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 mustcome 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 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.
