When at last the horse trotted eagerly across the crest of the hill, from
which there was such a magnificent view of the country below, neither Clara
nor Hugh turned to look. With bowed heads they rode, each trying to find
courage to face the possibilities of the night.
* * * * *
In the farmhouse Tom and his guests waited in winelit suspense, and at
last Jim Priest rode shouting out of a lane to the door. "They're coming--
they're coming," he shouted, and ten minutes later and after Tom had twice
lost his temper and cursed the girl waitresses from the town hotels who
were inclined to giggle, all was silent and dark about the house and the
barnyard. When all was quiet Jim Priest crept into the kitchen, and
stumbling over the legs of the guests, made his way to a front window where
he placed a lighted candle. Then he went out of the house to lie on his
back beneath a bush in the yard. In the house he had secured for himself a
second bottle of wine, and as Clara with her husband turned in at the gate
and drove into the barnyard, the only sound that broke the intense silence
came from the soft gurgle of the wine finding its way down his throat.
CHAPTER XVII
As in most older American homes, the kitchen at the rear of the Butterworth
farmhouse was large and comfortable. Much of the life of the house had been
led there.
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