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.