Again, the girl interrupted. This time, she stepped back a little, holding her lover at arm’s length and smiling at him through her tears. “Oh, poor Guido,” she cried teasingly, with a swift look toward Austin. “What you think? He is jealous! And of this kind old gentleman!”
Austin involuntarily straightened, and his head jerked back as if from a blow. The doubts that had troubled him were settled. Truth had spoken.
He took out a bulging leather purse, opened it, and let a dozen shining fives run into his hand. Then, his sensitive face pale, his look subdued, he held out the money to Guido.
The young Italian received it with something short of a bow, and proffered it to Vincenza. “Here,” he said soothingly.
Vincenza, black lashes still wet, gazed in wonderment upon the little pile of coins. “Oh!” she cried, “but Maria was not worth so much!”
Austin picked up the gun, buttoned his coat, and returned Guido’s bow. “It is partly a—a little wedding gift,” he said. “And I wish you both all the happiness that life can give. Good-day.” He lifted his hat and wheeled.
At that moment he saw, halted in a well-screened turn of the distant road by the creek, two figures. One was slender and dressed in white, and one was topped by a wide sombrero. And, as he looked, the white-clad figure was suddenly caught close to the other—so close that two heads were shielded by the same broad hat.
“Well,” said Austin, at luncheon, smiling upon his hostess, “I go back to town to-day.”
Mrs. Thorburn’s face, until now wreathed in smiles that were marvels of effusive amiability, dropped as suddenly as if a rough hand had been drawn down across it; then it slowly reddened, and two eyes, startled, even apprehensive, exchanged a glance with Hal.