In the year 1850 I was living as governess in the
small watering-place S., on the south coast of England.
Amongst my friends was a young doctor, B., who had
recently come to the town. He had not bought
a practice, but his family was known to one or two
of the principal inhabitants, and he had begun to
do well. He deserved his success, for he was
skilful, frank, and gentle, and he did not affect that
mystery which in his elder colleagues was already
suspected to be nothing but ignorance. He was
one of the early graduates of the University of London,
and representative of the new school of medical science,
relying not so much upon drugs as upon diet and regimen.
I was one of his first patients. I had a severe
illness lasting for nearly three months; he watched
over me carefully and cured me. As I grew better
he began to talk on other matters than my health when
he visited me. We found that we were both interested
in the same books: he lent me his and I lent
him mine. It is almost impossible, I should think,
for a young man and a young woman to be friends and
nothing more, and I confess that my sympathy with
him in his admiration of the Elizabethan poets, and
my gratitude to him for my recovery passed into affection.
I am sure also that he felt affection for me.
He became confidential, and told me all his history
and troubles. There was one peculiarity in his
conversation which was new to me: he never talked
down to me, and he was not afraid at times to discuss
subjects that in the society to which I had been accustomed
were prohibited. Not a word that was improper
ever escaped his lips, but he treated me in a measure
as if I were a man, and I was flattered that he should
put me on a level with himself. It is true that
sometimes I fancied he was so unreserved with me because
he was sure he was quite safe, for I was poor.
and
although I was not ugly I was not handsome.
However, on the whole, I was very happy in his society,
and there was more than a chance that I should become
his wife.
After six months of our acquaintanceship had passed,
M., an old schoolfellow of mine, took lodgings near
me for the summer. She was a remarkable girl.
If she was not beautiful, she was better-looking than
I was, and she possessed a something, I know not what,
more powerful than beauty to fascinate men.
Perhaps it was her unconstrained naturalness.
In walking, sitting, standing—whatever
she did—her movements and attitudes were
not impeded or unduly masked by artificial restrictions.
I should not have called her profound, but what she
said upon the commonest subjects was interesting,
because it was so entirely her own. If she disliked
a neighbour, she almost always disliked her for a
reason which we saw, directly it was pointed out to
us, to be just, but it was generally one which had
not been given before. Her talk upon matters
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