Hepsey had been so busy with helping the Maxwells that for some time no opportunity had occurred for Jonathan to press his ardent suit. Since his first attempt and its abrupt termination, he had been somewhat bewildered; he had failed to decide whether he was an engaged man open to congratulations, or a rejected suitor to be condoled with. He tried to recall exactly what she had said. As near as he could recollect, it was: “I’ll think it over, and perhaps some day—” Then he 225 had committed the indiscretion of grasping her hand, causing her to drop her stitches before she had ended what she was going to say. He could have sworn at himself to think that it was all his fault that she had stopped just at the critical moment, when she might have committed herself and given him some real encouragement. But he consoled himself by the thought that she had evidently taken him seriously at last; and so to the “perhaps some day” he added, in imagination, the words “I will take you”; and this seemed reasonable.

The matter was more difficult from the very fact that they had been on such intimate terms for such a long time, and she had never hitherto given him any reason to think that she cared for him other than as a good neighbor and a friend. Ever since the death of his wife, she seemed to feel that he had been left an orphan in a cold and unsympathetic world, and that it was her duty to look after him much as she would a child. She was in the habit of walking over whenever she pleased and giving directions to Mary McGuire in regard to matters which she thought needed attention in his house. And all this had been done in the most open and matter-of-fact way, so that the most accomplished gossip in Durford never accused her of making matrimonial advances to the 226 lonesome widower. Even Jonathan himself had been clever enough to see that she regarded him much as she would an overgrown boy, and had always accepted her many attentions without misinterpreting them. She was a born manager, and she managed him; that was all. Nothing could be more unsentimental than the way in which she would make him take off his coat during a friendly call, and let her sponge and press it for him; or the imperative fashion in which she sent him to the barber’s to have his beard trimmed. How could a man make love to a woman after she had acted like this?

But he reminded himself that if he was ever to win her he must begin to carry out the advice outlined by Mrs. Betty; and so the apparently unsuspecting Hepsey would find on her side porch in the morning some specially fine corn which had been placed there after dark without the name of the donor. Once a fine melon was accompanied by a bottle of perfumery; and again a basket of peaches had secreted in its center a package of toilet soap “strong enough to kill the grass,” as Hepsey remarked as she sniffed at it. Finally matters reached a climax when a bushel of potatoes arrived on the scene in the early dawn, and with it a canary bird in a tin cage. When Hepsey saw Jonathan later, she remarked casually that 227 she “guessed she’d keep the potatoes; but she didn’t need a canary bird any more than a turtle needs a tooth-pick; and he had better take it away and get his money back.”

However, Jonathan never allowed her occasional rebuffs to discourage him or stop his attentions. He kept a close watch on all Hepsey’s domestic interests, and if there were any small repairs to be made at Thunder Cliff, a hole in the roof to be mended, or the bricks on the top of the chimney to be relaid, or the conductor pipe to be readjusted, Jonathan was on the spot. Then Jonathan would receive in return a layer cake with chopped walnuts in the filling, and would accept it in the same matter-of-fact way in which Hepsey permitted his services as general caretaker.

This give-and-take business went on for some time. At last it occurred to him that Mrs. Burke’s front porch ought to be painted, and he conceived the notion of doing the work without her knowledge, as a pleasant surprise to her. He waited a long time for some day when she should be going over to shop at Martin’s Junction,—when Nickey usually managed to be taken along,—so that he could do the work unobserved. Meantime, he collected from the hardware store various cards with samples of different colors 228 on them. These he would combine and re-combine at his leisure, in the effort to decide just what colors would harmonize. He finally decided that a rather dark blue for the body work would go quite well, with a bright magenta for the trimmings, and laid in a stock of paint and brushes, and possessed his soul in patience.

So one afternoon, arriving home burdened with the spoils of Martin’s Junction, great was Mrs. Burke’s astonishment and wrath when she discovered the porch resplendent in dark blue and magenta.

“Sakes alive! Have I got to live inside of that,” she snorted. “Why, it’s the worst lookin’ thing I ever saw. If I don’t settle him,” she added, “—paintin’ my porch as if it belonged to him—and me as well,” she added ambiguously. And, catching up her sun-bonnet, she hastened over to her neighbor’s and inquired for Jonathan. “Sure, he’s gone to Martin’s Junction to see his brother, Mrs. Burke. He said he’d stay over night, and I needn’t come in again till to-morrow dinner-time,” Mary McGuire replied.

Hepsey hastened home, and gathering all the rags she could find, she summoned Nickey and Mullen, one of the men from the farm, and they worked with turpentine for nearly two hours, cleaning off the fresh 229 paint from the porch. Then she sent Nickey down to the hardware store for some light gray paint and some vivid scarlet paint, and a bit of dryer. It did not take very long to repaint her porch gray—every trace of the blue and the magenta having been removed by the vigorous efforts of the three.

When it was finished, she opened the can of scarlet, and pouring in a large quantity of dryer she sent Nickey over to see if Mary McGuire had gone home. All three set to work that evening to paint the porch in front of Jonathan’s house. At first Mullen protested anxiously that it was none of his business to be painting another man’s porch, but Mrs. Burke gave him a look which changed his convictions; so he and Nickey proceeded gleefully to fulfill their appointed task, while she got supper.

When the work was quite finished. Hepsey went over to inspect it, and remarked thoughtfully to herself: “I should think that a half pint of dryer might be able to get in considerable work before to-morrow noon. I hope Jonathan’ll like scarlet. To be sure it does look rather strikin’ on a white house; but then variety helps to relieve the monotony of a dead alive town like Durford; and if he don’t like it plain, he can trim it green. I’ll teach him to come paintin’ my house without so much as a by-your-leave, or with-your-leave, 230 lettin’ the whole place think things.”

As it happened, Jonathan returned late that night to Durford—quite too late to see the transformation of his own front porch, and since he entered by the side door as usual, he did not even smell the new paint. The next morning he sauntered over to Thunder Cliff, all agog for his reward, and Mrs. Burke greeted him at her side door, smiling sweetly.

“Good mornin’, Jonathan. It was awful good of you to paint my front porch. It has needed paintin’ for some time now, but I never seemed to get around to it.”

“Don’t mention it, Hepsey,” Jonathan replied affably. “Don’t mention it. You’re always doin’ somethin’ for me, and it’s a pity if I can’t do a little thing like that for you once in a while.”

Hepsey had strolled round to the front, as if to admire his work, Jonathan following. Suddenly he came to a halt; his jaw dropped, and he stared as if he had gone out of his senses.

“Such a lovely color; gray just suits the house, you know,” Mrs. Burke observed. “You certainly ought to have been an artist, Jonathan. Any man with such an eye for color ought not to be wastin’ his time on a farm.”

Jonathan still gazed at the porch in amazement, 231 blinked hard, wiped his eyes and his glasses with his handkerchief, and looked again.

“What’s the matter with you? Have you a headache?” Hepsey inquired solicitously.

“No, I haven’t got no headache; but when I left that porch yesterday noon it was blue, and now I’m blamed if it don’t seem gray. Does it look gray-like to you, Hepsey?”

“Why certainly! What’s that you say? Do you say you painted it blue? That certainly’s mighty queer. But then you know some kinds of paint fade—some kinds do!” She nodded, looking suspiciously at the work.

“Fade!” Jonathan sneered. “Paints don’t fade by moonlight in one night. That isn’t no faded blue. It’s just plain gray. I must be goin’ color blind, or something.”

“It looks gray to me, and I’m glad it is gray, so don’t you worry about it, Jonathan. Blue would be somethin’ awful on the front of a white house, you know.”

“Well,” continued the bewildered Junior Warden, “I’m blessed if this isn’t the queerest thing I ever see in all my born days. If I catch the fellow that sold me that paint, I’ll make it lively for him or my name isn’t Jackson.” 232

“Oh, I wouldn’t do anything like that! What difference does it make, so long as I like the color myself; it’s my house. I should have been very much put out if you’d painted it blue; yes, I should.”

“But I don’t like to be cheated down at the store; and I won’t, by gum! They said it was best quality paint! I’ll go down to Crosscut’s and see about this business, right now. I’ve traded with him nigh on twenty years, and he don’t bamboozle me that way.”

Hepsey turned away choking with laughter, and retreated to her kitchen.

Jonathan started back towards his house to get his hat and coat, and then for the first time he caught sight of his own porch, done in flaming scarlet, which fairly seemed to radiate heat in the brilliant sunlight. He stood motionless for nearly a minute, paralyzed. Then the color began to rise in his neck and face as he muttered under his breath:

“Hm! I’m on to the whole business now. I ought to have known that Hepsey would get the best of me. I guess I won’t go down to Crosscut’s after all.”

Then he walked up to the porch and touched the scarlet paint with his finger and remarked:

“Set harder than a rock, by gum! She must have used a whole lot of dryer. I’ll get even with her for this. See if I don’t.” 233

In the afternoon Jonathan brought over some fine apples and presented them to Hepsey, who was knitting on her side porch. She thanked him for the gift, and the conversation drifted from one thing to another while she waited for the expected outburst of reproach which she knew would come sooner or later. But curiously enough, Jonathan was more cheery and cordial than usual, and made no allusion whatever to the scarlet porch, which was conspicuously visible from where they sat. Again and again Hepsey led the conversation around to the point where it seemed as if he must break covert, but he remained oblivious, and changed the subject readily. Not a word on the subject passed his lips that afternoon.

Then, from day to day the neighbors called and inquired of her if Jackson had gone off his head, or what was the matter. His flaming porch outraged Durford’s sense of decency. She was at her wits end to answer, without actually lying or compromising herself; so the only thing she said was that she had noticed that he had been acting a bit peculiar lately, now they mentioned it. As time went on, the scarlet porch became the talk of the town. It was duly discussed at the sewing society, and the reading club, and the general sentiment was practically unanimous that Jackson must be suffering from incipient cataract 234 or senile dementia, and needed a guardian. Even Mary McGuire remarked to Mrs. Burke that she was afraid “that there front porch would sure set the house on fire, if it wasn’t put out before.” Everybody agreed that if his wife had lived, the thing never could have happened.

Meantime, Jonathan went about his daily business, serene and happy, apparently oblivious of the fact that there was anything unusual in the decoration of his house. When his friends began to chaff him about the porch he seemed surprised, and guessed it was his privilege to paint his house any color he had a mind to, and there was no law ag’in’ it; it was nobody’s business but his own. Tastes in color differed, and there was no reason in the world why all houses should be painted alike. He liked variety himself, and nobody could say that scarlet wasn’t a real cheerful color on a white house.

Occasionally people who were driving by stopped to contemplate the porch; and the Durford Daily Bugle devoted a long facetious paragraph to the matter. All of which Mrs. Burke knew very well, and it was having its effect on her nerves. The porch was the most conspicuous object in view from Hepsey’s sitting-room windows, and every time she entered the room she found herself looking at the flaming terror 235 with increasing exasperation. Verily, if Jonathan wanted revenge he was getting far more than he knew: the biter was badly bit. The matter came to a crisis one day, when Jonathan concluded a discussion with Mrs. Burke about the pasture fence. She burst out abruptly:

“Say, Jonathan Jackson, why in the name of conscience don’t you paint your porch a Christian color? It’s simply awful, and I’m not goin’ to sit in my house and have to look at it all winter.”

Jonathan did not seem greatly stirred, and replied in an absent-minded way:

“Why don’t you move your sittin’ room over to the other side of the house, Hepsey? Then you wouldn’t have to see it. Don’t you like scarlet?”

“No, I don’t like it, and if you don’t paint it out, I will.”

“Don’t do nothin’ rash, Hepsey. You know sometimes colors fade in the moonlight—some colors, that is. Maybe that scarlet porch’ll turn to a light gray if you let it alone.”

Mrs. Burke could stand it no longer; so, laying down her work she exploded her pent-up wrath:

“Jonathan Jackson, if that paint isn’t gone before to-morrow, I’ll come over and paint it myself.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary, Hepsey. And it might 236 set people talkin’. But if you won’t move your sittin’-room to the other side of your own house, why don’t you move it over to my house? You wouldn’t see so much of the red paint then.”

Hepsey snorted and spluttered in baffled rage.

“Now, now, Hepsey,” soothed Jonathan, “if that don’t suit you, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll paint it over myself on one condition!”

“And what’s that, I’d like to know?”

“That you’ll marry me,” snapped Jonathan hungrily.

Instead of resenting such bold tactics on the part of her suitor, Mrs. Burke gazed at him a long time with a rather discouraged look on her face.

“Land sakes!” she exclaimed at last with assumed weariness and a whimsical smile, “I didn’t know I’d ever come to this; but I guess I’ll have to marry you to keep you from makin’ another kind of fool of yourself; widowers are such helpless mortals, and you certainly do need a guardian.” She shook her head at him despondently.

Jonathan advanced towards her deliberately, and clinched the matter:

“Well, Hepsey, seein’ that we’re engaged––”

“Engaged? What do you mean? Get away, you––” She rose from her chair in a hurry. 237

“Now Hepsey, a bargain’s a bargain: you just said you’d have to marry me, and I guess the sooner you do it and have it over with, the better. So, seein’ that we are engaged to be married, as I was about to remark when you interrupted me....” Relentlessly he approached her once more. She retreated a step or two.

“Well! Sakes alive, Jonathan! Whatever’s come over you to make you so masterful. Well, yes then—I suppose a bargain’s a bargain, all right. But before your side of it’s paid up you’ve got to go right over and paint that porch of yours a respectable color.”

So, for once, Hepsey’s strategy had been manipulated to her own defeat: Jonathan went off to town with flying colors, and bought himself a can of pure white paint.