“Yes. I wanted to see you somewhere away from the house, and I thought the spring would be a good excuse. Talking of these things makes me”—the tears rose to her eyes and stood thick in them—“makes me do like this.”
They ran over and she brushed them away with her hand.
“You can see; you understand about mother,” she went on, struggling to speak clearly. “It’s only a question of time. It’s nearly the end of everything. And I brought you up here to-day to ask you to let us stay—right or wrong—let us stay till then.”
Her voice broke and she held her head down, trying to suppress her sobs. The Colonel turned away, walked to where the tin cup hung, took it off its twig, and looked into it.
“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice rough; “for Heaven’s sake, stop. I’d be angry with you for asking me such a thing if you weren’t so—so—I don’t know what. Of course you’re going to stay.”
“What?” he was not looking at her, but was conscious that she had stiffened both in mental and physical fiber at the word—“you’re going to let us stay?”
“Of course. As long as you want, always. Don’t talk any more about it.”
A quick sound came from her, and he heard the rustle of her dress as she rose, her footsteps on the stone near him, and then felt her beside him. She seized the hand hanging at his side, pressed it against the softness of her bosom and against her cheek, then dropped it with a murmur of broken words.
He turned on her bruskly. Her face was shining with tears, but she was smiling. She tried to speak to him, but he laid a finger on her lips and looked at her, shaking his head.
“Don’t say any more about it,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I can’t stand this sort of thing. I’m not used to it.”