“If you think it will be best,” he was saying, “I desire to do only what is best for her. I don’t want to agitate or distress her—Effie!”
In a moment he had dropped her stepmother’s hand and made a hurried step towards the apparition, pale, breathless, almost speechless with emotion, at the door. He was pale too, subdued, serious, very different from the easy and assured youth who had so often met her there.
“Effie! my dearest, generous girl!”
“Oh, Fred! what has become of you all this time? did you think that I was like the rest?”
“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you are just spoiling everything both for him and for yourself. What brought you here? you are not wanted here. He has plenty on his mind without you. Just you go back again where you came from. He has told me all he wants to say. You here just makes everything worse.”
Fred had taken her hands into his. He looked into her eyes with a gaze which Effie did not understand.
“To think you should be willing to encounter even poverty and misery for me!” he said; “but I cannot take you at your word. I cannot expose you to that struggle. It must be put off indefinitely, my sweetest girl: alas, that I should have to say it! when another fortnight, only two weeks more, should have made us happy.”
He stooped down and kissed her hands. There was a tone, protecting, compassionate, respectful in his voice. He was consoling her quite as much as himself.
“Postponed?” she said faltering, gazing at him with an astonishment which was mingled with dismay.
“Alas, yes, my generous darling: though you are willing, I am not able to carry out our engagement: that is what I have been explaining. Don’t think it is not as bad for me as for you.”