A Simpleton by Charles Reade (page 2)

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.”

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.

They returned, then, from their honey tour, and Staines, who was methodical and kept a diary, made the following entry therein:–

“We have now a life of endurance, and self-denial, and economy, before us; we have to rent a house, and furnish it, and live in it, until professional income shall flow in and make all things easy: and we have two thousand five hundred pounds left to do it with.”

They came to a family hotel, and Dr. Staines went out directly after breakfast to look for a house. Acting on a friend’s advice, he visited the streets and places north of Oxford Street, looking for a good commodious house adapted to his business. He found three or four at fair rents, neither cheap nor dear, the district being respectable and rather wealthy, but no longer fashionable. He came home with his notes, and found Rosa beaming in a crisp peignoir, and her lovely head its natural size and shape, high-bred and elegant. He sat down, and with her hand in his proceeded to describe the houses to her, when a waiter threw open the door– “Mrs. John Cole.”

“Florence!” cried Rosa, starting up.

In flowed Florence: they both uttered a little squawk of delight, and went at each other like two little tigresses, and kissed in swift alternation with a singular ardor, drawing their crests back like snakes, and then darting them forward and inflicting what, to the male philosopher looking on, seemed hard kisses, violent kisses, rather than the tender ones to be expected from two tender creatures embracing each other.

“Darling,” said Rosa, “I knew you would be the first. Didn’t I tell you so, Christopher?–My husband–my darling Florry! Sit down, love, and tell me everything; he has just been looking out for a house. Ah! you have got all that over long ago: she has been married six months. Florry, you are handsomer than ever; and what a beautiful dress! Ah! London is the place. Real Brussels, I declare,” and she took hold of her friend’s lace and gloated on it.

Christopher smiled good-naturedly, and said, “I dare say you ladies have a good deal to say to each other.”

“Oceans,” said Rosa.

“I will go and hunt houses again.”

“There’s a good husband,” said Mrs. Cole, as soon as the door closed on him, “and such a fine man! Why, he must be six feet. Mine is rather short. But he is very good; refuses me nothing. My will is law.”

“That is all right–you are so sensible; but I want governing a little, and I like it–actually. Did the dressmaker find it, dear?”

“Oh, no! I had it by me. I bought it at Brussels on our wedding tour: it is dearer there than in London.”

She said this as if “dearer” and “better” were synonymous.

“But about your house, Rosie dear?”

“Yes, darling, I’ll tell you all about it. I never saw a moire this shade before. I don’t care for them in general; but this is so distingue.”

Florence rewarded her with a kiss.

“The house,” said Rosa. “Oh, he has seen one in Portman Street, and one in Gloucester Place.”

“Oh, that will never do,” cried Mrs. Cole. “It is no use being a physician in those out-of-the-way places. He must be in Mayfair.”

“Must he?”

“Of course. Besides, then my Johnnie can call him in when they are just going to die. Johnnie is a general prac., and makes two thousand a year; and he shall call your one in; but he must live in Mayfair. Why, Rosie, you would not be such a goose as to live in those places–they are quite gone by.”

“I shall do whatever you advise me, dear. Oh, what a comfort to have a dear friend: and six months married, and knows things. How richly it is trimmed! Why, it is nearly all trimmings.”

“That is the fashion.”

“Oh!”

And after that big word there was no more to be said.

These two ladies in their conversation gravitated towards dress, and fell flat on it every half-minute. That great and elevating topic held them by a silken cord, but it allowed them to flutter upwards into other topics; and in those intervals, numerous though brief, the lady who had been married six months found time to instruct the matrimonial novice with great authority, and even a shade of pomposity. “My dear, the way ladies and gentlemen get a house–in the first place, you don’t go about yourself like that, and you never go to the people themselves, or you are sure to be taken in, but to a respectable house-agent.”

“Yes, dear, that must be the best way, one would think.”

“Of course it is; and you ask for a house in Mayfair, and he shows you several, and recommends you the best, and sees you are not cheated.”

“Thank you, love,” said Rosa; “now I know what to do; I’ll not forget a word. And the train so beautifully shaped! Ah! it is only in London or Paris they can make a dress flow behind like that,” etc., etc.

Dr. Staines came back to dinner in good spirits; he had found a house in Harewood Square; good entrance hall, where his gratuitous patients might sit on benches; good dining-room where his superior patients might wait; and good library, to be used as a consulting- room. Rent only eighty-five pounds per annum.

But Rosa told him that would never do; a physician must be in the fashionable part of the town.

“Eventually,” said Christopher; “but surely at first starting–and you know they say little boats should not go too far from shore.”

Then Rosa repeated all her friend’s arguments, and seemed so unhappy at the idea of not living near her, that Staines, who had not yet said the hard word “no” to her, gave in; consoling his prudence with the reflection that, after all, Mr. Cole could put many a guinea in his way, for Mr. Cole was middle-aged,–though his wife was young,–and had really a very large practice.

So next day, the newly-wedded pair called on a house-agent in Mayfair, and his son and partner went with them to several places. The rents of houses equal to that in Harewood Square were three hundred pounds a year at least, and a premium to boot.

Christopher told him these were quite beyond the mark. “Very well,” said the agent. “Then I’ll show you a Bijou.”

Rosa clapped her hands. “That is the thing for us. We don’t want a large house, only a beautiful one, and in Mayfair.”

“Then the Bijou will be sure to suit you.”

He took them to the Bijou.

The Bijou had a small dining-room with one very large window in two sheets of plate glass, and a projecting balcony full of flowers; a still smaller library, which opened on a square yard enclosed. Here were a great many pots, with flowers dead or dying from neglect. On the first floor a fair-sized drawing-room, and a tiny one at the back: on the second floor, one good bedroom, and a dressing-room, or little bedroom: three garrets above.

Rosa was in ecstasies. “It is a nest,” said she.

“It is a bank-note,” said the agent, stimulating equal enthusiasm, after his fashion. “You can always sell the lease again for more money.”

Christopher kept cool. “I don’t want a house to sell, but to live in, and do my business; I am a physician: now the drawing-room is built over the entrance to a mews; the back rooms all look into a mews: we shall have the eternal noise and smell of a mews. My wife’s rest will be broken by the carriages rolling in and out. The hall is fearfully small and stuffy. The rent is abominably high; and what is the premium for, I wonder?”

“Always a premium in Mayfair, sir. A lease is property here: the gentleman is not acquainted with this part, madam.”

“Oh, yes, he is,” said Rosa, as boldly as a six years’ wife: “he knows everything.”

“Then he knows that a house of this kind at a hundred and thirty pounds a year in Mayfair is a bank-note.”

Staines turned to Rosa. “The poor patients, where am I to receive them?”

“In the stable,” suggested the house agent.

“Oh!” said Rosa, shocked.

“Well, then, the coach-house. Why, there’s plenty of room for a brougham, and one horse, and fifty poor patients at a time: beggars musn’t be choosers; if you give them physic gratis, that is enough: you ain’t bound to find ’em a palace to sit down in, and hot coffee and rump steaks all round, doctor.”

This tickled Rosa so that she burst out laughing, and thenceforward giggled at intervals, wit of this refined nature having all the charm of novelty for her.

They inspected the stables, which were indeed the one redeeming feature in the horrid little Bijou; and then the agent would show them the kitchen, and the new stove. He expatiated on this to Mrs. Staines. “Cook a dinner for thirty people, madam.”

“And there’s room for them to eat it–in the road,” said Staines.

The agent reminded him there were larger places to be had, by a very simple process, viz., paying for them.

Staines thought of the large, comfortable house in Harewood Square. “One hundred and thirty pounds a year for this poky little hole?” he groaned.

“Why, it is nothing at all for a Bijou.”

“But it is too much for a bandbox.”

Rosa laid her hand on his arm, with an imploring glance.

“Well,” said he, “I’ll submit to the rent, but I really cannot give the premium, it is too ridiculous. He ought to bribe me to rent it, not I him.”

“Can’t be done without, sir.”

“Well, I’ll give a hundred pounds and no more.”

“Impossible, sir.”

“Then good morning. Now, dearest, just come and see the house at Harewood Square,–eighty-five pounds and no premium.”

“Will you oblige me with your address, doctor?” said the agent.

“Dr. Staines, Morley’s Hotel.”

And so they left Mayfair.

Rosa sighed and said, “Oh, the nice little place; and we have lost it for two hundred pounds.”

“Two hundred pounds is a great deal for us to throw away.”

“Being near the Coles would soon have made that up to you: and such a cosey little nest.”

“Well the house will not run away.”

“But somebody is sure to snap it up. It is a Bijou.” She was disappointed, and half inclined to pout. But she vented her feelings in a letter to her beloved Florry, and appeared at dinner as sweet as usual.

During dinner a note came from the agent, accepting Dr. Staine’s offer. He glozed the matter thus: he had persuaded the owner it was better to take a good tenant at a moderate loss, than to let the Bijou be uninhabited during the present rainy season. An assignment of the lease–which contained the usual covenants–would be prepared immediately, and Dr. Staines could have possession in forty-eight hours, by paying the premium.

Rosa was delighted, and as soon as dinner was over, and the waiters gone, she came and kissed Christopher.

He smiled, and said, “Well, you are pleased; that is the principal thing. I have saved two hundred pounds, and that is something. It will go towards furnishing.”

“La! yes,” said Rosa, “I forgot. We shall have to get furniture now. How nice!” It was a pleasure the man of forecast could have willingly dispensed with; but he smiled at her, and they discussed furniture, and Christopher, whose retentive memory had picked up a little of everything, said there were wholesale upholsterers in the City who sold cheaper than the West-end houses, and he thought the best way was to measure the rooms in the Bijou, and go to the city with a clear idea of what they wanted; ask the prices of various necessary articles, and then make a list, and demand a discount of fifteen per cent on the whole order, being so considerable, and paid for in cash.

Rosa acquiesced, and told Christopher he was the cleverest man in England.

About nine o’clock Mrs. Cole came in to condole with her friend, and heard the good news. When Rosa told her how they thought of furnishing, she said, “Oh no, you must not do that; you will pay double for everything. That is the mistake Johnnie and I made; and after that a friend of mine took me to the auction-rooms, and I saw everything sold–oh, such bargains; half, and less than half, their value. She has furnished her house almost entirely from sales, and she has the loveliest things in the world–such ducks of tables, and jardinieres, and things; and beautiful rare china–her house swarms with it–for an old song. A sale is the place. And then so amusing.”

“Yes, but,” said Christopher, “I should not like my wife to encounter a public room.”

“Not alone, of course; but with me. La! Dr. Staines, they are too full of buying and selling to trouble their heads about us.”

“Oh, Christopher, do let me go with her. Am I always to be a child?”

Thus appealed to before a stranger, Staines replied warmly, “No, dearest, no; you cannot please me better than by beginning life in earnest. If you two ladies together can face an auction-room, go by all means; only I must ask you not to buy china or ormulu, or anything that will break or spoil, but only solid, good furniture.”

“Won’t you come with us?”

“No; or you might feel yourself in leading-strings. Remember the Bijou is a small house; choose your furniture to fit it, and then we shall save something by its being so small.”

This was Wednesday. There was a weekly sale in Oxford Street on Fridays; and the ladies made the appointment accordingly.

Next day, after breakfast, Christopher was silent and thoughtful awhile, and at last said to Rosa, “I’ll show you I don’t look on you as a child; I’ll consult you in a delicate matter.”

Rosa’s eyes sparkled.

“It is about my Uncle Philip. He has been very cruel; he has wounded me deeply; he has wounded me through my wife. I never thought he would refuse to come to our marriage.”

“And did he? You never showed me his letter.”

“You were not my wife then. I kept an affront from you; but now, you see, I keep nothing.”

“Dear Christie!”

“I am so happy, I have got over that sting–almost; and the memory of many kind acts comes back to me; and I don’t know what to do. It seems ungrateful not to visit him–it seems almost mean to call.”

“I’ll tell you; take me to see him directly. He won’t hate us forever, if he sees us often. We may as well begin at once. Nobody hates me long.”

Christopher was proud of his wife’s courage and wisdom. He kissed her, begged her to put on the plainest dress she could, and they went together to call on Uncle Philip.

When they got to his house in Gloucester Place, Portman Square, Rosa’s heart began to quake, and she was right glad when the servant said “Not at home.”

They left their cards and address; and she persuaded Christopher to take her to the sale-room to see the things.

A lot of brokers were there, like vultures; and one after another stepped forward and pestered them to employ him in the morning. Dr. Staines declined their services civilly but firmly, and he and Rosa looked over a quantity of furniture, and settled what sort of things to buy.

Another broker came up, and whenever the couple stopped before an article, proceeded to praise it as something most extraordinary. Staines listened in cold, satirical silence, and told his wife, in French, to do the same. Notwithstanding their marked disgust, the impudent, intrusive fellow stuck to them, and forced his venal criticism on them, and made them uncomfortable, and shortened their tour of observation.

“I think I shall come with you to-morrow,” said Christopher, “or I shall have these blackguards pestering you.”

“Oh, Florry will send them to the right-about. She is as brave as a lion.”

Next day Dr. Staines was sent for into the City at twelve to pay the money and receive the lease of the Bijou, and this and the taking possession occupied him till four o’clock, when he came to his hotel.

Meantime, his wife and Mrs. Cole had gone to the auction-room.

It was a large room, with a good sprinkling of people, but not crowded except about the table. At the head of this table–full twenty feet long–was the auctioneer’s pulpit, and the lots were brought in turn to the other end of the table for sight and sale.

“We must try and get a seat,” said the enterprising Mrs. Cole, and pushed boldly in; the timid Rosa followed strictly in her wake, and so evaded the human waves her leader clove. They were importuned at every step by brokers thrusting catalogues on them, with offers of their services, yet they soon got to the table. A gentleman resigned one chair, a broker another, and they were seated.

Mrs. Staines let down half her veil, but Mrs. Cole surveyed the company point-blank.

The broker who had given up his seat, and now stood behind Rosa, offered her his catalogue. “No, thank you,” said Rosa; “I have one;” and she produced it, and studied it, yet managed to look furtively at the company.

There were not above a dozen private persons visible from where Rosa sat; perhaps as many more in the whole room. They were easily distinguishable by their cleanly appearance: the dealers, male or female, were more or less rusty, greasy, dirty, aquiline. Not even the amateurs were brightly dressed; that fundamental error was confined to Mesdames Cole and Staines. The experienced, however wealthy, do not hunt bargains in silk and satin.

The auctioneer called “Lot 7. Four saucepans, two trays, a kettle, a bootjack, and a towel-horse.”

These were put up at two shillings, and speedily knocked down for five to a fat old woman in a greasy velvet jacket; blind industry had sewed bugles on it, not artfully, but agriculturally.

“The lady on the left!” said the auctioneer to his clerk. That meant “Get the money.”

The old lady plunged a huge paw into a huge pocket, and pulled out a huge handful of coin–copper, silver, and gold–and paid for the lot; and Rosa surveyed her dirty hands and nails with innocent dismay. “Oh, what a dreadful creature!” she whispered; “and what can she want with those old rubbishy things? I saw a hole in one from here.” The broker overheard, and said, “She is a dealer, ma’am, and the things were given away. She’ll sell them for a guinea, easy.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Mrs. Cole.

Soon after this the superior lots came on, and six very neat bedroom chairs were sold to all appearance for fifteen shillings.

The next lot was identical, and Rosa hazarded a bid,–“Sixteen shillings.”

Instantly some dealer, one of the hook-nosed that gathered round each lot as it came to the foot of the table, cried “Eighteen shillings.”

“Nineteen,” said Rosa.

“A guinea,” said the dealer.

“Don’t let it go,” said the broker behind her. “Don’t let it go, ma’am.”

She colored at the intrusion, and left off bidding directly, and addressed herself to Mrs. Cole. “Why should I give so much, when the last were sold for fifteen shillings?”

The real reason was that the first lot was not bid for at all, except by the proprietor. However, the broker gave her a very different solution; he said, “The trade always run up a lady or a gentleman. Let me bid for you; they won’t run me up; they know better.”

Rosa did not reply, but looked at Mrs. Cole.

“Yes, dear,” said that lady; “you had much better let him bid for you.”

“Very well,” said Rosa; “you can bid for this chest of drawers–lot 25.”

When lot 25 came on, the broker bid in the silliest possible way, if his object had been to get a bargain. He began to bid early and ostentatiously; the article was protected by somebody or other there present, who now of course saw his way clear; he ran it up audaciously, and it was purchased for Rosa at about the price it could have been bought for at a shop.

The next thing she wanted was a set of oak chairs.

They went up to twenty-eight pounds; then she said, “I shall give no more, sir.”

“Better not lose them,” said the agent; “they are a great bargain;” and bid another pound for her on his own responsibility.

They were still run up, and Rosa peremptorily refused to give any more. She lost them, accordingly, by good luck. Her faithful broker looked blank; so did the proprietor.

But, as the sale proceeded, she being young, the competition, though most of it sham, being artful and exciting, and the traitor she employed constantly puffing every article, she was drawn in to wishing for things, and bidding by her feelings.

Then her traitor played a game that has been played a hundred times, and the perpetrators never once lynched, as they ought to be, on the spot. He signalled a confederate with a hooked nose; the Jew rascal bid against the Christian scoundrel, and so they ran up the more enticing things to twice their value under the hammer.

Rosa got flushed, and her eye gleamed like a gambler’s, and she bought away like wildfire. In which sport she caught sight of an old gentleman, with little black eyes that kept twinkling at her.

She complained of these eyes to Mrs. Cole. “Why does he twinkle so? I can see it is at me. I am doing something foolish–I know I am.”

Mrs. Cole turned, and fixed a haughty stare on the old gentleman. Would you believe it? instead of sinking through the floor, he sat his ground, and retorted with a cold, clear grin.

But now, whenever Rosa’s agent bid for her, and the other man of straw against him, the black eyes twinkled, and Rosa’s courage began to ooze away. At last she said, “That is enough for one day. I shall go. Who could bear those eyes?”

The broker took her address; so did the auctioneer’s clerk. The auctioneer asked her for no deposit; her beautiful, innocent, and high-bred face was enough for a man who was always reading faces, and interpreting them.

And so they retired.

But this charming sex is like that same auctioneer’s hammer, it cannot go abruptly. It is always going–going–going–a long time before it is gone. I think it would perhaps loiter at the door of a jail, with the order of release in its hand, after six years’ confinement. Getting up to go quenches in it the desire to go. So these ladies having got up to go, turned and lingered, and hung fire so long, that at last another set of oak chairs came up. “Oh! I must see what these go for,” said Rosa, at the door.

The bidding was mighty languid now Rosa’s broker was not stimulating it; and the auctioneer was just knocking down twelve chairs–oak and leather–and two arm-chairs, for twenty pounds, when, casting his eyes around, he caught sight of Rosa looking at him rather excited. He looked inquiringly at her. She nodded slightly; he knocked them down to her at twenty guineas, and they were really a great bargain.

“Twenty-two,” cried the dealer.

“Too late,” said the auctioneer.

“I spoke with the hammer, sir.”

“After the hammer, Isaacs.”

“Shelp me God, we was together.”

One or two more of his tribe confirmed this pious falsehood, and clamored to have them put up again.

“Call the next lot,” said the auctioneer, peremptorily. “Make up your mind a little quicker next time, Mr. Isaacs; you have been long enough at it to know the value of oak and moroccar.”

Mrs. Staines and her friend now started for Morley’s Hotel, but went round by Regent Street, whereby they got glued at Peter Robinson’s window, and nine other windows; and it was nearly five o’clock when they reached Morley’s. As they came near the door of their sitting-room, Mrs. Staines heard somebody laughing and talking to her husband. The laugh, to her subtle ears, did not sound musical and genial, but keen, satirical, unpleasant; so it was with some timidity she opened the door, and there sat the old chap with the twinkling eyes. Both parties stared at each other a moment.

“Why, it is them,” cried the old gentleman. “Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

Rosa colored all over, and felt guilty somehow, and looked miserable.

“Rosa dear,” said Dr. Staines, “this is our Uncle Philip.”

“Oh!” said Rosa, and turned red and pale by turns; for she had a great desire to propitiate Uncle Philip.

“You were in the auction-room, sir?” said Mrs. Cole, severely.

“I was, madam. He! he!”

“Furnishing a house?”

“No, ma’am. I go to a dozen sales a week; but it is not to buy–I enjoy the humors. Did you ever hear of Robert Burton, ma’am?”

“No. Yes; a great traveller, isn’t he? Discovered the Nile–or the Niger–or SOMETHING?”

This majestic vagueness staggered old Crusty at first, but he recovered his equilibrium, and said, “Why, yes, now I think of it, you are right; he has travelled farther than most of us, for about two centuries ago he visited that bourn whence no traveller returns. Well, when he was alive–he was a student of Christchurch–he used to go down to a certain bridge over the Isis and enjoy the chaff of the bargemen. Now there are no bargemen left to speak of; the mantle of Bobby Burton’s bargees has fallen on the Jews and demi-semi-Christians that buy and sell furniture at the weekly auctions; thither I repair to hear what little coarse wit is left us. Used to go to the House of Commons; but they are getting too civil by half for my money. Besides, characters come out in an auction. For instance, only this very day I saw two ladies enter, in gorgeous attire, like heifers decked for sacrifice, and reduce their spoliation to a certainty by employing a broker to bid. Now, what is a broker? A fellow who is to be paid a shilling in the pound for all articles purchased. What is his interest, then? To buy cheap? Clearly not. He is paid in proportion to the dearness of the article.”

Rosa’s face began to work piteously.

“Accordingly, what did the broker in question do? He winked to another broker, and these two bid against one another, over their victim’s head, and ran everything she wanted up at least a hundred per cent above the value. So open and transparent a swindle I have seldom seen, even in an auction-room. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

His mirth was interrupted by Rosa going to her husband, hiding her head on his shoulder, and meekly crying.

Christopher comforted her like a man. “Don’t you cry, darling,” said he; “how should a pure creature like you know the badness of the world all in a moment? If it is my wife you are laughing at, Uncle Philip, let me tell you this is the wrong place. I’d rather a thousand times have her as she is, than armed with the cunning and suspicions of a hardened old worldling like you.”

“With all my heart,” said Uncle Philip, who, to do him justice, could take blows as well as give them; “but why employ a broker? Why pay a scoundrel five per cent to make you pay a hundred per cent? Why pay a noisy fool a farthing to open his mouth for you when you have taken the trouble to be there yourself, and have got a mouth of your own to bid discreetly with? Was ever such an absurdity?” He began to get angry.

“Do you want to quarrel with me, Uncle Philip?” said Christopher, firing up; “because sneering at my Rosa is the way, and the only way, and the sure way.”

“Oh, no,” said Rosa, interposing. “Uncle Philip was right. I am very foolish and inexperienced, but I am not so vain as to turn from good advice. I will never employ a broker again, sir.”

Uncle Philip smiled and looked pleased.

Mrs. Cole caused a diversion by taking leave, and Rosa followed her down-stairs. On her return she found Christopher telling his uncle all about the Bijou, and how he had taken it for a hundred and thirty pounds a year and a hundred pounds premium, and Uncle Philip staring fearfully.

At last he found his tongue. “The Bijou!” said he. “Why, that is a name they gave to a little den in Dear Street, Mayfair. You haven’t ever been and taken THAT! Built over a mews.”

Christopher groaned. “That is the place, I fear.”

“Why the owner is a friend of mine; an old patient. Stables stunk him out. Let it to a man; I forget his name. Stables stunk HIM out. He said, ‘I shall go.’ ‘You can’t,’ said my friend; ‘you have taken a lease.’ ‘Lease be d–d,’ said the other; ‘I never took YOUR house; here’s quite a large stench not specified in your description of the property–IT CAN’T BE THE SAME PLACE;’ flung the lease at his head, and cut like the wind to foreign parts less odoriferous. I’d have got you the hole for ninety; but you are like your wife–you must go to an agent. What! don’t you know that an agent is a man acting for you with an interest opposed to yours? Employing an agent! it is like a Trojan seeking the aid of a Greek. You needn’t cry, Mrs. Staines; your husband has been let in deeper than you have. Now, you are young people beginning life; I’ll give you a piece of advice. Employ others to do what you can’t do, and it must be done; but never to do anything you can do better for yourselves! Agent! The word is derived from a Latin word ‘agere,’ to do; and agents act up to their etymology, for they invariably DO the nincompoop that employs them, or deals with them, in any mortal way. I’d have got you that beastly little Bijou for ninety pounds a year.”

Uncle Philip went away crusty, leaving the young couple finely mortified and discouraged.

That did not last very long. Christopher noted the experience and Uncle Phil’s wisdom in his diary, and then took his wife on his knee, and comforted her, and said, “Never mind; experience is worth money, and it always has to be bought. Those who cheat us will die poorer than we shall, if we are honest and economical. I have observed that people are seldom ruined by the vices of others; these may hurt them, of course; but it is only their own faults and follies that can destroy them.”

“Ah! Christie,” said Rosa, “you are a man! Oh, the comfort of being married to A MAN. A man sees the best side. I do adore men. Dearest, I will waste no more of your money. I will go to no more sales.”

Christopher saw she was deeply mortified, and he said, quietly, “On the contrary, you will go to the very next. Only take Uncle Philip’s advice, employ no broker; and watch the prices things fetch when you are not bidding; and keep cool.”

She caressed his ears with both her white hands, and thanked him for giving her another trial. So that trouble melted in the sunshine of conjugal love.

Notwithstanding the agent’s solemn assurance, the Bijou was out of repair. Dr. Staines detected internal odors, as well as those that flowed in from the mews. He was not the man to let his wife perish by miasma; so he had the drains all up, and actually found brick drains, and a cesspool. He stopped that up, and laid down new pipe drains, with a good fall, and properly trapped. The old drains were hidden, after the manner of builders. He had the whole course of his new drains marked upon all the floors they passed under, and had several stones and boards hinged to facilitate examination at any period.

But all this, with the necessary cleaning, whitewashing, painting, and papering, ran away with money. Then came Rosa’s purchases, which, to her amazement, amounted to one hundred and ninety pounds, and not a carpet, curtain, or bed amongst the lot. Then there was the carriage home from the auction-room, an expense one avoids by buying at a shop, and the broker claimed his shilling in the pound. This, however, Staines refused. The man came and blustered. Rosa, who was there, trembled. Then, for the first time, she saw her husband’s brow lower; he seemed transfigured, and looked terrible. “You scoundrel,” said he, “you set another villain like yourself to bid against you, and you betrayed the innocent lady that employed you. I could indict you and your confederate for a conspiracy. I take the goods out of respect for my wife’s credit, but you shall gain nothing by swindling her. Be off, you heartless miscreant, or I’ll”–

“I’ll take the law, if you do.”

“Take it, then! I’ll give you something to howl for;” and he seized him with a grasp so tremendous that the fellow cried out in dismay, “Oh! don’t hit me, sir; pray don’t.”

On this abject appeal, Staines tore the door open with his left hand, and spun the broker out into the passage with his right. Two movements of this angry Hercules, and the man was literally whirled out of sight with a rapidity and swiftness almost ludicrous; it was like a trick in a pantomime. A clatter on the stairs betrayed that he had gone down the first few steps in a wholesale and irregular manner, though he had just managed to keep his feet.

As for Staines, he stood there still lowering like thunder, and his eyes like hot coals; but his wife threw her tender arms around him, and begged him consolingly not to mind.

She was trembling like an aspen.

“Dear me,” said Christopher, with a ludicrous change to marked politeness and respect, “I forgot YOU, in my righteous indignation.” Next he became uxorious. “Did they frighten her, a duck? Sit on my knee, darling, and pull my hair, for not being more considerate–there! there!”

This was followed by the whole absurd soothing process, as practised by manly husbands upon quivering and somewhat hysterical wives, and ended with a formal apology. “You must not think that I am passionate; on the contrary, I am always practising self- government. My maxim is, Animum rege qui nisi paret imperat, and that means, Make your temper your servant, or else it will be your master. But to ill-use my dear little wife–it is unnatural, it is monstrous, it makes my blood boil.”

“Oh, dear! don’t go into another. It is all over. I can’t bear to see you in a passion; you are so terrible, so beautiful. Ah! they are fine things, courage and strength. There’s nothing I admire so much.”

“Why, they are as common as dirt. What I admire is modesty, timidity, sweetness; the sensitive cheek that pales or blushes at a word, the bosom that quivers, and clings to a fellow whenever anything goes wrong.”

“Oh, that is what you admire, is it?” said Rosa dryly.

“Admire it?” said Christopher, not seeing the trap; “I adore it.”

“Then, Christie, dear, you are a Simpleton, that is all. And we are made for one another.”

The house was to be furnished and occupied as soon as possible; so Mrs. Staines and Mrs. Cole went to another sale-room. Mrs. Staines remembered all Uncle Philip had said, and went plainly dressed; but her friend declined to sacrifice her showy dress to her friend’s interests. Rosa thought that a little unkind, but said nothing.

In this auction-room they easily got a place at the table, but did not find it heaven; for a number of secondhand carpets were in the sale, and these, brimful of dust, were all shown on the table, and the dirt choked, and poisoned our fair friends. Brokers pestered them, until at last Rosa, smarting under her late exposure, addressed the auctioneer quietly, in her silvery tones: “Sir, these gentlemen are annoying me by forcing their services on me. I do not intend to buy at all unless I can be allowed to bid for myself.”

When Rosa, blushing and amazed at her own boldness, uttered these words, she little foresaw their effect. She had touched a popular sore.

“You are quite right, madam,” said a respectable tradesman opposite her. “What business have these dirty fellows, without a shilling in their pockets, to go and force themselves on a lady against her will?”

“It has been complained of in the papers again and again,” said another.

“What! mayn’t we live as well as you?” retorted a broker.

“Yes, but not to force yourself on a lady. Why, she’d give you in charge of the police if you tried it on outside.”

Then there was a downright clamor of discussion and chaff.

Presently up rises very slowly a countryman so colossal, that it seemed as if he would never have done getting up, and gives his experiences. He informed the company, in a broad Yorkshire dialect, that he did a bit in furniture, and at first starting these brokers buzzed about him like flies, and pestered him. “Aah damned ’em pretty hard,” said he, “but they didn’t heed any. So then ah spoke ’em civil, and ah said, ‘Well, lads, I dinna come fra Yorkshire to sit like a dummy and let you buy wi’ my brass; the first that pesters me again ah’ll just fell him on t’ plaace, like a caulf, and ah’m not very sure he’ll get up again in a hurry.’ So they dropped me like a hot potato; never pestered me again. But if they won’t give over pestering you, mistress, ah’ll come round and just stand behind your chair, and bring nieve with me,” showing a fist like a leg of mutton.

“No, no,” said the auctioneer, “that will not do. I will have no disturbance here. Call the policeman.”

While the clerk went to the door for the bobby, a gentleman reminded the auctioneer that the journals had repeatedly drawn attention to the nuisance.

“Fault of the public, not mine, sir. Policeman, stand behind that lady’s chair, and if anybody annoys her put him quietly into the street.”

“This auction-room will be to let soon,” said a voice at the end of the table.

“This auction-room,” said the auctioneer, master of the gay or grave at a moment’s notice, “is supported by the public and the trade; it is not supported by paupers.”

A Jew upholsterer put in his word. “I do my own business; but I like to let a poor man live.”

“Jonathan,” said the auctioneer to one of his servants, “after this sale you may put up the shutters; we have gone and offended Mr. Jacobs. He keeps a shop in Blind Alley, Whitechapel. Now then, lot 69.”

Rosa bid timidly for one or two lots, and bought them cheap.

The auctioneer kept looking her way, and she had only to nod.

The obnoxious broker got opposite her, and ran her up a little out of spite; but as he had only got half a crown about him, and no means of doubling it, he dared not go far.

On the other side of the table was a figure to which Rosa’s eyes often turned with interest–a fair young boy about twelve years old; he had golden hair, and was in deep mourning. His appearance interested Rosa, and she wondered how he came there, and why; he looked like a lamb wedged in among wolves, a flower among weeds. As the lots proceeded, the boy seemed to get uneasy; and at last, when lot ’73 was put up, anybody could see in his poor little face that he was there to bid for it.

“Lot ’73, an armchair covered in morocco. An excellent and useful article. Should not be at all surprised if it was made by Gillow.”

“Gillow would though,” said Jacobs, who owed him a turn.

Chorus of dealers.–“Haw! haw!”

The auctioneer.–“I like to hear some people run a lot down; shows they are going to bid for it in earnest. Well, name your own price. Five pounds to begin?”

Now if nobody had spoken the auctioneer would have gone on, “Well, four pounds then–three, two, whatever you like,” and at last obtained a bona fide offer of thirty shillings; but the moment he said “Five pounds to begin,” the boy in black lifted up his childish treble and bid thus, “Five pound ten”–“six pounds”–“six pound ten”–“seven pounds”–“seven pound ten”–“eight pounds”– “eight pound ten”–“nine pounds”–“nine pound ten”–“ten pounds!” without interruption, and indeed almost in a breath.

There was a momentary pause of amazement, and then an outburst of chaff.

“Nice little boy!”

“Didn’t he say his lesson well?”

“Favor us with your card, sir. You are a gent as knows how to buy.”

“What did he stop for? If it’s worth ten, it is worth a hundred.”

“Bless the child!” said a female dealer, kindly, “what made you go on like that? Why, there was no one bid against you! you’d have got it for two pounds–a rickety old thing.”

Young master began to whimper. “Why, the gentleman said, ‘Five pounds to BEGIN.’ It was the chair poor grandpapa always sat in, and all the things are sold, and mamma said it would break her heart to lose it. She was too ill to come, so she sent me. She told me I was not to let it be sold away from us for less than ten pounds, or she sh–should be m–m–miserable,” and the poor little fellow began to cry. Rosa followed suit promptly but unobtrusively.

“Sentiment always costs money,” said Mr. Jacobs, gravely.

“How do you know?” asked Mr. Cohen. “Have YOU got any on hand? I never seen none at your shop.”

Some tempting things now came up, and Mrs. Staines bid freely; but all of a sudden she looked down the table, and there was Uncle Philip, twinkling as before. “Oh, dear! what am I doing now!” thought she. “I have got no broker.”

She bid on, but in fear and trembling, because of those twinkling eyes. At last she mustered courage, wrote on a leaf of her pocket- book, and passed it down to him: “It would be only kind to warn me. What am I doing wrong?”

He sent her back a line directly: “Auctioneer running you up himself. Follow his eye when he bids; you will see there is no bona fide bidder at your prices.”

Rosa did so, and found that it was true.

She nodded to Uncle Philip; and, with her expressive face, asked him what she should do.

The old boy must have his joke. So he wrote back: “Tell him, as you see he has a fancy for certain articles, you would not be so discourteous as to bid against him.”

The next article but one was a drawing-room suite Rosa wanted; but the auctioneer bid against her; so at eighteen pounds she stopped.

“It is against you, madam,” said the auctioneer.

“Yes, sir,” said Rosa; “but as you are the only bidder, and you have been so kind to me, I would not think of opposing you.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when they were greeted with a roar of Homeric laughter that literally shook the room, and this time not at the expense of the innocent speaker.

“That’s into your mutton, governor.”

“Sharp’s the word this time.”

“I say, governor, don’t you want a broker to bid for ye?”

“Wink at me next time, sir; I’ll do the office for you.”

“No greenhorns left now.”

“That lady won’t give a ten-pund note for her grandfather’s armchair.”

“Oh, yes, she will, if it’s stuffed with banknotes.”

“Put the next lot up with the owner’s name and the reserve price. Open business.”

“And sing a psalm at starting.”

“A little less noise in Judaea, if you please,” said the auctioneer, who had now recovered from the blow. “Lot 97.”

This was a very pretty marqueterie cabinet; it stood against the wall, and Rosa had set her heart upon it. Nobody would bid. She had muzzled the auctioneer effectually.

“Your own price.”

“Two pounds,” said Rosa.

A dealer offered guineas; and it advanced slowly to four pounds and half a crown, at which it was about to be knocked down to Rosa, when suddenly a new bidder arose in the broker Rosa had rejected. They bid slowly and sturdily against each other, until a line was given to Rosa from Uncle Philip.

“This time it is your own friend, the snipe-nosed woman. She telegraphed a broker.”

Rosa read, and crushed the note. “Six guineas,” said she.

“Six-ten.”

“Seven.”

“Seven-ten.”

“Eight.”

“Eight-ten.”

“Ten guineas,” said Rosa; and then, with feminine cunning, stealing a sudden glance, caught her friend leaning back and signalling the broker not to give in.

“Eleven pounds.”

“Twelve.”

“Thirteen.”

“Fourteen.”

“Sixteen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty guineas.”

“It is yours, my faithful friend,” said Rosa, turning suddenly round to Mrs. Cole, with a magnificent glance no one would have thought her capable of.

Then she rose and stalked away.

Dumfounded for the moment, Mrs. Cole followed her, and stopped her at the door.

“Why, Rosie dear, it is the only thing I have bid for. There I’ve sat by your side like a mouse.”

Rosa turned gravely towards her. “You know it is not that. You had only to tell me you wanted it. I would never have been so mean as to bid against you.”

“Mean, indeed!” said. Florence, tossing her head.

“Yes, mean; to draw back and hide behind the friend you were with, and employ the very rogue she had turned off. But it is my own fault. Cecilia warned me against you. She always said you were a treacherous girl.”

“And I say you are an impudent little minx. Only just married, and going about like two vagabonds, and talk to me like that!”

“We are not going about like two vagabonds. We have taken a house in Mayfair.”

“Say a stable.”

“It was by your advice, you false-hearted creature.”

“You are a fool.”

“You are worse; you are a traitress.”

“Then don’t you have anything to do with me.”

“Heaven forbid I should, you treacherous thing!”

“You insolent–insolent–I hate you.”

“And I despise you.”

“I always hated you at bottom.”

“That’s why you pretended to love me, you wretch.”

“Well, I pretend no more. I am your enemy for life.”

“Thank you. You have told the truth for once in your life.”

“I have. And he shall never call in your husband; so you may leave Mayfair as soon as you like.”

“Not to please you, madam. We can get on without traitors.”

And so they parted, with eyes that gleamed like tigers.

Rosa drove home in great agitation, and tried to tell Christopher; but choked, and became hysterical. The husband-physician coaxed and scolded her out of that; and presently in came Uncle Philip, full of the humors of the auction-room. He told about the little boy with a delight that disgusted Mrs. Staines, and then was particularly merry on female friendships. “Fancy a man going to a sale with his friend, and bidding against him on the sly.”

“She is no friend of mine. We are enemies for life.”

“And you were to be friends till death,” said Staines, with a sigh.

Philip inquired who she was.

“Mrs. John Cole.”

“Not of Curzon Street?”

“Yes.”

“And you have quarrelled with her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, but her husband is a general practitioner.”

“She is a traitress.”

“But her husband could put a good deal of money in Christopher’s