“No, Helen, no! I gloried in it; for I knew you were mine, mine in heart, faith, all but name. But then I thought how selfish, how utterly selfish I was still to claim you; to behold you wearing out your young life in all the sickness of hope deferred; when, by resigning you, you might be rich, admired, followed, occupy the station you deserve, and—”
“Be very happy, dearest George? This is a strange mood,” she said, half reproachfully, half playfully. “Come, send it away, for it is not like you. I am very sorry I cannot oblige you; but as I consider myself as much yours as if the sacred words had actually been said, you may divorce me if you will, but I will never give you up.”
“Helen, darling Helen! forgive me,” he replied, his repentance as impetuous as all his other feelings. “Oh! if you would but be mine at once, I am sure I should succeed; with such a comforter, such a cheerer, work would be welcome. I would never despond again, dearest; loving as we do, why should we not wed at once? We must then do well.”
“Must do well because we love, George? Yes, and so we shall, but not if we wed now. Ah, now you look reproachfully again. Dearest, you know I would not shrink from any hardship shared with you. I will work with you, work for you, if needed; but, young as we both are, is it not better to work apart a few years, that we may rest together? Think what five years may do for both, it may be less; I put it only to the extent. You are succeeding, and will succeed still more, the more you are known; but had you a wife and an establishment to support now, even with my very hardest exertions, we could not keep free from debt; and love, potent as it is, could not then guard sorrow from our dwelling. When wedded, if unlooked-for misfortunes come, we will bear them, and comfort and strengthen each other; but would it be right, would it be wise to invite them by a too early marriage? My own dear George, let us work while we have youth and hope, and trust me we shall be very happy yet.”
It was scarcely possible to remain unconvinced by such fond reasoning; but still Ashley referred with deep despondency to the long, long interval which must elapse ere that happiness could be obtained.
“Not so long as you fancy, George. I never mean to be a rich man’s wife, though you invited me to be so just now. I do not even intend to wait for comforts, but only just for that competency which will prevent those evil spirits, care and irritation, from entering our home; and to forward this, listen to my plan, dearest George.” And with some little tremour, for she dreaded his disapproval, she told him that she had accepted an engagement as governess, in a family at Manchester; a Dr. Murray, who was a widower, with four or five children: she had been mentioned by a mutual friend, and the Doctor was so pleased with Mrs. Norton’s account, that he agreed even to give the high salary Helen required, without seeing her. He had said that his mother, who lived with him, was too infirm to bear his children much with her, and he therefore wanted more from his governess than merely to teach; he was quite willing to pay for it, but a lady he must have.
“To bear with all his whims and fancies; to be tormented with spoiled children; put up with the old woman’s infirmities; be insulted by pampered servants. Helen, you shall not go!” exclaimed George.
“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I do not expect one of these evils; and if I meet with them I can bear them, with such a hope before me,” she continued, fondly looking in his face.
“But governesses are so insulted, so degraded.”
“Not insulted, if they respect themselves; not degraded, if those they love do not think so. But perhaps, George, you are too proud to marry a governess.”