“No—” he hesitated—“I had only thought of STAYING. It was you who were going—I was all broken up about being left here alone, and Uncle Peter wanted to know why I did not beg you to stay, and I—”
Ruth turned her face toward him.
“Well, I am going to stay,” she answered simply. She did not dare to trust herself further.
“Yes!—and now I don't care what happens!” he exclaimed with a thrill in his voice. “If you will only trust me, Miss Ruth, and let me come in with you and your father. Let me help! Don't let there be only two—let us be three! Don't you see what a difference it would make? I will work and save every penny I can for him and take every bit of the care from his shoulders; but can't you understand how much easier it would be if you would only let me help you too? I could hardly keep the tears back a moment ago when I saw you sink down here. I can't see you unhappy like this and not try to comfort you.”
“You do help me,” she murmured softly. Her eyes had now dropped to the cushion at her side.
“Yes, but not—Oh, Ruth, don't you see how I love you! What difference does this accident make—what difference does anything make if we have each other?” He had his hand on hers now, and was bending over, his eyes eager for some answer in her own. “I have suffered so,” he went on, “and I am so tired and so lonely without you. When you wouldn't understand me that time when I came to you after the tunnel blew up, I went about like one in a dream—and then I determined to forget it all, and you, and everything—but I couldn't, and I can't now. Maybe you won't listen—but please—”
Ruth withdrew her hand quickly and straightened her shoulders. The mention of the tunnel and what followed had brought with it a rush of memories that had caused her the bitterest tears of her life. And then again what did he mean by “helping”?
“Jack,” she said slowly, as if every word gave her pain, “listen to me. When you saved my father's life and I wanted to tell you how much I thanked you for it, you would not let me tell you. Is not that true?”
“I did not want your gratitude, Ruth,” he pleaded in excuse, his lips quivering, “I wanted your love.”
“And why, then, should I not say to you now that I do not want your pity? Is it because you are—” her voice sank to a whisper, every note told of her suffering—“you are—sorry for me, Jack, that you tell me you love me?”