CHAPTER XVIIIHARDY PERENNIALS
Jerry’slong 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 toSago-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 morethan 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 whyanybody would prefeh tostan’when dey could talk jess as wellsettin’! Hyah! Hyah!”
His solemn face broke forth into radiant lines as hepointed 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 inco’sedey 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-yutin’!”
“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. Doesanybody know, Mistah Richud, why a woman’d dodis-heah,” he waved a hand dramatically, “rathe ’ndat-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, hesays 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, deywasbuggeder!”
“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-downoneryo’ 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’sall right. If anything ebber happens to de Wellses,we’sfixed.”
“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 updah! 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 whatshe 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’yhahdy 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 amhahdy, an’ dey shu’ is puh-rennial!”