A Simpleton

C >> Charles Reade >> A Simpleton


She gave him one majestic, indescribable look, that made even his
callous heart quiver, and turned away.

Then the scamp admired her for despising him, and could not bear to lose
her. He followed her, and put forth all those powers of persuading and
soothing, which had so often proved irresistible. But this time it was
in vain. The insult was too savage, and his egotism too brutal, for
honeyed phrases to blind her.

After enduring it a long time with a silent shudder, she turned and
shook him fiercely off her like some poisonous reptile.

"Do you want me to kill you? I'd liever kill myself for loving such a
thing as THOU. Go thy ways, man, and let me go mine." In her passion she
dropped her cultivation for once, and went back to the THOU and THEE of
her grandam.

He colored up and looked spiteful enough; but he soon recovered his
cynical egotism, and went off whistling an operatic passage.

She crept to her lodgings, and buried her face in her pillow, and rocked
herself to and fro for hours in the bitterest agony the heart can feel,
groaning over her great affection wasted, flung into the dirt.

While she was thus, she heard a little commotion. She came to the window
and saw Falcon, exquisitely dressed, drive off in his dogcart, attended
by the acclamations of eight boys. She saw at a glance he was gone
courting; her knees gave way under her, and, such is the power of the
mind, this stalwart girl lay weak as water on the sofa, and had not the
power to go home, though just then she had but one wish, one hope--to
see her idol's face no more, nor hear his wheedling tongue, that had
ruined her peace.

The exquisite Mr. Falcon was received by Rosa Lusignan with a certain
tremor that flattered his hopes. He told her, in charming language, how
he had admired her at first sight, then esteemed her, then loved her.

She blushed and panted, and showed more than once a desire to interrupt
him, but was too polite. She heard him out with rising dismay, and he
offered her his hand and heart.

But by this time she had made up her mind what to say. "O Mr. Falcon!"
she cried, "how can you speak to me in this way? Why, I am engaged.
Didn't you know?"

"No; I am sure you are not, or you would never have given me the
encouragement you have."

"Oh, all engaged young ladies flirt--a little; and everybody here knows
I am engaged to Dr. Staines."

"Why, I never saw him here."

Rosa's tact was a quality that came and went; so she blushed, and
faltered out, "We had a little tiff, as lovers will."

"And you did me the honor to select me as cat's-paw to bring him on
again. Was not that rather heartless?"

Rosa's fitful tact returned to her.

"Oh, sir, do not think so ill of me. I am not heartless, I am only
unwise; and you are so superior to the people about you; I could not
help appreciating you, and I thought you knew I was engaged, and so I
was less on my guard. I hope I shall not lose your esteem, though I have
no right to anything more. Ah! I see by your face I have behaved very
ill: pray forgive me."

And with this she turned on the waters of the Nile, better known to you,
perhaps, as "crocodile tears."

Falcon was a gentleman on the surface, and knew he should only make
matters worse by quarrelling with her. So he ground his teeth, and said,
"May your own heart never feel the pangs you have inflicted. I shall
love you and remember you till my dying day."

He bowed ceremoniously and left her.

"Ay," said he to himself, "I WILL remember you, you heartless jilt, and
the man you have jilted me for. Staines is his d--d name, is it?"

He drove back crestfallen, bitter, and, for once in his life,
heart-sick, and drew up at his lodgings. Here he found attendants
waiting to receive him.

A sheriff's officer took his dogcart and horse under a judgment; the
disturbance this caused collected a tiny crowd, gaping and grinning, and
brought Phoebe's white face and eyes swollen with weeping to the window.

Falcon saw her and brazened it out. "Take them," said he, with an oath.
"I'll have a better turn-out by to-morrow, breakfast-time."

The crowd cheered him for his spirit.

He got down, lit a cigar, chaffed the officer and the crowd, and was, on
the whole, admired.

Then another officer, who had been hunting him in couples with the
other, stepped forward and took HIM, for the balance of a judgment debt.

Then the swell's cigar fell out of his mouth, and he was seriously
alarmed. "Why, Cartwright," said he, "this is too bad. You promised not
to see me this month. You passed me full in the Strand."

"You are mistaken, sir," said Cartwright, with sullen irony. "I've got a
twin-brother; a many takes him for me, till they finds the difference."
Then, lowering his voice, "What call had you to boast in your club you
had made it right with Bill Cartwright, and he'd never see you? That got
about, and so I was bound to see you or lose my bread. There's one or
two I don't see, but then they are real gentlemen, and thinks of me as
well as theirselves, and doesn't blab."

"I must have been drunk," said Falcon apologetically. "More likely
blowing a cloud. When you young gents gets a-smoking together,
you'd tell on your own mothers. Come along, colonel, off we go to
Merrimashee."

"Why, it is only twenty-six pounds. I have paid the rest."

"More than that; there's the costs."

"Come in, and I'll settle it."

"All right, sir. Jem, watch the back."

"Oh, I shall not try that game with a sharp hand like you, Cartwright."

"You had better not, sir," said Cartwright; but he was softened a little
by the compliment.

When they were alone, Falcon began by saying it was a bad job for him.

"Why, I thought you was a-going to pay it all in a moment."

"I can't; but I have got a friend over the way that could, if she chose.
She has always got money, somehow."

"Oh, if it is a she, it is all right."

"I don't know. She has quarrelled with me; but give me a little time.
Here! have a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while I try it on."

Having thus muffled Cartwright, this man of the world opened his window
and looked out. The crowd had followed the captured dogcart, so he had
the street to himself. He beckoned to Phoebe, and after considerable
hesitation she opened her window.

"Phoebe," said he, in tones of tender regret, admirably natural and
sweet, "I shall never offend you again; so forgive me this once. I have
given that girl up."

"Not you," said Phoebe, sullenly.

"Indeed I have. After our quarrel, I started to propose to her; but I
had not the heart; I came back and left her."

"Time will show. If it is not her, it will be some other, you false,
heartless villain."

"Come, I say, don't be so hard on me in trouble. I am going to prison."

"So I suppose."

"Ah! but it is worse than you think. I am only taken for a paltry thirty
pounds or so."

"Thirty-three, fifteen, five," suggested Cartwright, in a muffled
whisper, his mouth being full of biscuit.

"But once they get me to a sponging-house, detainers will pour in, and
my cruel creditors will confine me for life."

"It is the best place for you. It will put a stop to your wickedness,
and I shall be at peace. That's what I have never known, night or day,
this three years."

"But you will not be happy if you see me go to prison before your eyes.
Were you ever inside a prison? Just think what it must be to be cooped
up in those cold grim cells all alone; for they use a debtor like a
criminal now."

Phoebe shuddered; but she said, bravely, "Well, tell THEM you have been
a-courting. There was a time I'd have died sooner than see a hair of
your head hurt; but it is all over now; you have worn me out."

Then she began to cry.

Falcon heaved a deep sigh. "It is no more than I deserve," said he.
"I'll pack up my things, and go with the officer. Give me one kind word
at parting, and I'll think of it in my prison, night and day."

He withdrew from the window with another deep sigh, told Cartwright,
cheerfully, it was all right, and proceeded to pack up his traps.

Meantime Phoebe sat at her window and cried bitterly. Her words had been
braver than her heart.

Falcon managed to pay the trifle he owed for the lodgings, and presently
he came out with Cartwright, and the attendant called a cab. His things
were thrown in, and Cartwright invited him to follow. Then he looked up,
and cast a genuine look of terror and misery at Phoebe. He thought she
would have relented before this.

Her heart gave way; I am afraid it would, even without that piteous and
mute appeal. She opened the window, and asked Mr. Cartwright if he would
be good enough to come and speak to her.

Cartwright committed his prisoner to the subordinate, and knocked at the
door of Phoebe's lodgings. She came down herself and let him in. She led
the way upstairs, motioned him to a seat, sat down by him, and began to
cry again. She was thoroughly unstrung.

Cartwright was human, and muttered some words of regret that a poor
fellow must do his duty.

"Oh, it is not that," sobbed Phoebe. "I can find the money. I have found
more for him than that, many's the time." Then, drying her eyes, "But
you must know the world, and I dare say you can see how 'tis with me."

"I can," said Cartwright, gravely. "I overheard you and him; and, my
girl, if you take my advice, why, let him go. He is a gentleman skin
deep, and dresses well, and can palaver a girl, no doubt; but bless
your heart, I can see at a glance he is not worth your little finger,
an honest, decent young woman like you. Why, it is like butter fighting
with stone. Let him go; or I will tell you what it is, you will hang for
him some day, or else make away with yourself."

"Ay, sir," said Phoebe, "that's likelier; and if I was to let him go to
prison, I should sit me down and think of his parting look, and I should
fling myself into the water for him before I was a day older."

"Ye mustn't do that anyway. While there's life there's hope."

Upon this Phoebe put him a question, and found him ready to do anything
for her, in reason--provided he was paid for it. And the end of it all
was, the prisoner was conveyed to London; Phoebe got the requisite sum;
Falcon was deposited in a third-class carriage bound for Essex. Phoebe
paid his debt, and gave Cartwright a present, and away rattled the train
conveying the handsome egotist into temporary retirement, to wit, at
a village five miles from the Dales' farm. She was too ashamed of her
young gentleman and herself to be seen with him in her native village.
On the road down he was full of little practical attentions; she
received them coldly; his mellifluous mouth was often at her car,
pouring thanks and praises into it; she never vouchsafed a word of
reply. All she did was to shudder now and then, and cry at intervals.
Yet, whenever he left her side, her whole body became restless; and when
he came back to her, a furtive thrill announced the insane complacency
his bare contact gave her. Surely, of all the forms in which love
torments the heart, this was the most terrible and pitiable.


Mr. Lusignan found his daughter in tears.

"Why, what is the matter now?" said he, a little peevishly. "We have had
nothing of this sort of thing lately."

"Papa, it is because I have misconducted myself. I am a foolish,
imprudent girl. I have been flirting with Mr. Falcon, and he has taken a
CRUEL advantage of it--proposed to me--this very afternoon--actually!"

"Has he? Well, he is a fine fellow, and has a landed estate in Norfolk.
There's nothing like land. They may well call it real property--there is
something to show; you can walk on it, and ride on it, and look out of
window at it: that IS property."

"Oh, papa! what are you saying? Would you have me marry one man when I
belong to another?"

"But you don't belong to any one except to me."

"Oh, yes; I do. I belong to my dear Christopher."

"Why, you dismissed him before my very eyes; and very ill you behaved,
begging your pardon. The man was your able physician and your best
friend, and said nothing that was not for your good; and you treated him
like a dog."

"Yes, but he has apologized."

"What for? being treated like a dog?"

"Oh, don't say so, papa! At all events, he has apologized, as a
gentleman should whenever--whenever"--

"Whenever a lady is in the wrong."

"Don't, papa; and I have asked him to dinner."

"With all my heart. I shall be downright glad to see him again. You used
him abominably."

"But you need not keep saying so," whined Rosa. "And that is not all,
dear papa; the worst of it is, Mr. Falcon proposing to me has opened my
eyes. I am not fit to be trusted alone. I am too fond of dancing, and
flirting will follow somehow. Oh, think how ill I was a few months ago,
and how unhappy you were about me! They were killing me. He came and
saved me. Yes, papa, I owe all this health and strength to Christopher.
I did take them off, the very next day, and see the effect of it and my
long walks. I owe him my life, and what I value far more, my good looks.
La! I wish I had not told you that. And after all this, don't I belong
to my Christopher? How could I be happy or respect myself if I married
any one else? And oh, papa! he looks wan and worn. He has been fretting
for his Simpleton. Oh, dear! I mustn't think of that--it makes me cry;
and you don't like scenes, do you?"

"Hate 'em!"

"Well, then," said Rosa, coaxingly, "I'll tell you how to end them.
Marry your Simpleton to the only man who is fit to take care of her. Oh,
papa! think of his deep, deep affection for me, and pray don't snub
him if--by any chance--after dinner--he should HAPPEN to ask
you--something."

"Oh, then it is possible that, by the merest chance, the gentleman you
have accidentally asked to dinner, may, by some strange fortuity,
be surprised into asking me a second time for something very much
resembling my daughter's hand--eh?"

Rosa colored high. "He might, you know. How can I tell what gentlemen
will say when the ladies have retired and they are left alone
with--with"--

"With the bottle. Ay, that's true; when the wine is in, the wit is out."

Said Rosa, "Well, if he should happen to be so foolish, pray think of
ME; of all we owe him, and how much I love him, and ought to love him."
She then bestowed a propitiatory kiss, and ran off to dress for dinner;
it was a much longer operation to-day than usual.

Dr. Staines was punctual. Mr. Lusignan commented favorably on that.

"He always is," said Rosa, eagerly.

They dined together. Mr. Lusignan chatted freely, but Staines and Rosa
were under a feeling of restraint, Staines in particular; he could not
help feeling that before long his fate must be settled. He would either
obtain Rosa's hand, or have to resign her to some man of fortune who
would step in; for beauty such as hers could not long lack brilliant
offers. Longing, though dreading, to know his fate, he was glad when
dinner ended.

Rosa sat with them a little while after dinner, then rose, bestowed
another propitiatory kiss on her father's head, and retired with a
modest blush, and a look at Christopher that was almost divine.

It inspired him with the courage of lions, and he commenced the attack
at once.




CHAPTER V.


"Mr. Lusignan," said he, "the last time I was here you gave me some
hopes that you might be prevailed on to trust that angel's health and
happiness to my care."

"Well, Dr. Staines, I will not beat about the bush with you. My judgment
is still against this marriage; you need not look so alarmed; it does
not follow I shall forbid it. I feel I have hardly a right to, for my
Rosa might be in her grave now but for you; and, another thing, when I
interfered between you two I had no proof you were a man of ability; I
had only your sweetheart's word for that; and I never knew a case before
where a young lady's swan did not turn out a goose. Your rare ability
gives you another chance in the professional battle that is before you;
indeed, it puts a different face on the whole matter. I still think it
premature. Come now, would it not be much wiser to wait, and secure
a good practice before you marry a mere child? There! there! I
only advise; I don't dictate; you shall settle it together, you two
wiseacres. Only I must make one positive condition. I have nothing to
give my child during my lifetime; but one thing I have done for her;
years ago I insured my life for six thousand pounds; and you must do the
same. I will not have her thrown on the world a widow, with a child or
two, perhaps, to support, and not a farthing; you know the insecurity of
mortal life."

"I do! I do! Why, of course I will insure my life, and pay the annual
premium out of my little capital, until income flows in."

"Will you hand me over a sum sufficient to pay that premium for five
years?"

"With pleasure."

"Then I fear," said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "my opposition to
the match must cease here. I still recommend you to wait; but--there! I
might just as well advise fire and tow to live neighbors and keep cool."

To show the injustice of this simile, Christopher Staines started up
with his eyes all aglow, and cried out, rapturously, "Oh, sir, may I
tell her?"

"Yes, you may tell her," said Lusignan, with a smile. "Stop--what are
you going to tell her?"

"That you consent, sir. God bless you! God bless you! Oh!"

"Yes, but that I advise you to wait."

"I'll tell her all," said Staines, and rushed out even as he spoke, and
upset a heavy chair with a loud thud.

"Ah! ah!" cried the old gentleman in dismay, and put his fingers in his
ears--too late. "I see," said he, "there will be no peace and quiet
now till they are out of the house." He lighted a soothing cigar to
counteract the fracas.

"Poor little Rosa! a child but yesterday, and now to encounter the cares
of a wife, and perhaps a mother. Ah! she is but young, but young."

The old gentleman prophesied truly; from that moment he had no peace
till he withdrew all semblance of dissent, and even of procrastination.

Christopher insured his life for six thousand pounds, and assigned the
policy to his wife. Four hundred pounds was handed to Mr. Lusignan to
pay the premiums until the genius of Dr. Staines should have secured him
that large professional income, which does not come all at once, even to
the rare physician, who is Capax, Efficax, Sagax.

The wedding-day was named. The bridesmaids were selected, the guests
invited. None refused but Uncle Philip. He declined, in his fine
bold hand, to countenance in person an act of folly he disapproved.
Christopher put his letter away with a momentary sigh, and would not
show it Rosa. All other letters they read together, charming pastime
of that happy period. Presents poured in. Silver teapots, coffeepots,
sugar-basins, cream-jugs, fruit-dishes, silver-gilt inkstands, albums,
photograph-books, little candlesticks, choice little services of china,
shell salt-cellars in a case lined with maroon velvet; a Bible, superb
in binding and clasps, and everything but the text--that was illegible;
a silk scarf from Benares; a gold chain from Delhi, six feet long or
nearly; a Maltese necklace, a ditto in exquisite filagree from Genoa;
English brooches, a trifle too big and brainless; apostle spoons; a
treble-lined parasol with ivory stick and handle; an ivory card-case,
richly carved; workbox of sandal-wood and ivory, etc. Mr. Lusignan's
City friends, as usual with these gentlemen, sent the most valuable
things. Every day one or two packages were delivered, and, in opening
them, Rosa invariably uttered a peculiar scream of delight, and her
father put his fingers in his ears; yet there was music in this very
scream, if he would only have listened to it candidly, instead of fixing
his mind on his vague theory of screams--so formed was she to please the
ear as well as the eye.

At last came a parcel she opened and stared at, smiling and coloring
like a rose, but did not scream, being too dumfounded and perplexed;
for lo! a teapot of some base material, but simple and elegant in form,
being an exact reproduction of a melon; and inside this teapot a canvas
bag containing ten guineas in silver, and a wash-leather bag containing
twenty guineas in gold, and a slip of paper, which Rosa, being now half
recovered from her stupefaction, read out to her father and Dr. Staines:


"People that buy presents blindfold give duplicates and triplicates;
and men seldom choose to a woman's taste; so be pleased to accept the
enclosed tea-leaves, and buy for yourself. The teapot you can put on the
hob, for it is nickel."


Rosa looked sore puzzled again. "Papa," said she, timidly, "have we any
friend that is--a little--deranged?"

"A lot."

"Oh, then, that accounts."

"Why no, love," said Christopher. "I have heard of much learning making
a man mad, but never of much good sense."

"What! Do you call this sensible?"

"Don't you?"

"I'll read it again," said Rosa. "Well--yes--I declare--it is not so mad
as I thought; but it is very eccentric."

Lusignan suggested there was nothing so eccentric as common sense,
especially in time of wedding. "This," said he, "comes from the City. It
is a friend of mine, some old fox; he is throwing dust in your eyes with
his reasons; his real reason was that his time is money; it would have
cost the old rogue a hundred pounds' worth of time--you know the City,
Christopher--to go out and choose the girl a present; so he has sent his
clerk out with a check to buy a pewter teapot, and fill it with specie."

"Pewter!" cried Rosa. "No such thing! It's nickel. What is nickel, I
wonder?"

The handwriting afforded no clew, so there the discussion ended: but it
was a nice little mystery, and very convenient; made conversation. Rosa
had many an animated discussion about it with her female friends.

The wedding-day came at last. The sun shone--ACTUALLY, as Rosa observed.
The carriages drove up. The bridesmaids, principally old schoolfellows
and impassioned correspondents of Rosa, were pretty, and dressed alike
and delightfully; but the bride was peerless; her Southern beauty
literally shone in that white satin dress and veil, and her head was
regal with the Crown of orange-blossoms. Another crown she had--true
virgin modesty. A low murmur burst from the men the moment they saw her;
the old women forgave her beauty on the spot, and the young women almost
pardoned it; she was so sweet and womanly, and so sisterly to her own
sex.

When they started for the church she began to tremble, she scarce knew
why; and when the solemn words were said, and the ring was put on
her finger, she cried a little, and looked half imploringly at her
bridesmaids once, as if seared at leaving them for an untried and
mysterious life with no woman near.

They were married. Then came the breakfast, that hour of uneasiness and
blushing to such a bride as this; but at last she was released. She sped
up-stairs, thanking goodness it was over. Down came her last box. The
bride followed in a plain travelling dress, which her glorious eyes and
brows and her rich glowing cheeks seemed to illumine: she was handed
into the carriage, the bridegroom followed. All the young guests
clustered about the door, armed with white shoes--slippers are gone by.

They started; the ladies flung their white shoes right and left with
religious impartiality, except that not one of their missiles went at
the object. The men, more skilful, sent a shower on to the roof of
the carriage, which is the lucky spot. The bride kissed her hand, and
managed to put off crying, though it cost her a struggle. The party
hurrahed; enthusiastic youths gathered fallen shoes, and ran and hurled
them again with cheerful yells, and away went the happy pair, the
bride leaning sweetly and confidingly with both her white hands on the
bridegroom's shoulder, while he dried the tears that would run now at
leaving home and parent forever, and kissed her often, and encircled her
with his strong arm, and murmured comfort, and love, and pride, and joy,
and sweet vows of lifelong tenderness into her ears, that soon stole
nearer his lips to hear, and the fair cheek grew softly to his shoulder.




CHAPTER VI.


Dr. Staines and Mrs. Staines visited France, Switzerland, and the Rhine,
and passed a month of Elysium before they came to London to face their
real destiny and fight the battle of life.

And here, methinks, a reader of novels may perhaps cry out and say,
"What manner of man is this, who marries his hero and heroine, and then,
instead of leaving them happy for life, and at rest from his uneasy pen
and all their other troubles, flows coolly on with their adventures?"

To this I can only reply that the old English novel is no rule to me,
and life is; and I respectfully propose an experiment. Catch eight old
married people, four of each sex, and say unto them, "Sir," or "Madam,
did the more remarkable events of your life come to you before marriage
or after?" Most of them will say "after," and let that be my excuse for
treating the marriage of Christopher Staines and Rosa Lusignan as merely
one incident in their lives; an incident which, so far from ending their
story, led by degrees to more striking events than any that occurred to
them before they were man and wife.