Ruth by Elizabeth Gaskell

through their open
casements, before they were hastily closed by the attentive host.
    "Tea, directly, for this lady!" The landlord vanished.
    "Dearest Ruth, I must go; there is not an instant to be lost; promise
me to take some tea, for you are shivering all over, and deadly pale
with the fright that abominable woman has given you. I must go; I
shall be back in half an hour—and then no more partings, darling."
    He kissed her pale cold face, and went away. The room whirled round
before Ruth; it was a dream—a strange, varying, shifting dream—with
the old home of her childhood for one scene, with the terror of Mrs
Mason's unexpected appearance for another; and then, strangest,
dizziest, happiest of all, there was the consciousness of his love,
who was all the world to her; and the remembrance of the tender
words, which still kept up their low soft echo in her heart.
    Her head ached so much that she could hardly see; even the dusky
twilight was a dazzling glare to her poor eyes; and when the daughter
of the house brought in the sharp light of the candles, preparatory
for tea, Ruth hid her face in the sofa pillows with a low exclamation
of pain.
    "Does your head ache, miss?" asked the girl, in a gentle,
sympathising voice. "Let me make you some tea, miss, it will do you
good. Many's the time poor mother's headaches were cured by good
strong tea."
    Ruth murmured acquiescence; the young girl (about Ruth's own age,
but who was the mistress of the little establishment, owing to her
mother's death) made tea, and brought Ruth a cup to the sofa where
she lay. Ruth was feverish and thirsty, and eagerly drank it off,
although she could not touch the bread and butter which the girl
offered her. She felt better and fresher, though she was still faint
and weak.
    "Thank you," said Ruth. "Don't let me keep you; perhaps you are busy.
You have been very kind, and the tea has done me a great deal of
good."
    The girl left the room. Ruth became as hot as she had previously been
cold, and went and opened the window, and leant out into the still,
sweet, evening air. The bush of sweetbrier, underneath the window,
scented the place, and the delicious fragrance reminded her of her
old home. I think scents affect and quicken the memory more than
either sights or sounds; for Ruth had instantly before her eyes the
little garden beneath the window of her mother's room, with the old
man leaning on his stick, watching her, just as he had done, not
three hours before, on that very afternoon.
    "Dear old Thomas! He and Mary would take me in, I think; they would
love me all the more if I were cast off. And Mr Bellingham would,
perhaps, not be so very long away; and he would know where to find
me if I stayed at Milham Grange. Oh, would it not be better to go to
them? I wonder if he would be very sorry! I could not bear to make
him sorry, so kind as he has been to me; but I do believe it would
be better to go to them, and ask their advice, at any rate. He would
follow me there; and I could talk over what I had better do, with the
three best friends I have in the world—the only friends I have."
    She put on her bonnet, and opened the parlour-door; but then she saw
the square figure of the landlord standing at the open house-door,
smoking his evening pipe, and looming large and distinct against the
dark air and landscape beyond. Ruth remembered the cup of tea that
she had drank; it must be paid for, and she had no money with her.
She feared that he would not let her quit the house without paying.
She thought that she would leave a note for Mr Bellingham, saying
where she was gone, and how she had left the house in debt, for
(like a child) all dilemmas appeared of equal magnitude to her; and
the difficulty of passing the landlord while he stood there, and
of giving him an explanation of the circumstances (as far as such
explanation was due to him), appeared insuperable, and as awkward,
and fraught with inconvenience, as far more serious situations.
She kept