Hepsey Burke. Frank N. Westcott
exactly right.
Jonathan Jackson was precisely the person to satisfy the demand, as his deceased wife had never allowed him to have any opinion for more than fifteen minutes at a time—if it differed from hers; and when she had made a pretense of consulting him, he had learned by long experience to hesitate for a moment, look judicially wise, and then repeat her suggestions as nearly as he could remember them. So Jonathan made a most excellent friend and neighbor, when any crisis or emergency called for an expert opinion.
Mrs. Burke had been an intimate friend of Sarah Jackson, and just before Mrs. Jackson died she made Hepsey promise that after she was gone she would keep a friendly eye on Jonathan, and see that he did not get into mischief, or let the house run down, or 62 “live just by eatin’ odds and ends off the pantry shelf any old way.” Mrs. Jackson entertained no illusions in regard to her husband, and she trusted Hepsey implicitly. So, after Mrs. Jackson’s mortal departure, Hepsey made periodic calls on Jonathan, which always gave him much pleasure until she became inquisitive about his methods of housekeeping; then he would grow reticent.
“Good morning, Jonathan,” Hepsey called, as she presented herself at the woodshed door, where she caught Jonathan mending some of his underclothes laboriously.
“Well, I declare,” she continued, “I’m blessed if you ’aint sewin’ white buttons on with black thread. Is anybody dead in the family, or ’aint you feelin’ well as to your head this mornin’?”
His voice quavered with mingled embarrassment and resentment as he replied:
“What difference does it make, Hepsey? It don’t make no difference, as long as nobody don’t see it but me.”
“And why in the name of conscience don’t you get a thimble, Jonathan? The idea of your stickin’ the needle in, and then pressin’ it against the chair to make it go through. If that ’aint just like a helpless man, I wouldn’t say.”
“I’M BLESSED IF YOU ’AINT SEWIN’ WHITE BUTTONS ON WITH BLACK THREAD. IS ANYBODY DEAD IN THE FAMILY, OR ’AINT YOU FEELIN’ WELL THIS MORNIN’?”
63
“Well, of course sewin’ ’aint just a man’s business, anyway; and when he has just got to do it––”
“Why don’t you let Mary McGuire do it for you? You pay her enough, certainly, to keep you from becomin’ a buttonless orphan.”
Mary McGuire, be it said, was the woman who came in by the day, and cooked for Jonathan, and intermittently cleaned him out of house and home.
“She don’t know much about such things,” replied Jonathan confidentially. “I did let her do it for a while; but when my buttonholes got tore larger, instead of sewin’ ’em up, she just put on a larger button; and I’d be buttonin’ my pants with the covers of saucepans by now, if I’d let her go on.”
“It is curious what helpless critters men are, specially widowers. Now Jonathan, why don’t you lay aside your sewin’, and invite me into your parlor? You aren’t a bit polite.”
“Well, come along then, Hepsey; but the parlor aint just in apple-pie order, as you might say. Things are mussed up a bit.” He looked at her suspiciously.
When they entered the parlor Mrs. Burke gazed about in a critical sort of way.
“Jonathan Jackson, if you don’t get married again before long I don’t know what’ll become of you,” she remarked, as she wrote her name with the end of her 64 finger in the dust on the center-table. “Why don’t you open the parlor occasionally and let the air in? It smells that musty in here I feel as if I was attendin’ your wife’s funeral all over again.”
“Well, of course you know we never did use the parlor much, ’cept there was a funeral in the family, or you called, or things like that.”
“Thank you; but even so, you might put things away occasionally, and not leave them scattered all over the place.”
“What’s the use? I never can find anything when it’s where it belongs; but if it’s left just where I drop it, I know right where it is when I want it.”
“That’s a man’s argument. Sakes alive! The least you could do would be to shut your bureau drawers.”
“What’s the use shuttin’ bureau drawers when you’ve got to open ’em again ’fore long?” Jonathan asked. “It just makes so much more trouble; and there’s trouble enough in this world, anyway.”
“You wouldn’t dare let things go like this when Sarah was livin’.”
“No,” Jonathan replied sadly, “but there’s some advantages in bein’ a widower. Of course I don’t mean no disrespect to Sarah, but opinions will differ about some things. She’d never let me go up the 65 front stairs without takin’ my boots off, so as not to soil the carpet; and when she died and the relatives tramped up and down reckless like, I almost felt as if it was wicked. For a fact, I did.”
“Well, I always told Sarah she was a slave to dust; I believe that dust worried her a lot more than her conscience, poor soul. I should think that Mary McGuire would tidy up for you a little bit once in a while.”
“Well, Mary does the best she knows how. But I like her goin’ better than comin’. The fact is, a man of my age can’t live alone always, Hepsey. It’s a change to live this way, till––”
“Oh, heaven save the mark! I can’t stay here talkin’ all day; but I’ll tidy up a bit before I go, if you don’t mind, Jonathan. You go on with what you call your sewin’.”
“Go ahead, Hepsey. You can do anything you like,” he replied, beaming upon her.
Mrs. Burke opened the blinds and windows, shook up the pillows on the lounge, straightened the furniture, dusted off the chairs and opened the door to the porch. She made a flying trip to the garden, and returned with a big bunch of flowers which she placed in a large glass vase on the mantel. Then she hung Jonathan’s dressing gown over the back of a chair, 66 and put his slippers suggestively near at hand. In a few moments she had transformed the whole appearance of the room, giving it a look of homelike coziness which had long been foreign to it.
“There now, Jonathan! That’s better, isn’t it?”
Jonathan sighed profoundly as he replied:
“It certainly is, Hepsey; it certainly is. I wonder why a man can’t do that kind of thing like a woman can? He knows somethin’s wrong, but he can’t tell what it is.”
Hepsey had almost forgotten her errand; but now that her work was done it came back to her with sudden force; so, puckering up her lips and scowling severely at the carpet, she began:
“The fact is, Jonathan, I didn’t come over here to dust the parlor or to jolly you. I’ve come to have a confidential talk with you about a matter of great importance.”
“What is it, Hepsey?”
“Matrimony.”
Jonathan started eagerly, and colored with self-conscious embarrassment; and after clearing his throat, nervously inquired:
“Did you think of contemplatin’ matrimony again, Hepsey?—though this ’aint leap year.”
“I, contemplate matrimony? Oh, land of Gideon, 67 no. It’s about some one else. Don’t get scared. I’m no kidnapper!”
“Well, who is it, then?” Jonathan inquired, with a touch of disappointment.
“My adopted son.”
“You don’t say! I’ve heard rumors about Maxwell and Virginia Bascom; but I didn’t take no stock in ’em, knowin’ Virginia.”
“Virginia