Vincenza now hurried forward, all anxiety for her flock. “Fantana,” she called, “oh, where are the babies?” Spying them out, all safe, she came back to give the ever-lagging gobbler a smart cuff. “Why, why do you not stay with the little ones and take care of them?” she demanded in a scold. “You bad Dewey!”
Austin was delighted. He gave over watching the couple in the valley and helped her circle the flock and keep them from spreading. Then, together, they freed a little turk that had tangled his over-long legs among some vines.
The next four days passed with amazing swiftness for Austin. His mornings were spent among the oaks upon the hill, where the turkeys never failed to make their appearance. He took a shotgun with him, Hal having suggested that the ranch could spare an occasional coyote or rabbit—or even a wildcat! But the afternoons were devoted to High Court, and billiards or bridge made the warm hours go quickly. In the evening there was a drive, perhaps, or a stroll.
As a rule, after dinner, Austin walked with Dorothy, the others rather pairing off or grouping so that this might be the case. One night, however, toward the end of his stay, Miss Scott fell to his lot. The first half-hour with her he contrived to spend agreeably. Once you knew her, he had come to think, she was really a nice enough girl. Her pertness grew out of her natural sharpness rather than out of any intent to be caustic or malicious. But—did it?
They had arrived at a palm-bordered turn in the road that led to the valley. There they paused, looking back at the low, white house, the wide windows of which were all brilliantly alight.
“Isn’t it a delightful home?” said Austin. “So simple, yet it would be hard to find a detail that could be improved.”
“There is one, though,” retorted Miss Scott. “Only you can’t see—a mortgage.” The expression of her face, it was as if she had winked, carried full meaning.
It worked like a sudden poison. Now Austin understood Hal’s apparently enthusiastic liking for him; now he understood Mrs. Thorburn’s well-veiled wishes and friendly pats upon his arm; now he understood Dorothy, sulky at times, at others over-cordial, in fact, gushing, and always so eloquent of eye.
But could he give unquestioning belief to the mere insinuation of a sharp-tongued envious girl? What right had he, on such flimsy evidence, to jump to the conclusion that the Thorburns, mother and son, were cold-blooded bargainers; that Dorothy, in her sweeter moods, was acting a crafty lie?
As he walked silently homeward, he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he had not an inkling as to what were the girl’s true inclinations. Her artificial life, and her training under false standards, made it possible for her to mask her real self. If there were no one to influence her, would she seek her happiness with him?