On the day after my second meeting with Dr. Dorrimore I did not see him:
the clerk in the Putnam House explained that a slight illness confined
him to his rooms. That afternoon at the railway station I was surprised
and made happy by the unexpected arrival of Miss Margaret Corray and her
mother, from Oakland.
This is not a love story. I am no storyteller, and love as it is cannot
be portrayed in a literature dominated and enthralled by the debasing
tyranny which “sentences letters” in the name of the Young Girl. Under
the Young Girl’s blighting reign—or rather under the rule of those false
Ministers of the Censure who have appointed themselves to the custody of
her welfare—love
veils her sacred fires,
And, unaware, Morality expires,
famished upon the sifted meal and distilled water of a prudish
purveyance.
Let it suffice that Miss Corray and I were engaged in marriage. She and
her mother went to the hotel at which I lived, and for two weeks I saw
her daily. That I was happy needs hardly be said; the only bar to my
perfect enjoyment of those golden days was the presence of Dr. Dorrimore,
whom I had felt compelled to introduce to the ladies.
By them he was evidently held in favor. What could I say? I knew
absolutely nothing to his discredit. His manners were those of a
cultivated and considerate gentleman; and to women a man’s manner is the
man. On one or two occasions when I saw Miss Corray walking with him I
was furious, and once had the indiscretion to protest. Asked for
reasons, I had none to give and fancied I saw in her expression a shade
of contempt for the vagaries of a jealous mind. In time I grew morose
and consciously disagreeable, and resolved in my madness to return to San
Francisco the next day. Of this, however, I said nothing.