Lanty’s wide hat was cast with apparent carelessness upon the grass between him and Mabella; their fingers were interlaced beneath it, or, rather, Mabella’s trembling fingers nestled in Lanty’s palm. He held them tighter and tighter. A little tremor from her heart communicated with his heart as the electric spark traverses the cable. At the same instant they looked at each other, and read life’s meanings in each other’s eyes. For the moment—unfaltering, steadfast, penetrating—blue eyes met the blue. There was the pause of a heart-beat. Then Mabella’s filmed with sudden self-consciousness, and triumph lighted the man’s bolder eyes. Mabella almost wrenched her hand free and raised it involuntarily to where her heart, grown too great with its treasure of love, throbbed heavily. Lanty rose to his feet, bareheaded in the sunshine, blinded by the glory and promise of the love he had seen in those kindred eyes. He stood for a moment looking down at her; she looked back at him. Her lips were tremulous, but there was an appealing trust in their sweetness. Lanty could not trust himself farther.
“I’ll be off to my hay,” he said in vibrant tones. “I hope to see a great deal of you,” he added, turning to Sidney. “You must come over and see me; whenever you want a horse to ride, there’s one at your disposal. Good-bye, girls, till supper time. Good-bye, Mabella.” She looked at him, and he went off to his work, scarce believing in his own happiness, seeing all golden about him, all fair before him—and this passed amid a group of people, one at least of whom should have had sharp eyes.
One person indeed had noted all—Nathan Peck’s light eyes were eloquent of mute sympathy. He, good soul, loved bustling Temperance Tribbey with all his being. Whilst Lanty and Mabella had rested with their hands clasped beneath the old wide hat, Nathan’s gnarled fingers had caressed the ends of his muffler. Temperance was always and invariably right, that went without saying, and yet—nineteen years!—surely she was a little hard on them both? Nathan rose with something like a sigh, and proceeded to his work thoughtfully. Sidney talked to Mr. Lansing and feasted his eyes on the suave grace of his daughter. Mabella, her heart too full for careless speech, rose, and, under pretence of chasing the collie, contrived to start down the lane alone. As she reached the bend which would hide her from Lanty, she turned. He was leaning upon his fork, gazing after her. She waved her hand swiftly to him, then turned abruptly and proceeded upon her way, a demure little figure in her pink sunbonnet.
Life stretched before her in a new aspect; the gate was opened, but the way was unfamiliar, and her feet faltered before it. She arrived home very soon, and sought Temperance in the kitchen.
Temperance was watering her geraniums in the window, and thinking a small kitchen of her own would be more cosy than the great kitchen of Lansing House.
“Temperance,” said Mabella, catching hold of a corner of Miss Tribbey’s apron, “Temperance, you weren’t cross this afternoon when I pulled you about?”
Miss Temperance looked at her, and set down the old tea-pot which she used as a watering-can.
“Say?” insisted Mabella, pleating up the corner of the apron.
“What ails the child?” said Temperance—a sudden memory of Mabella’s childhood coming to her, again she saw her a yellow-haired baby with irresistible ways.
“But did you mind?” asked Mabella, her lips beginning to quiver.