'Now, my dear Ellen, there were in this proposal some things which
might have proved a strong temptation. I thought if I were to marry
Henry Nussey, his sister could live with me, and how happy I should
be. But again I asked myself two questions: Do I love him as much as
a woman ought to love the man she marries? Am I the person best
qualified to make him happy? Alas! Ellen, my conscience answered
_no_ to both these questions. I felt that though I esteemed, though
I had a kindly leaning towards him, because he is an amiable and
well-disposed man, yet I had not, and could not have, that intense
attachment which would make me willing to die for him; and, if ever I
marry, it must be in that light of adoration that I will regard my
husband. Ten to one I shall never have the chance again; but
_n'importe_. Moreover, I was aware that Henry knew so little of me
he could hardly be conscious to whom he was writing. Why, it would
startle him to see me in my natural home character; he would think I
was a wild, romantic enthusiast indeed. I could not sit all day long
making a grave face before my husband. I would laugh, and satirise,
and say whatever came into my head first. And if he were a clever
man, and loved me, the whole world weighed in the balance against his
smallest wish should be light as air.
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