as when backing
himself for a heavy stake. He could shoot pigeons well, and his shooting
improved under that which makes some marksmen miss--a heavy bet against
the gun. He danced to perfection; and being a well-bred, experienced,
brazen, adroit fellow, who knew a little of everything that was going,
he had always plenty to say. Above all, he had made a particular study
of the fair sex; had met with many successes, many rebuffs; and, at
last, by keen study of their minds, and a habit he had acquired of
watching their faces, and shifting his helm accordingly, had learned
the great art of pleasing them. They admired his face; to me, the
short space between his eyes and his hair, his aquiline nose, and thin
straight lips, suggested the bird of prey a little too much: but to
fair doves, born to be clutched, this similitude perhaps was not very
alarming, even if they observed it.

Rosa danced several times with him, and told him he danced like an
angel. He informed her that was because, for once, he was dancing with
an angel. She laughed and blushed. He flattered deliciously, and it cost
him little; for he fell in love with her that night, deeper than he had
ever been in his whole life of intrigue. He asked leave to call on
her: she looked a little shy at that, and did not respond. He instantly
withdrew his proposal, with an apology and a sigh that raised her pity.
However, she was not a forward girl, even when excited by dancing and
charmed with her partner; so she left him to find his own way out of
that difficulty.

He was not long about it. At the end of the next waltz he asked her if
he might venture to solicit an introduction to her father.

"Oh, certainly," said she. "What a selfish girl I am! this is terribly
dull for him."

The introduction being made, and Rosa being engaged for the next three
dances, Mr. Falcon sat by Mr. Lusignan and entertained him. For this
little piece of apparent self-denial he was paid in various coin:
Lusignan found out he was the son of an old acquaintance, and so the
door of Kent Villa opened to him; meantime, Rosa Lusignan never passed
him, even in the arms of a cavalry officer, without bestowing a glance
of approval and gratitude on him. "What a good-hearted young man!"
thought she. "How kind of him to amuse papa; and now I can stay so much
longer."

Falcon followed up the dance by a call, and was infinitely agreeable:
followed up the call by another, and admired Rosa with so little
disguise that Mr. Lusignan said to her, "I think you have made a
conquest. His father had considerable estates in Essex. I presume he
inherits them."

"Oh, never mind his estates," said Rosa, "he dances like an angel, and
gossips charmingly, and IS so nice."

Christopher Staines pined for this girl in silence: his fine frame got
thinner, his pale cheek paler, as she got rosier and rosier; and how?
Why, by following the very advice she had snubbed him for giving her. At
last, he heard she had been the belle of a ball, and that she had been
seen walking miles from home, and blooming as a Hebe. Then his deep
anxiety ceased, his pride stung him furiously; he began to think of his
own value, and to struggle with all his might against his deep love.
Sometimes he would even inveigh against her, and call her a fickle,
ungrateful girl, capable of no strong passion but vanity. Many a hard
term he applied to her in his sorrowful solitude; but not a word when he
had a hearer. He found it hard to rest: he kept dashing up to London and
back. He plunged furiously into study. He groaned and sighed, and fought
the hard and bitter fight that is too often the lot of the deep that
love the shallow. Strong, but single-hearted, no other lady could
comfort him. He turned from female company, and shunned all for the
fault of one.

The inward contest wore him. He began to look very thin and wan; and all
for a Simpleton!

Mr. Falcon prolonged his stay in the neighborhood, and drove a handsome
dogcart over twice a week to visit Mr. Lusignan.

He used to call on that gentleman at four o'clock, for at that hour Mr.
Lusignan was always out, and his daughter always at home.

She was at home at that hour because she took her long walks in the
morning. While her new admirer was in bed, or dressing, or breakfasting,
she was springing along the road with all the elasticity of youth, and
health, and native vigor, braced by daily exercise.

Twenty-one of these walks did she take, with no other result than health
and appetite; but the twenty-second was more fertile--extremely fertile.
Starting later than usual, she passed through Gravesend while Reginald
Falcon was smoking at his front window. He saw her, and instantly doffed
his dressing-gown and donned his coat to follow her. He was madly in
love with her, and being a man who had learned to shoot pigeons and
opportunities flying, he instantly resolved to join her in her walk, get
her clear of the town, by the sea-beach, where beauty melts, and propose
to her. Yes, marriage had not been hitherto his habit, but this girl was
peerless: he was pledged by honor and gratitude to Phoebe Dale; but hang
all that now. "No man should marry one woman when he loves another; it
is dishonorable." He got into the street and followed her as fast as he
could without running.

It was not so easy to catch her. Ladies are not built for running; but
a fine, tall, symmetrical girl who has practised walking fast can cover
the ground wonderfully in walking--if she chooses. It was a sight to see
how Rosa Lusignan squared her shoulders and stepped out from the
waist like a Canadian girl skating, while her elastic foot slapped the
pavement as she spanked along.

She had nearly cleared the town before Falcon came up with her.

He was hardly ten yards from her when an unexpected incident occurred.
She whisked round the corner of Bird Street, and ran plump against
Christopher Staines; in fact, she darted into his arms, and her face
almost touched the breast she had wounded so deeply.




CHAPTER IV.


Rosa cried "Oh!" and put up her hands to her face in lovely confusion,
coloring like a peony.

"I beg your pardon," said Christopher, stiffly, but in a voice that
trembled.

"No," said Rosa, "it was I ran against you. I walk so fast now. Hope I
did not hurt you."

"Hurt me?"

"Well, then, frighten you?"

No answer.

"Oh, please don't quarrel with me in the STREET," said Rosa, cunningly
implying that he was the quarrelsome one. "I am going on the beach.
Good-by!" This adieu she uttered softly, and in a hesitating tone that
belied it. She started off, however, but much more slowly than she was
going before; and, as she went, she turned her head with infinite grace,
and kept looking askant down at the pavement two yards behind her:
moreover she went close to the wall, and left room at her side for
another to walk.

Christopher hesitated a moment; but the mute invitation, so arch yet
timid, so pretty, tender, sly, and womanly, was too much for him, as it
has generally proved for males, and the philosopher's foot was soon
in the very place to which the Simpleton with the mere tail of her eye
directed it.

They walked along, side by side, in silence, Staines agitated, gloomy,
confused, Rosa radiant and glowing, yet not knowing what to say for
herself, and wanting Christopher to begin. So they walked along without
a word.

Falcon followed them at some distance to see whether it was an admirer
or only an acquaintance. A lover he never dreamed of; she had shown such
evident pleasure in his company, and had received his visits alone so
constantly.

However, when the pair had got to the beach, and were walking slower and
slower, he felt a pang of rage and jealousy, turned on his heel with an
audible curse, and found Phoebe Dale a few yards behind him with a white
face and a peculiar look. He knew what the look meant; he had brought it
to that faithful face before to-day.


"You are better, Miss Lusignan."

"Better, Dr. Staines? I am health itself thanks to--hem!"

"Our estrangement has agreed with you?" This very bitterly.

"You know very well it is not that. Oh, please don't make me cry in the
streets."

This humble petition, or rather meek threat, led to another long
silence. It was continued till they had nearly reached the shore.
But, meantime, Rosa's furtive eyes scanned Christopher's face, and her
conscience smote her at the signs of suffering. She felt a desire to
beg his pardon with deep humility; but she suppressed that weakness. She
hung her head with a pretty, sheepish air, and asked him if he could not
think of something agreeable to say to one after deserting one so long.

"I am afraid not," said Christopher, bluntly. "I have an awkward habit
of speaking the truth; and some people can't bear that, not even when it
is spoken for their good."

"That depends on temper, and nerves, and things," said Rosa,
deprecatingly; then softly, "I could bear anything from you now."

"Indeed!" said Christopher, grimly. "Well, then, I hear you had no
sooner got rid of your old lover, for loving you too well and telling
you the truth, than you took up another,--some flimsy man of fashion,
who will tell you any lie you like."

"It is a story, a wicked story," cried Rosa, thoroughly alarmed. "Me, a
lover! He dances like an angel; I can't help that."

"Are his visits at your house like angels'--few and far between?" And
the true lover's brow lowered black upon her for the first time.

Rosa changed color, and her eyes fell a moment. "Ask papa," she said.
"His father was an old friend of papa's."

"Rosa, you are prevaricating. Young men do not call on old gentlemen
when there is an attractive young lady in the house."

The argument was getting too close; so Rosa operated a diversion. "So,"
said she, with a sudden air of lofty disdain, swiftly and adroitly
assumed, "you have had me watched?"

"Not I; I only hear what people say."

"Listen to gossip and not have me watched! That shows how little you
really cared for me. Well, if you had, you would have made a little
discovery, that is all."

"Should I?" said Christopher, puzzled. "What?"

"I shall not tell you. Think what you please. Yes, sir, you would have
found out that I take long walks every day, all alone; and what is
more, that I walk through Gravesend, hoping--like a goose--that somebody
really loved me, and would meet me, and beg my pardon; and if he had, I
should have told him it was only my tongue, and my nerves, and things;
my heart was his, and my gratitude. And after all, what do words
signify, when I am a good, obedient girl at bottom? So that is what
you have lost by not condescending to look after me. Fine
love!--Christopher, beg my pardon."

"May I inquire for what?"

"Why, for not understanding me; for not knowing that I should be sorry
the moment you were gone. I took them off the very next day, to please
you."

"Took off whom?--Oh, I understand. You did? Then you ARE a good girl."

"Didn't I tell you I was? A good, obedient girl, and anything but a
flirt."

"I don't say that."

"But I do. Don't interrupt. It is to your good advice I owe my health;
and to love anybody but you, when I owe you my love and my life, I must
be a heartless, ungrateful, worthless--Oh, Christopher, forgive me! No,
no; I mean, beg my pardon."

"I'll do both," said Christopher, taking her in his arms. "I beg your
pardon, and I forgive you."

Rosa leaned her head tenderly on his shoulder, and began to sigh. "Oh,
dear, dear! I am a wicked, foolish girl, not fit to walk alone."

On this admission, Christopher spoke out, and urged her to put an end to
all these unhappy misunderstandings, and to his new torment, jealousy,
by marrying him.

"And so I would this very minute, if papa would consent. But," said she,
slyly, "you never can be so foolish to wish it. What! a wise man like
you marry a simpleton!"

"Did I ever call you that?" asked Christopher, reproachfully.

"No, dear; but you are the only one who has not; and perhaps I should
lose even the one, if you were to marry me. Oh, husbands are not so
polite as lovers! I have observed that, simpleton or not."

Christopher assured her that he took quite a different view of her
character; he believed her to be too profound for shallow people to read
all in a moment: he even intimated that he himself had experienced no
little difficulty in understanding her at odd times. "And so," said he,
"they turn round upon you, and instead of saying, 'We are too shallow to
fathom you,' they pretend you are a simpleton."

This solution of the mystery had never occurred to Rosa, nor indeed
was it likely to occur to any creature less ingenious than a lover: it
pleased her hugely; her fine eyes sparkled, and she nestled closer still
to the strong arm that was to parry every ill, from mortal disease to
galling epithets.

She listened with a willing ear to all his reasons, his hopes, his
fears, and, when they reached her father's door, it was settled that
he should dine there that day, and urge his suit to her father after
dinner. She would implore the old gentleman to listen to it favorably.

The lovers parted, and Christopher went home like one who has awakened
from a hideous dream to daylight and happiness.

He had not gone far before he met a dashing dogcart, driven by an
exquisite. He turned to look after it, and saw it drive up to Kent
Villa.

In a moment he divined his rival, and a sickness of heart came over him.
But he recovered himself directly, and said, "If that is the fellow, she
will not receive him now."

She did receive him though: at all events, the dogcart stood at the
door, and its master remained inside.

Christopher stood, and counted the minutes: five, ten, fifteen, twenty
minutes, and still the dogcart stood there.

It was more than he could bear. He turned savagely, and strode back to
Gravesend, resolving that all this torture should end that night, one
way or other.


Phoebe Dale was the daughter of a farmer in Essex, and one of the
happiest young women in England till she knew Reginald Falcon, Esq.

She was reared on wholesome food, in wholesome air, and used to churn
butter, make bread, cook a bit now and then, cut out and sew all her
own dresses, get up her own linen, make hay, ride anything on four legs;
and, for all that, was a great reader, and taught in the Sunday school
to oblige the vicar; wrote a neat hand, and was a good arithmetician,
kept all the house accounts and farm accounts. She was a musician,
too,--not profound, but very correct. She would take her turn at the
harmonium in church, and, when she was there, you never heard a wrong
note in the bass, nor an inappropriate flourish, nor bad time. She could
sing, too, but never would, except her part in a psalm. Her voice was
a deep contralto, and she chose to be ashamed of this heavenly organ,
because a pack of envious girls had giggled, and said it was like a
man's.

In short, her natural ability and the range and variety of her useful
accomplishments were considerable; not that she was a prodigy; but she
belonged to a small class of women in this island who are not too high
to use their arms, nor too low to cultivate their minds; and, having a
faculty and a habit deplorably rare amongst her sex, viz., Attention,
she had profited by her miscellaneous advantages.

Her figure and face both told her breed at once: here was an old English
pastoral beauty; not the round-backed, narrow-chested cottager, but the
well-fed, erect rustic, with broad, full bust and massive shoulder, and
arm as hard as a rock with health and constant use; a hand finely cut,
though neither small nor very white, and just a little hard inside,
compared with Luxury's soft palm; a face honest, fair, and rather large
than small; not beautiful, but exceedingly comely; a complexion not pink
and white, but that delicately blended brickdusty color, which tints the
whole cheek in fine gradation, outlasts other complexions twenty years,
and beautifies the true Northern, even in old age. Gray, limpid, honest,
point-blank, searching eyes; hair true nut-brown, without a shade of red
or black; and a high, smooth forehead, full of sense. Across it ran
one deep wrinkle that did not belong to her youth. That wrinkle was the
brand of trouble, the line of agony. It had come of loving above her,
yet below her, and of loving an egotist.

Three years before our tale commenced, a gentleman's horse ran away with
him, and threw him on a heap of stones by the roadside, not very far
from Farmer Dale's gate. The farmer had him taken in. The doctor said he
must not be moved. He was insensible; his cheek like delicate wax; his
fair hair like silk stained with blood. He became Phoebe's patient, and,
in due course, her convalescent: his pale, handsome face and fascinating
manners gained one charm more from weakness; his vices were in abeyance.

The womanly nurse's heart yearned over her child; for he was feeble as
a child; and, when he got well enough to amuse his weary hours by making
love to her, and telling her a pack of arrant lies, she was a ready
dupe. He was to marry her as soon as ever his old uncle died, and left
him the means, etc., etc. At last he got well enough to leave her, and
went away, her open admirer and secret lover. He borrowed twenty pounds
of her the day he left.

He used to write her charming letters, and feed the flame; but one day
her father sent her up to London, on his own business, all of a sudden,
and she called on Mr. Falcon at his real address. She found he did not
live there--only received letters. However, half-a-crown soon bought his
real address, and thither Phoebe proceeded with a troubled heart, for
she suspected that her true lover was in debt or trouble, and obliged to
hide. Well, he must be got out of it, and hide at the farm meantime.

So the loving girl knocked at the door, asked for Mr. Falcon, and was
shown in to a lady rather showily dressed, who asked her business.

Phoebe Dale stared at her, and then turned pale as ashes. She was
paralyzed, and could not find her tongue.

"Why, what is the matter now?" said the other, sharply.

"Are you married to Reginald Falcon?"

"Of course I am. Look at my wedding-ring."

"Then I am not wanted here," faltered Phoebe, ready to sink on the
floor.

"Certainly not, if you are one of the bygones," said the woman,
coarsely; and Phoebe Dale waited to hear no more, but found her way,
Heaven knows how, into the street, and there leaned, half-fainting, on
a rail, till a policeman came, and told her she had been drinking, and
suggested a cool cell as the best cure.

"Not drink; only a breaking heart," said she, in her low, mellow voice
that few could resist.

He got her a glass of water, drove away the boys that congregated
directly, and she left the street. But she soon came back again, and
waited about for Reginald Falcon.

It was night when he appeared. She seized him by the breast, and taxed
him with his villany.

What with her iron grasp, pale face, and flashing eyes, he lost his
cool impudence, and blurted out excuses. It was an old and unfortunate
connection; he would give the world to dissolve it, if he could do it
like a gentleman.

Phoebe told him to please himself: he must part with one or the other.

"Don't talk nonsense," said this man of brass; "I'll un-Falcon her on
the spot."

"Very well," said Phoebe. "I am going home; and, if you are not there by
to-morrow at noon"--She said no more, but looked a great deal. Then she
departed, and refused him her hand at parting. "We will see about that
by and by," said she.

At noon my lord came down to the farm, and, unfortunately for Phoebe,
played the penitent so skilfully for about a month, that she forgave
him, and loved him all the more for having so nearly parted with him.

Her peace was not to endure long. He was detected in an intrigue in the
very village.

The insult struck so home that Phoebe herself, to her parents'
satisfaction, ordered him out of the house at once.

But, when he was gone, she had fits of weeping, and could settle to
nothing for a long time.

Months had elapsed, and she was getting a sort of dull tranquillity,
when, one evening, taking a walk she had often with him, and mourning
her solitude and wasted affection, he waylaid her, and clung to
her knees, and shed crocodile tears on her hands, and, after a long
resistance, violent at first, but fainter and fainter, got her in his
power again, and that so completely that she met him several times by
night, being ashamed to be seen with him in those parts by day.

This ended in fresh promises of marriage, and in a constant
correspondence by letter. This pest knew exactly how to talk to a woman,
and how to write to one. His letters fed the unhappy flame; and, mind
you, he sometimes deceived himself, and thought he loved her; but it
was only himself he loved. She was an invaluable lover; a faithful,
disinterested friend; hers was a vile bargain; his, an excellent one,
and he clung to it.

And so they went on. She detected him in another infidelity, and
reproached him bitterly; but she had no longer the strength to break
with him. Nevertheless, this time she had the sense to make a struggle.
She implored him, on her very knees, to show her a little mercy in
return for all her love. "For pity's sake, leave me!" she cried. "You
are strong, and I am weak. You can end it forever, and pray do. You
don't want me; you don't value me: then, leave me, once and for all, and
end this hell you keep me in."

No; he could not, or he would not, leave her alone. Look at a bird's
wings!--how like an angel's! Yet so vile a thing as a bit of birdlime
subdues them utterly; and such was the fascinating power of this mean
man over this worthy woman. She was a reader, a thinker, a model
of respectability, industry, and sense; a businesswoman, keen and
practical; could encounter sharp hands in sharp trades; could buy or
sell hogs, calves, or beasts with any farmer or butcher in the country,
yet no match for a cunning fool. She had enshrined an idol in her heart,
and that heart adored it, and clung to it, though the superior head saw
through it, dreaded it, despised it.

No wonder three years of this had drawn a tell-tale wrinkle across the
polished brow.


Phoebe Dale had not received a letter for some days; that roused her
suspicion and stung her jealousy; she came up to London by fast train,
and down to Gravesend directly.

She had a thick veil that concealed her features; and with a little
inquiring and bribing, she soon found out that Mr. Falcon was there with
a showy dogcart. "Ah!" thought Phoebe, "he has won a little money at
play or pigeon-shooting; so now he has no need of me."

She took the lodgings opposite him, but observed nothing till this very
morning, when she saw him throw off his dressing-gown all in a hurry and
fling on his coat. She tied on her bonnet as rapidly, and followed him,
until she discovered the object of his pursuit. It was a surprise to
her, and a puzzle, to see another man step in, as if to take her
part. But as Reginald still followed the loitering pair, she followed
Reginald, till he turned and found her at his heels, white and lowering.

She confronted him in threatening silence for some time, during which he
prepared his defence.

"So it is a LADY this time," said she, in her low, rich voice, sternly.

"Is it?"

"Yes, and I should say she is bespoke--that tall, fine-built gentleman.
But I suppose you care no more for his feelings than you do for mine."

"Phoebe," said the egotist, "I will not try to deceive you. You have
often said you are my true friend."

"And I think I have proved it."

"That you have. Well, then, be my true friend now. I am in love--really
in love--this time. You and I only torment each other; let us part
friends. There are plenty of farmers in Essex that would jump at you. As
for me, I'll tell you the truth; I have run through every farthing;
my estate mortgaged beyond its value--two or three writs out against
me--that is why I slipped down here. My only chance is to marry Money.
Her father knows I have land, and he knows nothing about the mortgages;
she is his only daughter. Don't stand in my way, that is a good girl; be
my friend, as you always were. Hang it all, Phoebe, can't you say a word
to a fellow that is driven into a corner, instead of glaring at me like
that? There! I know it is ungrateful; but what can a fellow do? I must
live like a gentleman or else take a dose of prussic acid; you don't
want to drive me to that. Why, you proposed to part, last time,
yourself."