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the blossoms of the climbing rose outside, and getting more
and more eager, soon filled her skirt with flowers, which
she carried into the arbor. She sat down by the table, took
them from her lap, and laid one upon the other until the
stone was hidden under a fragrant cover of pale rose.
When the last flower had been put in its place, she
smoothed the folds of her frock, brushed off the loose
petals and green leaves that had caught in the nap, and sat
with hands in her lap gazing at the blossoming mass.
This bloom of color, curling in sheen and shadow, white
flushing to red and red paling to blue, moist pink that is
almost heavy, and lavender light as wafted on air, each petal
rounded like a tiny vault, soft in the shadow, but gleaming
in the sun with thousands of fine light-points; with all its
fair blood-of-rose flowing in the veins, spreading through
the skin—and the sweet, heavy fragrance, rising like vapor
from that red nectar that seethes in the flower-cup.…
Suddenly she turned back her sleeves, and laid her bare
arms in the soft, moist coolness of the flowers. She turned
them round and round under the roses, until the loosened
petals fluttered to the ground, then jumped up and with one
motion swept everything from the table, and went out into
the garden, pulling down her sleeves as she walked. With
flushed cheeks and quickened step, she followed the path
to the end, then skirted the garden toward the turnpike.
A load of hay had just been overturned and was blocking
the way to the gate. Several other wagons halted behind it,
and she could see the brown polished stick of the overseer
gleaming in the sun, as he beat the unlucky driver.
She put her fingers in her ears to shut out the sickening
sound of the blows, ran toward the house, darted within
the open cellar door, and slammed it after her.
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