Finally all her hope centered on Judge Price. He would expect
Hannibal during the morning, perhaps when the boy did not arrive
he would be tempted to go out to Belle Plain to discover the
reason of his nonappearance. She wondered what theories would
offer themselves to his ingenious mind, for she sensed something
of that indomitable energy which in the face of rebuffs and
laughter carried him into the thick of every sensation.
At noon, Mrs. Hicks, as sullen as in the morning, brought them
their dinner. She had scarcely quitted the loft when a shrill
whistle pierced the silence that hung above the clearing. It was
twice repeated, and the two women were heard to go from the
cabin. Perhaps half an hour elapsed, then a step became audible
on the packed earth of the dooryard; some one entered the room
below and began to ascend the narrow stairs, and Betty's fingers
closed convulsively about Hannibal's. This was neither Mrs.
Hicks nor her daughter, nor Slosson with his clumsy shufe. There
was a brief pause when the landing was reached, but it was only
momentary; a hand lifted the bar, the door was thrown open, and
its space framed the figure of a man. It was John Murrell.
Standing there he regarded Betty in silence, but a deep-seated
fire glowed in his sunken eyes. The sense of possession was
raging through him, his temples throbbed, a fever stirred his
blood. Love, such as it was, he undoubtedly felt for her and
even his giant project with all its monstrous ramifications was
lost sight of for the moment.
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