HARDY PERENNIALS
JERRY’S long walk the previous evening had given her an excuse to have
her coffee and rolls served in her room. She did not want to admit even
to herself that she was nervously apprehensive of committing herself in
the presence of Richard, but an undefined fear of him had quenched some
of her natural Virginia boldness. With so many willing blacks about the
place breakfast in one’s room was an easy matter at “Red Jacket”; and
it was too common a custom to create comment. She might avoid luncheon,
too, but she knew that she could not hide indefinitely; so she came
down.
Some of her indefinite fears became definite when she faced Richard at
table. The men were full of their sail and of their good times at Phœbe
Norris’. That permitted her to watch them unobserved. Occasionally,
however, Richard glanced at her as if curious about her expressionless
silence, but, she admitted ruefully, he was unconscious of his effect
on her, as unconscious as a contented kitten. He was a terribly
satisfied person! That was due, she supposed, to his frank egoism, but
whatever the cause she felt helpless before it. Could nothing move
this man? His peaceful blue eyes fronted the world too serenely for
her comfort. “Sea blue imperturbable,” she thought, purposely twisting
Carlyle’s phrase.
There was one way to move him, but that would move him out of the
county on the next train--to make eyes at him. She would never do
that; never! Her lips closed firmly and a snap came into her eyes at
the very thought of it. Nevertheless, she felt cornered, and it almost
angered her. Here was the tragic dilemma of sex: she must not make the
slightest advance, and unless she did, this man would never be budged.
She thought of all her fine speeches to him about the joy of being
treated not as a woman but as a human being, but she did not care
to remember his enthusiastic reception of this point of view. Other
men had fluttered and looked unutterable male things at her and
she had been annoyed. Why was this calm gentleman built on such an
unflutterable mould? Jawn, now, was flirting with her this very
minute; Richard--the thought of Richard flirting with anyone was so
preposterous that she unconsciously smiled.
The eager Jawn was quick to pounce on that smile. He took it to himself
and ogled back.
“Huh!” he puffed; “I worked hard for that! I thought you were going to
walk in your sleep during the whole meal. It took five exceptionally
clever remarks, each guaranteed to raise a laugh, to bring one little
smile. Do we owe for last week’s board, or something? Or have you
missed a solid silver spoon?”
“I beg your pardon,” Jerry became a penitent hostess; “have you been
talking to me? I haven’t heard a word. I’m sorry.”
The laugh went against Jawn.
“The seventy-seventh will be no madrigal,” Richard told him; “it will
be just one more limerick, Jawn.”
“Please tell me about the madrigal?” Jerry asked politely.
Jawn pretended reluctance, but when urged confessed frankly his
life-long hunt for a soul-mate, and of his belief that in Jerry he
had found his El Dorado. It was ridiculous, of course, and Jawn
could always be trusted to put his fun unequivocally. Mrs. Wells was
delighted, especially with the Love Limericks; and Richard’s joy
in his friend’s achievements was quite open; but Jerry, to her own
astonishment, was annoyed. It was like joking at death in the presence
of the bereaved.
And Richard’s off-hand discussion of the possibility of Jerry’s
surrendering as a charitable means of putting an end to a flow of bad
verse--that was unendurable. Fortunately, the inward perturbation was
not outwardly disclosed; it was a simple matter to make a coldly apt
comment, plead “business,” and withdraw to her room.
Jawn stared after her.
“Did you see how cut up she was?” he cried. “Ah, lad, it’s no joking
matter. I’ve got a fine chance yet! A fine chance!”
Jerry had hardly crossed the threshold and heard him distinctly. She
heard Richard’s reply, too.
“Possibly, Jawn! Possibly! Undoubtedly something moved her--moved her
off without her dessert. I never saw her quite so confused, but I’m
afraid the elephantine character of your wooing frightened her off.”
“Jealous!” cried Jawn.
“I envy you only that final limerick, Jawn. I know it’s going to be a
corker.”
“Mrs. Wells, I appeal to you as a woman of experience,” Jawn persisted.
“Do you think I have a chance?”
Jerry did not wait to hear her mother’s opinion. Although her more
sensible self told her that it was childish to take offence at anything
so obviously good-natured, the blinding anger that seized her drove
her out of hearing quickly. The thought of staying a moment longer
frightened her. She knew that she was on the verge of breaking down and
spilling out a surprising torrent of invective against poor unoffending
Jawn. And that, she had sense enough left to know, would be fatal. It
would be worse than making eyes!
But if she had stayed a moment or two longer she would have been
shocked into frigidity. To the innocent jesting Walter contributed a
serious note.
While Mrs. Wells was assuring them that she would play no favourites,
an interruption of Richard’s had led Jawn to say:
“You keep out of this. I won’t have any interference from big handsome
men with romantic blue eyes and perfect teeth. What you need is a woman
like Mrs. Norris to let you down a peg daily, to remind you of your
grovelling insignificance. Go to the widow, thou sluggard.”
“I’ve been,” laughed Richard; “we quarrel beautifully!”
“Splendid! A fine sign! True love guaranteed!”
“’S not so!” blurted Walter; “Jerry and him’s got it all f-fixed up.”
George Alexander had caught Mrs. Wells’ attention and at that moment
was getting his directions for dinner. She had not been accustomed to
attend very carefully to remarks from Walter, so the colloquy that
followed was lost on her.
“What’s this?” said Jawn quietly.
Richard looked on curiously.
“G-got it all fixed up, them two.”
“They have, have they? How do you know?”
“Jerry told me.”
“When was all this?”
“Last night. She said h-him and her, they were goin’ to get married.
Said they h-had it all f-fixed up.”
“What!” cried Richard.
“Mebbe oughtn’t t’ have said nothin’,” Walter was a little frightened
at his own temerity. “But ’at’s what she s-said, anyhow.”
Jawn whistled.
“Here’s a pretty mess!” said he; “here’s a how d’ you do! Let’s get
this straight, young man; do you mean to tell us that----”
“S-sh!” warned Richard.
Mrs. Wells had dismissed George Alexander, and was turning inquiringly
upon the group.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. The sudden silence had attracted her
attention.
Richard stepped quickly into the breach. “Walter thinks he has the
fastest boat on the Lake,” he explained, and went into a voluble
tribute to _Sago-ye-wat-ha_.
“Why, Richard!” Mrs. Wells interrupted. “How red your face is!”
“He’s blushing for shame,” said Jawn, “for shame at the thought of how
easy it’ll be to take the cup away from those other poor yachtsmen. And
well you may, Richard! And well you may!”
Richard’s blushes threatened to be permanent. Throughout the luncheon
and several hours afterward he glowed like a burning sumac bush.
While anything from Walter should be taken with something more than
the proverbial grain of salt, yet he had succeeded in producing a
most confusing mental state in Richard. Jawn’s gentle raillery after
luncheon did nothing to help matters, and all of Richard’s many
explanations of the possible twist in Walter’s meaning merely added
further confusion.
He sought an excuse early to be alone, and for an hour or two hovered
about the house waiting for Jerry to appear. Some of his lost shyness
came back to benumb him and prevent his sending for her outright.
Indeed, once when he thought he heard her coming down the stairs he
grew so fearful of meeting her that he slipped out of a rear door and
fled into a path that led to the garden.
Walter was a fool, “a young damned fool,” to use Jawn’s technical
expression. Why should one take seriously the act of an idiot? Why,
indeed! She could not have possibly said anything of the sort, even
in fun. At any angle that he looked at it such a conversation between
Walter and Jerry was unbelievable. Thunderation! What an idea to put
into a man’s head!
But to one’s own brother may not one make confessions? He had never
been a sister, himself, so he could not guess their habits; but hadn’t
he read somewhere in books that sometimes, especially at night, they
talk things out frankly with the brother? Which only shows how far his
mind had swung out of its normal course. Who could fancy anyone of
Jerry’s independence making sentimental confessions to a half-witted
brother?
“G’ mawnin’, Mr. Richard! G’ mawnin’!”
George Alexander’s white poll rose slowly out of a hydrangea bush
wherein he seemed almost to have been hiding.
“Good-morning, George Alexander,” Richard responded eagerly. He was
glad of the chance to talk to someone not of the immediate family.
“That hydrangea is a bigger plant than you are!”
“Tol’rable big, sir! Tol’rable big! But up on de hill yondah, we’s got
young gi-unts. Trees, I calls ’em--reg’lar hydranj’a trees!”
“You’ve been here all your life, haven’t you, George?” Richard asked.
“All my life--so fah!” he laughed; “I was bo’n hyah an’ I plum reckon
’at some day, when I gets tir’d idlin’ ’round, I’ll jess natchully die
hyah.”
“I don’t see you idling around much. You’re always busy at something.
Do you have charge of the gardens, too?”
“Yassuh,” he nodded his old white head sagely. “I’m de boss! De black
boys do de easy workin’ _’round_, an’ I do all de heavy lookin’
_ovah_!” George Alexander’s laugh was a low, cackling “Hyah! Hyah!”
He punctuated his speeches with it, a notice in each instance of a
humorous remark, a laugh exactly timed to give one a chance to “see
the point.” In these days George Alexander was a great curiosity, one
of the very last specimens of the old-time “darkey,” intelligent,
nimble-witted, outspoken but diplomatic, loyal, an efficient manager,
never servile but absolutely determined to be nothing more than a
perfect servant.
“Do you run the vineyards, too?” Richard asked incredulously.
“Mistah Richud,” George Alexander assumed an air of great seriousness,
“I nevah could understand why _any_body would prefeh to _stan’_ when
dey could talk jess as well _settin’_! Hyah! Hyah!”
His solemn face broke forth into radiant lines as he pointed towards
two excellent rustic benches facing each other.
“Yassuh!” he came back to Richard’s question after he had spread
himself comfortably on one of the seats. “Yassuh! I take charge of de
grapes. An’ I used to take charge of de apples, too; but Mrs. Wells,
she done let dem apples all go. Dey ain’t so much in de grapes as dey
used to be, but apples--why, dem apples, Mistuh Richud, was all pure
gold. I tol’ her she make a big mistake to let ’em go. An’ Mistah
Buttuhwo’th tol’ her. Mistah Buttuhwo’th’s from Philadelphia, an’ he
knows all about apples. He loves apples so much he says it’s a’mos’
wicked to eat one. Hyah! Hyah! He knows apples well enough to call ’em
by dar fus’ names, Mistah Buttuhwo’th does; hyah! hyah!”
“Did you have any trouble with the apples, George?”
“Trouble?” George straightened up as much as his old back would allow.
“Apples ain’t no trouble, Mistah Richud. Jes’ spray ’em propuhly, dat’s
all dey asks. Spray ’em to kill de fungus while de trees is still
a-winterin’, an’ spray ’em to kill de Hosay scale befo’ de blossom
comes, an’ spray ’em to kill de red-bug after de fruit is a-growin’,
an’ spray ’em to kill de cuddlin’ moth all de middle of de summer, an’
spray ’em to kill de tent caterpillar when de fruit is mos’ grown, an’
spray ’em to kill de rest of ’em when de fruit is done. An’ even den if
yo’ fin’ youse’f restless at night an’ can’t git to sleep, you’d better
git up an’ spray ’em agin fo’ luck! Hyah! Hyah! Trouble? Dey ain’t no
trouble ’bout growin’ _apples_; dey jes’ grows natcherel de way de Lawd
intended; de on’y thing dat breaks yo’ back is killin’ dem consarned,
evahlastin’ _bugs_.... Hyah! Hyah!”
Richard paid his full tribute of applause and then asked, “Why did Mrs.
Wells let the apples go? Didn’t they pay?”
Richard inquired out of no thought to pry. The old man was so
interesting that it was a temptation to start him going.
“Pay? Why in _co’se_ dey paid! We was gittin’ fo’ thousand barrels
o’ puhfeck fruit after Mistah Buttuhwo’th come up hyah and tol’ us
how to do it. Used to be gittin’ on’y about fi’ hundud. An’ Mistah
Buttuhwo’th, he’d take ’em down to Philadelphia an’ put ’em in his big
ice-house and set back and wait till all de apples was eat up an’ folks
got a-hankerin’ fo’ one--Mistah Buttuhwo’th says dah’s a lot o’ Adam
left in folks yit! Hyah! Hyah!--an’ den when dey’s ready to pay ’mos’
anything for even a Ben Davis, he brings out our genuine Baldwins, an’
_pow_! de price goes sky-_yut_in’!”
“Then why didn’t you keep the orchards?”
“Dah yo’ gits me, Mistah Richud.” He shook his white head. “’Ca’se why?
’Ca’se you asks me to unraffle de hardest knot de good Lawd evah tie
up. Does _any_body know, Mistah Richud, why a woman’d do _dis-heah_,”
he waved a hand dramatically, “rathe ’n _dat-dere_?” His hand moved
between the two imaginary situations. “Mrs. Wells, she sez we was
a-sprayin’ too much. She sez we’d been a-killin’ grubs for so many
yeahs that dey’d done forget how to get borned, mebbe. In co’se I tol’
her diff’rent, an’ Mistah Buttuhwo’th nearly get down an’ prayed to
her about it, but she ’lowed she’d give dem pore trees a rest. Dey
wa’n’t no ’jections, fah as I could observe, from de niggahs what had
de sprayin’ job! Hyah! Hyah! Pow’ful sympathizin’ dey was to dem pore
trees! Hyah! Hyah!... Well, Mistah Buttuhwo’th, he says de nex’ crop
would be all bug-ged, an’ dey was all bug-ged; an’ he says de nex’ crop
’ud be buggeder an’, sho’ ’nuf, dey _was_ buggeder!”
“But couldn’t they be sprayed again and put into shape?”
“Puffekly! Puffekly! Dat’s ’xactly what Mistah Hopkins did who bought
’em. But Mrs. Wells ’low’d dat after all her kindness she wouldn’t have
nothin’ mo to do with trees what was as ongrateful as dem trees. An’
don’t yo’ think yo’se’f, Mistah Richud, dat it was kind o’ low-down
_onery_ o’ dem trees? Hyah! Hyah!”
“But I suppose Mrs. Wells got a good price for the orchard.” Richard
tried to give George Alexander a chance to make up for his indirect
criticism.
“Nuffin’ to say, Mistah Richud,” George Alexander assured him solemnly.
“I’s got a mudder an’ a fahder an’ a whole pa’sel progenitohs waitin’
up dah,” he pointed piously above, “an’ dey see me gettin’ near de
point o’ followin’ along, an’ meetin’ up wid ’em; but, Mistah Richud,
if I opens my mouth on de sale-price ob dat o’cha’d my talk would be so
blasphemious dat I’d sho’ have to dispoint dem people up dah!”
Richard thought he would be on safe ground to ask about the grapes.
“Po’rly, Mistah Richud, po’rly,” George Alexander pulled a long face.
“Not ’nuff blue-stone. A spray what’s all water, I says, ain’t no spray
’tall.... It’s a mighty good thing us black folks is all rich.”
There was a joke here, no doubt, thought Richard. George Alexander’s
expressionless face seemed to be waiting for the “interlocutor” to
bring the end-man out.
“Well,” asked Richard good-naturedly, “what’s the answer, Mr. Bones?”
“Ya-as,” George Alexander drew in a deep, satisfied breath, “_we’s_ all
right. If anything ebber happens to de Wellses, _we’s_ fixed.”
“Oh, you’ve all saved up money, have you?”
“When we’s bo’n,” explained George Alexander, “an’ gits big ’nuff to
work ’round, Mrs. Wells puts us on de pay-roll, an’ as long as we stays
with her we draws half and she keeps half for us. When she dies or when
dis place breaks up we gits all our savin’s back an’ int’rest on ’em.
We’s all got our books to show how much. I’s been on dat pay-roll fo’
fifty yeahs, Mistah Richud. I’s a rich man if I stays on here, an’ I
guess I can leave my chillun’ sumpin’, ’case anything happens.”
There were thirty negroes working here and there on the Wells’ land,
George Alexander told Richard; entirely too many, of course, but it had
always been the custom of the Wells family to look out for its blacks.
All this explained the absolute absence of “labour troubles” for so
many generations. Any capable negro was assured of an easy livelihood,
care in illness, and a safe pension.
“An’ what mo’ does anybody want in dis yeah world?” asked George
Alexander. “I’d be mighty thankful, Mistah Richud, to be shu’ o’ dat
much up _dah_! Hyah! Hyah!”
In his artless way George Alexander had thrown considerable light
on Red Jacket under Mrs. Wells’ management. Richard recalled one of
Jerry’s illustrations of her mother’s obstinacy whereby the year’s
grape crop had been lost. No doubt unrecorded history had similar
stories with similar losses. Evidently there were funds enough to cover
these bad balances and keep the big place going; if not Jerry would
soon discover what she got to the bottom of the documents placed in
her charge.
Jerry would sift things to the bottom, he felt sure. There was a
certain satisfaction in lingering on the thought of Jerry’s substantial
character. She had the mother’s persistence and will, and, he smiled
to himself, a little of the mother’s obstinacy. How he had misjudged
her at first! But there was nothing surprising in that to Richard.
Having practised open-mindedness all his life he was aware of the
commonness of mistaken judgments. It is only the bigoted and partisan
who experience infallibility.
His pleasant musings were interrupted by George Alexander.
“But we’s makin’ a big go ob dem hahdy puh-ren-nials, Mistah Richud, a
great go!” he was saying, with emphasis.
“Dey mus’ be ’bout twenty ob dem black boys up dah now, a-workin’ an’
a-hoein’ an’ a-prunin’. We’s su’ten’y got de prize crop o’ phlox an’
yaller daisy! Hyah! Hyah! Dey’s a whole mountain o’ snapdragon, blues
an’ yallers an’ pinks an’ whites. You don’t know o’ any localities,
Mistah Richud, what’s hungerin’ now fo’ a mess o’ peonies, does yo’?
’Ca’se if yo’ do, it’d be de Lawd’s mercy to let ’em loose up on dat
hill yondah. An’ hollyhocks! Lawd! If we could on’y send hollyhocks
down to Mistah Buttuhwo’th’s big ice-house in Philadelphia, we’d no
need o’ no apple o’cha’d, Mistah Richud. Hyah! Hyah! But I’s not
seen many puhsens hyeah-’bouts fallin’ ober demselves to buy up our
hollyhock crop, Mistah Richud. Hyah! Hyah! Not so many, Mistah Richud!”
There was always money enough for spray and soil for the hardy
perennials, George Alexander averred. And there was always a strong
demand for labour to thin out this group here and transplant there,
and prune and cultivate and graft. The seed-pods were collected as if
they were gold-dust; and bulbs were dug up, wrapped and saved; and
slips were cut and planted in fresh places; and paths were made, hedges
constructed for background effect and natural stone walls built for
trailing vines, and so on and so on.
No doubt it was magnificent. Mr. Richard could see for himself. The
whole hillside had been turned into a garden which renewed itself each
year and flowered from early May when the first yellow forsythia sprang
forth until the last cosmos had died and the hydrangeas had bent their
dark heads. From the Lake it waved its flaunting colours, and visitors
had motored many miles for a sight of it.
But it buttered no parsnips, said George Alexander. Flowers were all
right, but you couldn’t barrel them and send them to Mr. Butterworth in
Philadelphia. George Alexander loved beauty, but he had been trained in
the practical business of grape and apple farming. Grapes and apples
should come first, he thought, not hardy perennials.
Of course he had not meant to be critical; but he had lived with the
Wells family all his life; it was his family as much as anybody’s and
therefore he was going to stick up for it even if the family did not.
Oh, Mrs. Wells knew how he felt. He had always been frank and
straightforward on the business end of “Red Jacket.” But the whole
trouble was that she avoided him. He was her black conscience that
always reminded her of her sins; so she cleverly got him off the
subject, or sent him on business at the other end of things, or claimed
to have a headache.
George Alexander laughed shrewdly.
And the reason he had taken Mr. Richard aside to tell him the story was
to get a helper. He had noticed that Mrs. Wells thought very highly
of Mr. Richard’s judgment. Well, George Alexander considered that it
wouldn’t do any harm to strengthen that judgment with his own!
And all the while Richard had fancied that this garrulous old darkey
was just talking aimlessly! The craft of the old fellow!
There were other reasons, George Alexander was saying, while he
scratched his white poll thoughtfully; but--he hesitated--but he’d let
them wait. Yet it seemed to him that if things kept drifting along the
way he had observed them--he hesitated again and winked a jovial eye at
Mr. Richard--well, he’d better not pursue that topic, as it was none of
his business, but--he hoped--well, he wouldn’t just say what his hopes
were.
The chuckles and “Hyah hyahs” of the old fellow were meant undoubtedly
to be significant of something. Richard’s ears burned at the thought
of what he might be meaning, but he thrust it aside swiftly as too
absurd. Meanwhile something had to be done to stop the criminal grin on
that black face, so Richard rose hastily and claimed that he must go
immediately and look at the hardy perennials.
“You’ll like ’em, Mistah Richud,” George Alexander straightened out
his face; “they’ll tickle yo’ eye like rainbows on a soap-bubble;
but jess yo’ keep yo’ head, Mistah Richud, an’ every time yo’ shout,
‘Be-yut-i-ful!’ jess yo’ say to you’self ‘Grapes fust! Grapes fust!’
Hahdy puh-rennials is all right. I’s got no ’jection to dem--in
dere own propuh place; although I don’t mind sayin’ to yo’, Mistah
Richud, dat de on’y hahdy puh-rennials dat I see any use in is dem
combs an’ hahr brushes dat de Penn Yan drug stores brings out ob
dere hidin’-places and puts conspicuous on de front counters ebry
Christmas time. Hyah! Hyah! Dey su’ten’y am _hahdy_, an’ dey shu’ is
puh-rennial!”