Free Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell Page B

happiness
enough to be with him; and as for the future, he would arrange and
decide for that. The future lay wrapped in a golden mist, which she
did not care to penetrate; but if he, her sun, was out of sight and
gone, the golden mist became dark heavy gloom, through which no hope
could come. He took her hand.
    "Will you not come with me? Do you not love me enough to trust me?
Oh, Ruth," (reproachfully), "can you not trust me?"
    She had stopped crying, but was sobbing sadly.
    "I cannot bear this, love. Your sorrow is absolute pain to me; but it
is worse to feel how indifferent you are—how little you care about
our separation."
    He dropped her hand. She burst into a fresh fit of crying.
    "I may have to join my mother in Paris; I don't know when I shall see
you again. Oh, Ruth!" said he, vehemently, "do you love me at all?"
    She said something in a very low voice; he could not hear it, though
he bent down his head—but he took her hand again.
    "What was it you said, love? Was it not that you did love me? My
darling, you do! I can tell it by the trembling of this little hand;
then you will not suffer me to go away alone and unhappy, most
anxious about you? There is no other course open to you; my poor girl
has no friends to receive her. I will go home directly, and return
in an hour with a carriage. You make me too happy by your silence,
Ruth."
    "Oh, what can I do!" exclaimed Ruth. "Mr Bellingham, you should help
me, and instead of that you only bewilder me."
    "How, my dearest Ruth? Bewilder you! It seems so clear to me. Look
at the case fairly! Here you are, an orphan, with only one person
to love you, poor child!—thrown off, for no fault of yours, by the
only creature on whom you have a claim, that creature a tyrannical,
inflexible woman; what is more natural (and, being natural, more
right) than that you should throw yourself upon the care of the
one who loves you dearly—who would go through fire and water for
you—who would shelter you from all harm? Unless, indeed, as I
suspect, you do not care for him. If so, Ruth! if you do not care for
me, we had better part—I will leave you at once; it will be better
for me to go, if you do not care for me."
    He said this very sadly (it seemed so to Ruth, at least), and made as
though he would have drawn his hand from hers, but now she held it
with soft force.
    "Don't leave me, please, sir. It is very true I have no friend but
you. Don't leave me, please. But, oh! do tell me what I must do!"
    "Will you do it if I tell you? If you will trust me, I will do my
very best for you. I will give you my best advice. You see your
position. Mrs Mason writes and gives her own exaggerated account to
your guardian; he is bound by no great love to you, from what I have
heard you say, and throws you off; I, who might be able to befriend
you—through my mother, perhaps—I, who could at least comfort you
a little (could not I, Ruth?), am away, far away, for an indefinite
time; that is your position at present. Now, what I advise is this.
Come with me into this little inn; I will order tea for you—(I am
sure you require it sadly)—and I will leave you there, and go home
for the carriage. I will return in an hour at the latest. Then we
are together, come what may; that is enough for me; is it not for
you, Ruth? Say, yes—say it ever so low, but give me the delight of
hearing it. Ruth, say yes."
    Low and soft, with much hesitation, came the "Yes;" the fatal word of
which she so little imagined the infinite consequences. The thought
of being with him was all and everything.
    "How you tremble, my darling! You are cold, love! Come into the
house, and I'll order tea directly and be off."
    She rose, and, leaning on his arm, went into the house. She was
shaking and dizzy with the agitation of the last hour. He spoke to
the civil farmer-landlord, who conducted them into a neat parlour,
with windows opening into the garden at the back of the house. They
had admitted much of the evening's fragrance