A Simpleton. Charles Reade Reade

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

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

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

      “Hurt me?”

      “Well, then, frighten you?”

      No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

      “You are better, Miss Lusignan.”

      “Better, Dr. Staines? I am health itself thanks to—hem!”

      “Our estrangement has agreed with you?” This very bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Not I; I only hear what people say.”

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

      “Should I?” said Christopher, puzzled. “What?”

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

      “May I inquire for what?”

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

      “Took off whom?—Oh, I understand. You did? Then you ARE a good girl.”

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

      “I don't say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      In a moment he divined