“Yes, all forgiven,” he said, “there’s no anger with real love.”
“Of course not,” she agreed, “and time smooths away everything. Isn’t it pretty now, with the shadows lengthening out that way?”
They looked over the expanse where the low sun’s rays were painting the already brilliant-hued landscape with a wild flare of color. The darkness of the oaks was overlaid with a golden gilding, the dry grass looked orange.
“Have you seen the girls’ garden?” she asked. “They did it all themselves and they raise enough vegetables for us and some to sell. They sell the grapes, too. Last summer they made fifty dollars with their grapes.”
So “the improvements” were of some practical good. The Colonel saw the word dancing in the air before him.
“But it’s hard to see them working so. In summer they’re up and out at six. It doesn’t seem right to me—their father’s daughters. Their grandmother—Beau’s mother—had six house-slaves for her own private use, and I, before my father’s death, had a French governess.”
A step on the path prevented him from replying. Rosamund came around the corner of the house, her face flushed, a hoe in her hand, which he now saw to be earthy. She had an anxious air.
“Mother, are you tired, dear?” she said, mounting the steps. Then turning to the visitor:
“Mother goes in before the sun sets. It gets cool so suddenly. Just the moment the edge of the sun gets down behind the hill, the night comes up, and it’s bad for her to breathe that air.”
The Colonel assured her he was just about to take his leave. The invalid made no demand for him to stay. Sitting huddled among her shawls she looked wan and shrunken. He felt that the calm interest of her attitude toward him had now, from fatigue, turned suddenly into indifference. He faltered some words of farewell to her, his hand out. Hers, feeling in his warm, strong grasp like a bundle of twigs, was extended and then limply withdrawn.