roomy carriages, and very comfortable. A little curtain to draw over the lamp, and the whole left to myself: so I might have been in my own room, yet did not get to sleep till nearly one o'clock; not so much from noise or novelty, as from my own thoughts, so much was coming back on me. This was the first time I had been away from home, from Dora; and now that I was at a distance, she, and all that she had passed, began to rise before me like pictures. I could see now—like a man walking back to get a good view of a picture—her sweet face in the centre, and what a deal I had gone through to win it for myself! Though she never shall know it, much of what I suffer now is owing to that six years' feverish anxiety. And I saved her from him. For a time I did feel some remorse, yet now I do not. It was all for a good end.
Let me think now, as an entertainment, of the first bright day on which I saw her. Some wealthy people, who lived in tolerable state, had "filled their house," as it is called, and had asked me down. I was reluctant to go. In these days—and not unpleasant days were they—how I lived in the book world, and very pleasant friends I had among them. For as Richard of Bury says, in words that sound like old church bells, "These are the masters that instruct us without rods; if you chide them they do not answer, if you neglect or ill-treat them they bear no malice. They are always cheerful, sweet-tempered, ready to talk and comfort us at any hour of night or day." For them I felt an affection—they seemed to me beautiful, with charming faces, and shall I own it?—some of the prettiest faces of nature when shown to me, appeared to me, much as these pretty faces would look on mere money treasures. Do I not remember how I used to look out at the world, as from a window, and punctually as the clock struck twelve every night, would put away work, fetch out the best novel of the day, light the soothing cigar, and read for two hours? How enjoyable was this time, almost too exquisite! But the whole was about to collapse like a card house.
How curious this dark country looks "roaring by" the window with the glare and flash from a station. The dull "burr" of the train, and the lights from the windows dappling the ground. As I look out I see the small dark figure of the guard creeping along outside. In this situation, in my lonely blue chamber, there is a sort of vacuity for thought, the world is shut out and the pictures of the past pour in. …
Was it not a very stately place—a new castle, grand stabling, horses and carriages in profusion, as I was shown into the great drawing-room, and received with welcome by the hostess. The guests were all out, shooting, riding, walking, and—so unfortunate she says—lunch was over. The young ladies were in the garden, where we would go and look for them. Stay; no, here they were coming, and past the mullioned windows, which ran down to the ground, flitted two or three figures, led by a little scarlet cloak. In a second cheerful voices rang out like music; the door opened, and she came tripping in. I did not see the others. I do not know who they were to this moment; but was it not then, my dear foolish Austen, that everything fell in like a house of cards—that the glory passed away from the books and never returned?
Her name was Dora—a pretty and melodious one; she was small, elegantly made, and with dancing eyes, bright sloe black hair, and a look of refinement about her small features I have never seen in any one else. She was full of spirits, and laughter, and delight. I recollect to this moment how I was introduced, with what a coquettish solemnity she went through the ceremony, and how, as I bowed, I felt something whisper to me, "This is an important moment for you, sir …"
She was daughter to a great House in the neighbourhood. From that hour she unconsciously entered into my life. She little thought how her airy figure was to hover about my study, and of how many day dreams she was to be the centre. So do the years go by; yet that dull blue cloth before me seems to open and draw away, and show me that gay noonday and that "morning room" at—— House as distinctly as if it were yesterday. In my pocket-book I have at this moment a picture of her, done, not by the fanciful touch of memory, but by, perhaps, the less enduring one of the camera. It is hard to see by this light. Yes, there she is, a cloud of white sweeping behind her, flowers in her hand, with a soft inquiring look, half serious, and that seems on the verge of breaking into a smile, and spoiling the operator's whole work. So I saw her then, so I see her now. What if I was never to see her again! But this is too lugubrious! …
There, the blast again—a flashing and flaring of lamps, a screaming of the whistles, and we rumble into a blaze of light, with buffets and offices lit up, and sleepy passengers waiting. One fellow in a white hat invades my blue chamber—a gross Belgian, with a theatrical portmanteau pushed in before him, and an air as if he were performing some feat of distinction. Away flutters the little figure, and from that moment the charm is broken, clouds of tobacco-smoke begin, wherein, I suppose—fitting back-ground—he sees pictures of his own gross déjeuner à la fourchette, or dinner, at the Trois Frères. A true beast, that presently grunts and snores, lives but for the present hour, and never lifts up his soul in gratitude or humility. There, he has got out, and we have done with him. I know now the secret of this dislike; he reminded me so of Grainger, the only evil genius I ever encountered in my life, and the evil genius that I vanquished. Rather, grace and strength came to me from above, to aid me to vanquish him.
I see the very street in the little town on that gay morning. How well I remember our all rushing to the window of the bank the day the regiment came in—when we heard their music, and I must have seen him—Grainger—walk by, his sword drawn, at the head of his company, and looked at him, perhaps with admiration. I little dreamed what he was to be towards me, later. I thought of their coming with pleasure; it would vary the monotony. I thought of how they would amuse her, perhaps, for whom a country town must be dull indeed. Later, I see soldiers walking about the place, the officers rather fine and contemptuous, for which one could bear them no ill-will, as they had fought and bled for us, and might take little airs.
(A cold blast and rush of air, as the conductor has come in like a spirit, with a lantern, and wants to see tickets.)
Let me look back again, setting my head, now aching a good deal, against these comfortable cushions. It is not likely that I shall sleep under these strange conditions. I like dwelling on little pictures of that time, and it is an easy and pleasant amusement constructing them. I next see one of our country-town little parties, and he making his way—no, not making, he disdained that trouble, he took it. His way he chose fitfully; he selected anything at hazard, called it his way, and others cheerfully bowed and adopted it. There are a few such men in the world, and I have often envied them. Such a manner is worth money and place and estate. See how long one of us takes to carry out a little play, to get to know people, even. We hesitate, make timorous advances, lose days and weeks. He does all in a few minutes. Time, in this short life, is money, and more valuable.
I dare say all this time he heartily disliked me—I am sure he did—and had that instinctive dislike which one man often has to another from the very outset. His eyes seemed to challenge me, and he knew me for an adversary. How could I compete with him, with such advantages on his side? And he had a great one, for in those days, my dear Dora, you were a little, ever so little, of a coquette, and liked to have your amusement, which was very natural indeed.
I have had my trials. My father had speculated and lost a fine estate, which he had also encumbered. We had all then to work and do what we could. I was a gentleman, and, though not a rich one, quite as good as they. But they looked down on me, because we had lost our fortune. Dora's father had bitterly resented what she had done, and all her fortune and estate, too, was left away to a cousin—a drinking, hunting fellow—who was amazed at his good fortune. I never regretted it a moment.
Grainger cast his eyes on her just to fill up his idle time. For me he affected contempt, but from me he was to have a lesson. They wished to force her to marry him, and she was helpless in their hands. But when I heard that scandal about the innkeeper's daughter, where, too, he was lodging, was I not right to hunt it up? Could I have stood by and looked on? And though they said, and he protested, it was false, what of that? Did I not know him to be a man of a certain life? There were other cases as bad. He was not fit to be her husband, and if he did "go to the bad," later, it concerned himself, and merely proved my discernment. Thank God I saved her! and I can now lay my hand on my heart and feel no compunction whatever. … . O that happy first year! She changed the whole colour of my life, made me thoughtful, steady, and taught me even to pray, which I did