In the evening, after his work was done, a day or two after his talk with Mrs. Maxwell, Jonathan went into the house and took a long look at himself in the glass, with the satisfactory conclusion that he didn't look so old after all. Why shouldn't he take Mrs. Betty's advice and marry? To be sure, there was no fool like an old fool, but no man could be called a fool who was discriminating1 enough, and resourceful enough, to win the hand of Hepsey Burke. To his certain knowledge she had had plenty of eligible2 suitors since her husband's death. She was the acknowledged past-master of doughnuts; and her pickled cucumbers done in salad oil were dreams of delight. What more could a man want?
So he found that the question was deciding itself apparently3 without any volition4 whatever on his part. His fate was sealed; he had lost his heart and his appetite to his neighbor. Having come to this conclusion, it was wonderful how the thought excited him. He took a bath and changed his clothes, and then proceeded to town and bought himself a white neck-tie, and a scarf-pin that cost seventy-five cents. He was going to do the thing in the proper way if he did it at all.
After supper he mustered5 sufficient courage to present himself at the side porch where Mrs. Burke was knitting on a scarlet6 sweater for Nickey.
"Good evenin', Hepsey," he began. "How are you feelin' to-night?"
"Oh, not so frisky7 as I might, Jonathan; I'd be all right if it weren't for my rheumatiz."
"Well, we all have our troubles, Hepsey; and if it isn't one thing it's most generally another. You mustn't rebel against rheumatiz. It's one of those things sent to make us better, and we must bear up against it, you know."
Hepsey did not respond to this philosophy, and Jonathan felt that it was high time that he got down to business. So he began again:
"It seems to me as if we might have rain before long if the wind don't change."
"Shouldn't be surprised, Jonathan. One--two--three--four--" Mrs. Burke replied, her attention divided between her visitor and her sweater. "Got your hay all in?"
"Yes, most of it. 'Twon't be long before the long fall evenin's will be comin' on, and I kinder dread8 'em. They're awful lonesome, Hepsey."
"Purl two, knit two, an inch and a half--" Mrs. Burke muttered to herself as she read the printed directions which lay in her lap, and then she added encouragingly:
"So you get lonesome, do you, Jonathan, durin' the long evenin's, when it gets dark early."
"Oh, awful lonesome," Jonathan responded. "Don't you ever get lonesome yourself, Hepsey?"
"I can't say as it kept me awake nights. 'Tisn't bein' alone that makes you lonesome. The most awful lonesomeness in the world is bein' in a crowd that's not your kind."
"That's so, Hepsey. But two isn't a crowd. Don't you think you'd like to get married, if you had a right good chance, now?"
Hepsey gave her visitor a quick, sharp glance, and inquired:
"What would you consider a right good chance, Jonathan?"
"Oh, suppose that some respectable widower9 with a tidy sum in the bank should ask you to marry him; what would you say, Hepsey?"
"Can't say until I'd seen the widower, to say nothin' of the bank book--one, two, three, four, five, six--"
Jonathan felt that the crisis was now approaching; so, moving his chair a little nearer, he resumed excitedly:
"You've seen him, Hepsey; you've seen him lots of times, and he don't live a thousand miles away, neither."
"Hm! Must be he lives in Martin's Junction10. Is he good lookin', Jonathan?"
"Oh, fair to middlin'. That is--of course--I well--I--I should think he was; but tastes differ."
"Well, you know I'm right particular, Jonathan. Is he real smart and clever?"
"I don't know as--I ought to--to--say, Hepsey; but I rather guess he knows enough to go in when it rains."
"That's good as far as it goes. The next time you see him, you tell him to call around and let me look him over. Maybe I could give him a job on the farm, even if I didn't want to marry him."
"But he doesn't want any job on the farm, Hepsey. He just wants you, that's all."
"How do you know he does? Did he ever tell you?"
"Hepsey Burke, don't you know who I'm alludin' at? Haven't you ever suspected nothin'?"
"Yes, I've suspected lots of things. Now there's Jack11 Dempsey. I've suspected him waterin' the milk for some time. Haven't you ever suspected anythin' yourself, Jonathan?"
"Well, I guess I'm suspectin' that you're tryin' to make a fool of me, all right."
"Oh no! Fools come ready-made, and there's a glut12 in the market just now; seven--eight--nine--ten; no use makin' more until the supply's exhausted13. But what made you think you wanted to marry? This is so powerful sudden."
Now that the point was reached, Jonathan got a little nervous: "To--to tell you the truth, Hepsey," he stuttered, "I was in doubt about it myself for some time; but bein' as I am a Christian14 man I turned to the Bible for light on my path."
"Hm! And how did the light shine?"
"Well, I just shut my eyes and opened my Bible at random15, and put my finger on a text. Then I opened my eyes and read what was written."
"Yes! What did you find?"
"I read somethin' about 'not a man of them escaped save six hundred that rode away on camels.'"
"Did that clear up all your difficulties?"
"No, can't say as it did. But those words about 'no man escapin'' seemed to point towards matrimony as far as they went. Then I tried a second time."
"Oh did you? I should think that six hundred camels would be enough for one round-up. What luck did you have the second time?"
"Well, I read, 'Moab is my wash pot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe.' You've seen 'em cast shoes at the carriages of brides and grooms16, haven't you, Hepsey? Just for luck, you know. So it seemed to point towards matrimony again."
"Say, Jonathan, you certainly have a wonderful gift for interpretin' Scripture17."
"Well, Scripture or no Scripture, I want you, Hepsey."
"Am I to understand that you're just fadin' and pinin' away for love of me? You don't look thin."
"Oh, we 'aint neither of us as young as we once was, Hepsey. Of course I can't be expected to pine real hard."
"I'm afraid it's not the real thing, Jonathan, unless you pine. Don't it keep you awake nights, or take away your appetite, or make you want to play the banjo, or nothin'?"
"No, Hepsey; to tell you the plain truth, it don't. But I feel awful lonesome, and I like you a whole lot, and I--I love you as much as anyone, I guess."
"So you are in love are you, Jonathan. Then let me give you some good advice. When you're in love, don't believe all you think, or half you feel, or anything at all you are perfectly18 sure of. It's dangerous business. But I am afraid that you're askin' me because it makes you think that you are young and giddy, like the rest of the village boys, to be proposin' to a shy young thing like me."
"No, Hepsey; you aren't no shy young thing, and you haven't been for nigh on forty years. I wouldn't be proposin' to you if you were."
"Jonathan, your manners need mendin' a whole lot. The idea of insinuatin' that I am not a shy young thing. I'm ashamed of you, and I'm positive we could never get along together."
"But I can't tell a lie about you, even if I do want to marry you. You don't want to marry a liar19, do you?"
"Well, the fact is, Jonathan, polite lyin's the real foundation of all good manners. What we'll ever do when we get to heaven where we have to tell the truth whether we want to or not, I'm sure I don't know. It'll be awful uncomfortable until we get used to it."
"The law says you should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth," persisted the literal wooer.
"Now, see here, Jonathan. Would you say that a dog's tail was false and misleadin' just because it isn't the whole dog?"
This proposition was exceedingly confusing to Jonathan's intelligence, but after careful consideration he felt obliged to say "No."
"Of course you wouldn't," Mrs. Burke continued triumphantly20, quickly following up her advantage. "You see a dog's tail couldn't be misleading, 'cause the dog leads the tail, and not the tail the dog. Any fool could see that."
Jonathan felt that he had been tricked, although he could not see just how the thing had been accomplished21; so he began again:
"Now Hepsey, we're wanderin' from the point, and you're just talkin' to amuse yourself. Can't you come down to business? Here I am a widower, and here you are a widowess, and we're both lonesome, and we----"
"Who told you I was lonesome, I'd like to know?"
"Well, of course you didn't, 'cause you never tell anything to anyone. But I guessed you was sometimes, from the looks of you."
Hepsey bent22 her head over her work and counted stitches a long time before she looked up. Then she remarked slowly:
"There's an awful lot of sick people in the world, and I'm mighty23 sorry for 'em; but they'll die, or they'll get well. I guess I'm more sorry for people who have to go on livin', and workin' hard, when they're just dyin' for somebody to love 'em, and somebody to love, until the pain of it hurts like a wisdom tooth. No, I can't afford to be lonesome much, and that's a fact. So I just keep busy, and if I get too lonesome, I just go and jolly somebody that's lonesomer than I am, and we both feel better; and if I get lonely lyin' awake at night, I light a lamp and read Webster's Dictionary. Try it, Jonathan; it's a sure anti-doubt."
"There you go again, tryin' to change the subject, just when I thought you was goin' to say somethin'."
"But you don't really want to marry me. I'm not young, and I'm not interestin': one or the other you've just got to be."
"You're mighty interestin' to me, Hepsey, anyway; and--and you're mighty unselfish."
"Well, you needn't throw that in my face; I'm not to blame for bein' unselfish. I've just had to be, whether I wanted or not. It's my misfortune, not my fault. Lots of people are unselfish because they're too weak to stand up for their own rights." She paused--and then looked up at him, smiling whimsically, and added: "Well, well, Jonathan; see here now--I'll think it over, and perhaps some day before--go 'way, you horrid24 thing! Let go my hand, I tell you. There! You've made me drop a whole row of stitches. If you don't run over home right now, before you're tempted25 to do any more flirtin, I'll--I'll hold you for breach26 of promise."
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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7
frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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25
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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