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!”