Free Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell Page A

While she was thus charged with anger (for
her brother justly defended her son's master and companions from her
attacks), she saw Ruth standing with a lover, far away from home,
at such a time in the evening, and she boiled over with intemperate
displeasure.
    "Come here directly, Miss Hilton," she exclaimed, sharply. Then,
dropping her voice to low, bitter tones of concentrated wrath, she
said to the trembling, guilty Ruth:
    "Don't attempt to show your face at my house again after this
conduct. I saw you, and your spark, too. I'll have no slurs on the
character of my apprentices. Don't say a word. I saw enough. I shall
write and tell your guardian to-morrow."
    The horse started away, for he was impatient to be off, and Ruth was
left standing there, stony, sick, and pale, as if the lightning had
torn up the ground beneath her feet. She could not go on standing,
she was so sick and faint; she staggered back to the broken
sand-bank, and sank down, and covered her face with her hands.
    "My dearest Ruth! are you ill? Speak, darling! My love, my love, do
speak to me!"
    What tender words after such harsh ones! They loosened the fountain
of Ruth's tears, and she cried bitterly.
    "Oh! did you see her—did you hear what she said?"
    "She! Who, my darling? Don't sob so, Ruth; tell me what it is. Who
has been near you?—who has been speaking to you to make you cry so?"
    "Oh, Mrs Mason." And there was a fresh burst of sorrow.
    "You don't say so! are you sure? I was not away five minutes."
    "Oh, yes, sir, I'm quite sure. She was so angry; she said I must
never show my face there again. Oh, dear! what shall I do?"
    It seemed to the poor child as if Mrs Mason's words were irrevocable,
and, that being so, she was shut out from every house. She saw how
much she had done that was deserving of blame, now when it was too
late to undo it. She knew with what severity and taunts Mrs Mason had
often treated her for involuntary failings, of which she had been
quite unconscious; and now she had really done wrong, and shrank
with terror from the consequences. Her eyes were so blinded by the
fast-falling tears, she did not see (nor had she seen would she have
been able to interpret) the change in Mr Bellingham's countenance, as
he stood silently watching her. He was silent so long, that even in
her sorrow she began to wonder that he did not speak, and to wish to
hear his soothing words once more.
    "It is very unfortunate," he began, at last; and then he stopped;
then he began again: "It is very unfortunate; for, you see, I did not
like to name it to you before, but, I believe—I have business, in
fact, which obliges me to go to town to-morrow—to London, I mean;
and I don't know when I shall be able to return."
    "To London!" cried Ruth; "are you going away? Oh, Mr Bellingham!" She
wept afresh, giving herself up to the desolate feeling of sorrow,
which absorbed all the terror she had been experiencing at the idea
of Mrs Mason's anger. It seemed to her at this moment as though she
could have borne everything but his departure; but she did not speak
again; and after two or three minutes had elapsed, he spoke—not in
his natural careless voice, but in a sort of constrained, agitated
tone.
    "I can hardly bear the idea of leaving you, my own Ruth. In such
distress, too; for where you can go I do not know at all. From
all you have told me of Mrs Mason, I don't think she is likely to
mitigate her severity in your case."
    No answer, but tears quietly, incessantly flowing. Mrs Mason's
displeasure seemed a distant thing; his going away was the present
distress. He went on:
    "Ruth, would you go with me to London? My darling, I cannot leave
you here without a home; the thought of leaving you at all is pain
enough, but in these circumstances—so friendless, so homeless—it is
impossible. You must come with me, love, and trust to me."
    Still she did not speak. Remember how young, and innocent, and
motherless she was! It seemed to her as if it would be