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 little of before. Angel! She shall teach me much more yet.
Saturday.—Homburg at last. Delightful and most easy journey. I have written my letter to her from this sweet and pastoral place. I write in the daintiest of little rooms, the yellow jalousies drawn close to keep out the sun. Outside the window is a balcony, Venetian-like in its breadth, filled up with a whole garden of flowers, where there is a table, and where one can walk about. It recals an old and lost place in the country, before we were ruined, as they say. Overhead is an awning, and when the sun is less strong, I can go out, and walk up and down, and look into the street. If only Dora were here! No matter; one of these days she shall be, and better times will come; "one colour cannot always be turning up," as the maid said this morning. And here comes the post—a fellow like a soldier, with a very grim moustache, who hands in a letter. It is from her, I could guess at her writing from the very balcony. I run down to take it from the landlady's hands and tear it open. It seems a whole year since I have seen her. Dear characters! sweet writing! I fasten it in here, at this page of my little diary.
"Dearest,—Oh, how I miss and long for you. How I long to learn that you have borne the journey well; not that you are better already, for that I am not so unreasonable as to expect. But soon you will tell me so. Our two little darlings only know that you have gone away. They think it is to the nearest town, and that you will be back to-morrow. Don't fatigue yourself writing, think only of your dear health. Keep out of the dreadful sun, and amuse yourself. I hope this will find you on your arrival.
The underlined words, how delicate, how
