The Workwoman glowed and applauded; and for payment she let him into the secrets of her craft; her fight against mullein and sorrel, grubs, and cut-worms; the mysteries of mulch; the struggle to keep a steady Christian colour in sweet-williams, hollyhocks and columbines; the everlasting effort to lift the cup of cold water to the lips of the ever-thirsty gladiolus; the war against the onrush of Michaelmas daisy, Bouncing Bet and hawkbit; the constant necessity of nipping helianthus, phlox and golden glow, which otherwise grow rank and ungainly; the multifarious uses of sprays for killing everything from larkspur blight to rose-bugs. And she confessed her private theories of soils and her views on seed propagation and root splitting; on fertilizers; on cold frames; and on continuous bloom throughout the year.
“Helen Albee tells me that no one can get a continuous blue,” she warmed up enthusiastically, “but I did it one year.” And then she started a technical avalanche of names. “Who is Helen Albee? She is a fellow-conspirator among us hardy perennialists. I give her credit for all this—she and Lena Walker—I was nowhere until I met those two.”
There was no false egotism about this artist. Richard was astonished at the change in her. Her old self had almost come back, and something moved him to tell her so. They had been sitting for some time in the shadow of the hydrangeas and were facing out towards the Lake.
“No;” she closed her lips firmly; “I am not myself yet.... I am not well. Ever since——”
Abruptly she stopped speaking and with caution pressed a hand to her heart, almost furtively. It was there that Walter had struck her, but she would not have admitted it. The blow had been something more than mental; it had left a physical bruise which declined to heal; and she was conscious of occasional inward pain which she tried to tell herself would soon pass away. But Richard, who saw the quiver pass over her face, did not observe the motion of her hand, and he could not have suspected its cause. And even if he had guessed, this weak old woman would have straightened up valiantly and would have lied about it with deceiving outward cheerfulness. The Virginia plantation of the early nineteenth century had been moved north with all its characteristic virtues intact!
But she had begun to confess once more to this dutiful squire. “No; I am not well,” she said.
“I am sorry,” Richard said feelingly.
“I know you are,” she nodded her head several times thoughtfully; “I feel your sincerity. That’s why I tell you so much that I conceal from others. Let me tell you some more.... You are as good as a priest,” she smiled at him. “It is only in my gardens that I feel my old self. I am not strong any more—no! you need not try to encourage me; I know. But up here among my flowers I fool myself—I act as if I were in control of things; I boss the black boys about and boss even the flowers and the rose-bugs. I’m happy up here; I have nothing to worry me.”
She stopped, evidently at the preamble of her confession. Walter was on Richard’s mind, and on that score he was preparing himself to infuse self-confidence into her; but her mind was leagues from Walter.
Richard laughed to dispel the effect of her gloomy tone and asked what on earth she had to worry about.