“Can you help me to rise now?” said he, after a while.  She did not speak, but she helped him up, and then he took her arm, and she led him tenderly through all the little velvet paths, where the turf grew short and soft between the rugged stones.  Once more on the highway, they slowly passed along in the moonlight.  He guided her by a slight motion of the arm, through the more unfrequented lanes, to his lodgings at the shop; for he thought for her, and conceived the pain she would have in seeing the lighted windows of the inn.  He leant more heavily on her arm, as they awaited the opening of the door.

“Come in,” said he, not relaxing his hold, and yet dreading to tighten it, lest she should defy restraint, and once more rush away.

They went slowly into the little parlour behind the shop.  The bonny-looking hostess, Mrs. Hughes by name, made haste to light the candle, and then they saw each other, face to face.  The deformed gentleman looked very pale, but Ruth looked as if the shadow of death was upon her.

CHAPTER IX

THE STORM-SPIRIT SUBDUED

Mrs. Hughes bustled about with many a sympathetic exclamation, now in pretty broken English, now in more fluent Welsh, which sounded as soft as Russian or Italian, in her musical voice.  Mr. Benson, for that was the name of the hunchback, lay on the sofa thinking; while the tender Mrs. Hughes made every arrangement for his relief from pain.  He had lodged with her for three successive years, and she knew and loved him.

Ruth stood in the little bow-window, looking out.  Across the moon, and over the deep blue heavens, large, torn, irregular-shaped clouds went hurrying, as if summoned by some storm-spirit.  The work they were commanded to do was not here; the mighty gathering-place lay eastward, immeasurable leagues; and on they went, chasing each other over the silent earth, now black, now silver-white at one transparent edge, now with the moon shining like Hope through their darkest centre, now again with a silver lining; and now, utterly black, they sailed lower in the lift, and disappeared behind the immovable mountains; they were rushing in the very direction in which Ruth had striven and struggled to go that afternoon; they, in their wild career, would soon pass over the very spot where he (her world’s he) was lying sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, perhaps thinking of her.  The storm was in her mind, and rent and tore her purposes into forms as wild and irregular as the heavenly shapes she was looking at.  If, like them, she could pass the barrier horizon in the night, she might overtake him.  Mr. Benson saw her look, and read it partially.  He saw her longing gaze outwards upon the free, broad world, and thought that the siren waters, whose deadly music yet rang in his ears, were again tempting her.  He called her to him praying that his feeble voice might have power.