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.”