‘My dear girl,’ said Tom; ‘with whatever feeling I regard her’—they seemed to avoid the name by mutual consent—‘I have long ago—I am sure I may say from the very first—looked upon it as a dream. As something that might possibly have happened under very different circumstances, but which can never be. Now, tell me. What would you have set right?’
She gave Tom such a significant little look, that he was obliged to take it for an answer whether he would or no; and to go on.
‘By her own choice and free consent, my love, she is betrothed to Martin; and was, long before either of them knew of my existence. You would have her betrothed to me?’
‘Yes,’ she said directly.
‘Yes,’ rejoined Tom, ‘but that might be setting it wrong, instead of right. Do you think,’ said Tom, with a grave smile, ‘that even if she had never seen him, it is very likely she would have fallen in love with Me?’
‘Why not, dear Tom?’
Tom shook his head, and smiled again.
‘You think of me, Ruth,’ said Tom, ‘and it is very natural that you should, as if I were a character in a book; and you make it a sort of poetical justice that I should, by some impossible means or other, come, at last, to marry the person I love. But there is a much higher justice than poetical justice, my dear, and it does not order events upon the same principle. Accordingly, people who read about heroes in books, and choose to make heroes of themselves out of books, consider it a very fine thing to be discontented and gloomy, and misanthropical, and perhaps a little blasphemous, because they cannot have everything ordered for their individual accommodation. Would you like me to become one of that sort of people?’
‘No, Tom. But still I know,’ she added timidly, ‘that this is a sorrow to you in your own better way.’
Tom thought of disputing the position. But it would have been mere folly, and he gave it up.