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.
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