A Simpleton | Page 6

long veil, which she could not wear even once if she remained single.
This bright variegated picture of holy wedlock, and its essential
features, as revealed to young ladies by feminine tradition, though not
enumerated in the Book of Common Prayer writ by grim males, so
entranced her, that time flew by unheeded, and Christopher Staines
came back from her father. His step was heavy; he looked pale, and
deeply distressed; then stood like a statue, and did not come close to
her, but cast a piteous look, and gasped out one word, that seemed
almost to choke him,--"REFUSED!"
Miss Lusignan rose from her chair, and looked almost wildly at him
with her great eyes. "Refused?" said she, faintly.
"Yes," said he, sadly. "Your father is a man of business; and he took a
mere business view of our love: he asked me directly what provision I
could make for his daughter and her children. Well, I told him I had
three thousand pounds in the Funds, and a good profession; and then I
said I had youth, health, and love, boundless love, the love that can do,
or suffer, the love that can conquer the world."
"Dear Christopher! And what COULD he say to all that?"
"He ignored it entirely. There! I'll give you his very words. He said, 'In
that case, Dr. Staines, the simple question is, what does your profession
bring you in per annum?'"
"Oh! There! I always hated arithmetic, and now I abominate it."
"Then I was obliged to confess I had scarcely received a hundred
pounds in fees this year; but I told him the reason; this is such a small
district, and all the ground occupied. London, I said, was my sphere."
"And so it is," said Rosa, eagerly; for this jumped with her own little
designs. "Genius is wasted in the country. Besides, whenever anybody
worth curing is ill down here, they always send to London for a
doctor."
"I told him so, dearest," said the lover. "But he answered me directly,
then I must set up in London, and as soon as my books showed an
income to keep a wife, and servants, and children, and insure my life
for five thousand pounds"--
"Oh, that is so like papa. He is director of an insurance company, so all
the world must insure their lives."

"No, dear, he was quite right there: professional incomes are most
precarious. Death spares neither young nor old, neither warm hearts nor
cold. I should be no true physician if I could not see my own
mortality." He hung his head and pondered a moment, then went on,
sadly, "It all comes to this--until I have a professional income of eight
hundred a year at least, he will not hear of our marrying; and the cruel
thing is, he will not even consent to an engagement. But," said the
rejected, with a look of sad anxiety, "you will wait for me without that,
dear Rosa?"
She could give him that comfort, and she gave it him with loving
earnestness. "Of course I will; and it shall not be very long. Whilst you
are making your fortune, to please papa, I will keep fretting, and
pouting, and crying, till he sends for you."
"Bless you, dearest! Stop!--not to make yourself ill! not for all the
world." The lover and the physician spoke in turn.
He came, all gratitude, to her side, and they sat, hand in hand,
comforting each other: indeed, parting was such sweet sorrow that they
sat, handed, and very close to one another, till Mr. Lusignan, who
thought five minutes quite enough for rational beings to take leave in,
walked into the room and surprised them. At sight of his gray head and
iron-gray eyebrows, Christopher Staines started up and looked
confused; he thought some apology necessary, so he faltered out,
"Forgive me, sir; it is a bitter parting to me, you may be sure."
Rosa's bosom heaved at these simple words. She flew to her father, and
cried, "Oh, papa! papa! you were never cruel before;" and hid her
burning face on his shoulder; and then burst out crying, partly for
Christopher, partly because she was now ashamed of herself for having
taken a young man's part so openly.
Mr. Lusignan looked sadly discomposed at this outburst: she had taken
him by his weak point; he told her so. "Now, Rosa," said he, rather
peevishly, "you know I hate--noise."
Rosa had actually forgotten that trait for a single moment; but, being
reminded of it, she reduced her sobs in the prettiest way, not to offend a
tender parent who could not bear noise. Under this homely term, you
must know, he included all scenes, disturbances, rumpuses, passions;
and expected all men, women, and things in