JOE'S SUNDAY
Melinda stood at her door and spoke to her neighbour, Mr. Harry Ford,
the gardener. He was a red-whiskered man of fifty, and he and Mrs.
Honeysett viewed life somewhat similarly.
"You bad creature," she said, "working in your garden o' Sunday!"
This was the sort of remark on which Harry never wasted speech. He
went on with his digging.
"I wish the second early potatoes were coming up so well at the Court
as they are here in my little patch," he remarked. "But they haven't
got the nice bit o' sand in the soil as we have."
He rested a moment.
"How's Jerry going on?" he asked. "Have it come right?"
"No, I'm sorry to say; and yet not sorry neither. She's keeping all
this up because he vexed her Easter Monday. They was at Ashburton
revel together and she says he took a drop too much and very near ran
the trap over Holne Bridge and broke her neck coming home. And he
says no such thing. But the real trouble is about the blessed shop
Jane wants to start at Ashburton after marriage. She's for a tobacco
shop, and Jerry wants for it to be green-grocer's, where he can do
his part. My own belief is that Jane Bamsey's getting tired of
Jerry. If the wedding had gone through when it was ordained, all
might have been well; but owing to Ben Bamsey's illness and sad
downfall after, 'twas put off. I never much liked her I may tell
you, no more didn't my father."
"He must have been a bit of a wonder--a very clever man they say."
"He was a clever man."
"Did he believe in the ghost in my house, Mrs. Honeysett?"
"He did not--no more than you do."
He paused and looked at her. Melinda appeared more than usually
attractive. She was in her Sunday gown--a black one, for she still
mourned her parent; but she had brightened it with some mauve satin
bows, and she wore her best shoes with steel buckles.
"There is a ghost in the house, however," declared the gardener.
"Never!"
"Yes--the ghost of a thought in my mind," he explained.
"Ideas do grow."
"If they stick, then they grow. Now I'll ax you a question, and
you've no call to answer it if you don't want. You might say 'twas a
hole in my manners to ax, perhaps."
"I'm sure you wouldn't make a hole in your manners, Mr. Ford."
"I hope not. 'Tis this, then. What might the late Mr. Withycombe
have thought of Farmer Stockman up the hill?"
Melinda parried the question.
"Well, you never can say exactly what one man thinks of another,
because time and chance changes the opinion. A man will vex you
to-day and please you next week. Sometimes what he does and says is
contrary to your opinions, and then again, he may do or say something
that brings him back to you."
"He liked him and didn't like him--off and on? But he'd made up his
mind in a general way about his character?"
"I suppose he had."
"I know he had."
"How should you know?"
"Because I was at the trouble to find out."
"Fancy!"
"Yes. I sounded a man here and there. I went to Chaffe, the
carpenter."
"Arthur Chaffe knew father very well and respected him, though he
didn't hold with his opinions about religion."
"Religion I never touch--too kicklish a subject. But I spoke to
Chaffe, and being friendly disposed to me--and why not?--he said a
thing I might be allowed to name to you in confidence."
"Certainly," said Melinda, "if it's nothing against my father."
"Far from it. And I hope you'll take it as 'tis meant."
"I always take everything like that."
"That's right then. Well, Chaffe, knowing me for a pretty quiet man
and a hater of gossip, told me the late fox-hunter saw very clear
you'd go to Joe Stockman after he was took----"
"How could he?"
"Well, I don't know how he could. But he did. And though too tender
to whisper it in your ear, he told Chaffe that he was sorry!"
"Good Lord, you surprise me!"
"No business of mine, you'll say. And yet I felt somehow that if
your father--such a man as him--felt sorry, there was a reason why
for he should. And I won't deny but I told Chaffe he ought to
mention it to you. He wouldn't, because he said the thing was too
far gone."
"What's gone too far?"
"You know best. But people have ears and Stockman's got a tongue."
Mrs. Honeysett showed annoyance, while Harry returned to his potatoes.
"You're telling me what I know, however," she said.
He purposely misunderstood.
"You knew your good father didn't care for Mr. Stockman at bottom?"
"I know he's talking."
"The only thing that matters to know is your own mind, not what's in
other people's, or in his."
At this moment a black-coated figure appeared on the high road and,
much to Mr. Ford's regret, turned up the lane to the cottages.
"Talk of----!" he said.
It was Mr. Stockman.
"He's coming here and--and--I hoped something weren't going to happen
for the minute," confessed Melinda; "but now I reckon it may be."
"Well, if you're in doubt, nobody else is," said Mr. Ford striking
boldly. "Farmer's sounding his victory far and near--not a very
witty thing to do when an old man's after a young woman."
Melinda ignored the compliment and viewed the approaching figure with
impassive features.
"He's cut the ground from under his own feet as to his age," she
answered, "for if you cry out you're old before your time, of course
people must believe you."
Mr. Ford could not answer for Stockman was within earshot.
He showed a holiday humour, but reproved Harry.
"Working o' Sunday!" he said.
"There's all sorts o' work, master," replied the gardener. "I dare
say now that the better the day the better the deed holds of your job
so well as mine."
"You're a sharp one! And how's Melinda?"
"Very well," she said. "You wasn't to church this morning."
"I was not. I meant coming down the hill again this afternoon, to
drink a dish of tea with you, if you please; and though twice up and
down the hill be naught to me, yet I shirked it."
They went in together.
"Where's Jerry?" he asked.
"Mooning down to Green Hayes on the chance of getting things right."
"Good. He'll fetch her round; though I doubt she's worth it."
"So do I."
"However, I'm not here, as you'll guess, about your brother. The
time has come, Melinda."
"You've let 'em name the day then--Susan and Thomas?"
"No such thing; but they'll be naming it themselves pretty soon.
They'll be away in a month or two I expect. And I want for the house
to be swept and garnished then. I want a lot done. I've suffered a
great deal of undeserved trouble in that quarter, and there's wicked
words being said about my treatment of my child. The people have
short memories."
"There's wicked words being said about a lot of things. It's been
said, for instance, up and down the Vale, that you've told a score
you be going to marry me, Joe. That's a proper wicked thing, I
should think."
He was much concerned.
"Good God! What a nest of echoes we live in! But there it is. When
a thing's in the air--whether 'tis fern seed, or a bit of scandal, or
a solemn truth, it will settle and stick and grow till the result
appears. No doubt the general sense of the folk, knowing how I've
felt to you for years, made up this story and reckoned it was one of
they things that Providence let out before the event. Marriages be
made in Heaven they say, Melinda."
"But they ain't blazed abroad on earth, I believe, afore both parties
choose to mention it."
"Most certainly not; but if you move in the public eye, people will
be talking."
"Yes, they will, if they be started talking. I met Ann Slocombe to
Lower Town three days agone and she congratulated me on my engagement
to you."
"Who the devil's Ann Slocombe?"
"She's a woman very much like other women. And I told her it was
stuff and nonsense, and far ways from anything that had happened, or
was going to happen."
"No need to have said that, I hope. 'Tis the curious case of----"
"'Tis the curious case of talking before you know," said Melinda
tartly. "What would you have thought if I'd told people you'd gone
down to Brixham, to offer yourself to a woman there?"
"God's my judge I----"
Mr. Stockman broke off.
"This is very ill-convenient, Melinda, and quite out of tune with me
and the day, and what's in my mind. If I've spoke of you with great
affection to one or two tried friends--friends now no more--then I
can only ax you to overlook their freedom of speech. I've been in a
very awkward position for a long time, and made of justice as you
are, you must see it. For look how things fell out. First, just as
I was coming to the great deed and going to ax you to be mistress of
Falcon Farm, there happened your dear father's grievous illness and
his death. Well, I couldn't jump at you with my heart in my hand,
while you was crying your eyes out and feeling your fearful loss.
And then, just as the clouds were lifting and the way clear, what
happened? My misguided girl takes this false step. And that cut two
ways. First there was the disaster itself, and then, in a flash, I
saw that if I came to you on top of it, enemies--not you, yourself, I
well knew that--enemies would be bitter quick to say I was doing it
from no honour and respect to you, but to suit my own convenience,
because Susan was off. So I held away, because I saw that you'd be
put in a false position, with your inclination--so I hope--on one
side, and your proper woman's pride on the other. And now I see what
a quandary it was, and how I've let you in for these painful
adventures--all from too much nice feeling, seemingly."
"You can make a case, of course, but----"
"Let me finish. I ban't here to argue, Melinda. We've known each
other a good long time now and it have been the bright ray in a
troublous life, your friendship for me. We looked at things from the
same point of view, and took high opinions, and laughed when we ought
to laugh, and was serious in due season. And good men are scarce and
good women far scarcer. And there never was and never will be a
better woman than you. And it would be a second spring to me to have
such a one at my right hand. I want you, not for this or that
accident of life as have fallen upon me; but I want you just the same
as I have wanted you any time these ten years. I couldn't speak till
your father was gone, and I couldn't speak after, and in solemn
truth, being a man of pretty nice feelings, I couldn't speak an hour
before this instant moment. So you must sweep such trifles out of
your mind and come to the question with no bias, but just your honest
feelings to me and your memory of the past. So there it lies, my
dear."
Mrs. Honeysett hesitated a few moments before replying--not because
she was in any doubt as to her answer, but from a native sense that
all must be done decently and in order.
Joe made the best of the situation and probably, had Melinda's
attitude to him remained unchanged, a look back into memory, as he
suggested, might have won the day for Mr. Stockman. She was
conscious that a year ago she would have pardoned his errors of
egotism. She even suspected that, as things were, they did not
really lie at the root of the matter. But the root of the matter
extended into new ground. Here, however, she could not pursue it.
She only told herself that she would never marry Mr. Stockman now;
and while sharing his opinion, that her little grievances were really
unimportant and not worthy of being offered as a reason for refusal,
she only considered how, without them, she might gracefully decline.
She let her tongue go and trusted to chance. Then she suddenly saw a
way and took it.
"Us have had a very fine friendship indeed, Joe," she admitted, "and,
in my humble opinion, it would be a terrible mistake to spoil it this
way. For say what you may, friendship ain't love and love ain't
friendship; and I do feel, betwixt me and you, it might be a sad pity
to lose the substance for the shadow."
"You talk as if love would end friendship, instead of double it,
Melinda," he answered; but he was quick-minded and he knew the woman
meant to decline him. The thought immeasurably troubled Mr.
Stockman, for he had assumed success to be certain. He had, indeed,
already proceeded far beyond this point and planned his future with
Melinda. He argued now and made a very strenuous effort to prove
that there is no friendship like that of married people. He argued,
also, that such an understanding as had obtained between him and
Melinda since his wife's death was sufficient foundation for a very
perfect and distinguished union.
She admitted that it might be so, but declined the experiment. She
held that love too often endangered and weakened friendship, even if
it did not actually destroy it; and she told him frankly, but with
all consideration, that her friendship and admiration for him did not
tend in that direction.
"I'm very much addicted to you, Joe, and you've been a big figure in
my life for years, and will so continue I hope; but marriage with you
don't draw me. You've been like an elder brother to me, and I hope
you'll see your way to remain like that. But 'twould spoil all if we
went into marriage. And, in a word, I couldn't do it, because my
feelings don't respond."
"This is a very painful shock to me," he answered. "Somehow, such
was you to me and, as I thought, me to you, that I felt the step
could only be a matter of time; and what's more, Melinda, you never
did nothing to make me feel otherwise--quite the contrary in fact. I
don't say you--however, we'll not go into that side. You know what I
mean."
"I do; and we will go into it, Joe, and have done with it. If you
think I encouraged you----"
"What do you think?"
"Never--God's my judge! I was very proud of being your friend, and I
got plenty of wisdom and good advice from you; and you often took a
hint from me also. But nothing tender ever passed between us--never."
"That depends on what you call tenderness. To the seeing eye and
feeling heart there may be a world of tenderness in a glance,
Melinda, or in a silence, or in a handshake. I did most honestly
believe you felt more than friendship for me, just as I have long
felt more than friendship for you. And I showed as much, by a lot of
touches that a quick woman like you couldn't have mistook. No, no,
Melinda, that won't do. You knew."
"I'll take the blame, then, if you think I ought."
"Don't talk of blame. Consider if you ain't making a mistake.
You're simply wasted single, and here's a tidy sort of man offering;
and all his is yours, from the hour you say 'yes.' Weigh it. I know
only too well what I'll lose if you don't come to me. In fairness,
then, you did ought to consider if you don't lose pretty heavy too."
"Of course, of course. To lose your friendship would be a very great
disaster for me, Joe. It's been a steadfast and lasting thing, and I
should feel a cruel lot was gone if that was gone. But if it is to
be a choice---- No; leave it as 'tis between us, my dear man. Let's
be friends and forget this. I'll get 'e a cup of tea."
"As to friends, you don't quite see what you're doing yet, I'm
afraid. You'm acting in an astonishing way that throws down the
past, Melinda, and makes you like the rough and tumble of women--them
with no fixed views and opinions, as don't know their own mind--if
they've got minds to know. I'll be off instanter, Melindy, and leave
you in hope that you'll think this thing out and find you're on the
edge of a terrible mistake. I never thought I'd misunderstood you
like this. Indeed, if I had fancied there was a doubt, I should have
probably been too proud to offer at all."
He rose and prepared to depart.
Mrs. Honeysett, glad that he remained calm, was also thankful that he
should go.
"I'll never lose sight of you in my mind, or in my prayers," she said.
"I came in full sail," he answered; "now I go off like a ship without
a mast, or a rudder. It'll puzzle me to my dying day how you could
be so harsh."
He left her in deep dejection, which warmed to anger before he had
reached home. He convinced himself that Melinda had played him
false. For years there had been an implicit understanding in his
mind that he had but to put forth his hand to take. And he had been
tender and abounded in the little "touches" he mentioned. These
Melinda had perfectly comprehended and even appreciated. Nay, she
had repaid them in kind. The effect of her refusal was bad. Mr.
Stockman saw his stable world reeling about him. He had barely
recovered from the shock of Susan's engagement and now, after
carefully rebuilding his future environment and allowing himself to
dwell philosophically on the bright side of it, he found all in ruins
and further necessity for fresh plans.
And that same evening, after supper, when Thomas Palk and Susan had
crept out for a walk, Lawrence Maynard came to the master of Falcon
Farm and gave notice.
"There's no hurry," he said. "I'm at your service, master, so long
as you want me; but I've made up my mind to leave England in the
autumn and see a bit of the world before it's too late. I think to
go by Michaelmas, or a bit after--to Australia very like--and take up
land."
To Maynard's amazement Joe turned upon him with something almost of
fury. His cowman knew not of Joe's earlier reverse and all that he
had that day been called to endure.
"What--what are you telling me? You going too? You ungrateful
devil! You thankless, selfish toad! What have I done--what on God's
earth have I done--to be turned down and flouted and tormented at
every step of my life in this way? A man whose every act and thought
be kindness for other people; and now every man's hand be against me!
Persecution I call it; and you--you, who have had to thank me for far
more than goes between master and man; you, as I have offered
friendship to, and trusted and treated more like a son than a
servant! You ought to be shamed to the marrow in your bones to think
to leave me--an old, careworn, ill-used wretch with one foot in the
grave and all the world turning its back on him."
"Don't--don't!" said Lawrence. "Don't take on like that. There's no
hurry for a few months. I've been very proud and grateful for all
you've done for me, Mr. Stockman."
"Get out of my sight," answered the other. "There's no honesty, nor
honour, nor plain dealing left in man or woman, so far as I can see.
It's a hell of a world, and I wish a good few people as I could name,
yourself included, had never come into it. My lines have fallen in
shameful places, and if I wasn't too old, I'd shake the dust off my
shoes against Buckland and everybody in it."
Then Maynard retreated and left Joe panting heavily and staring into
the kitchen fire.
He had gone to bed when Susan returned, and she and Tom and Maynard
mumbled in low voices for an hour while the latter described his
experience. To Stockman's daughter this outburst signified far more
than it did to either of the men, for she guessed upon what business
her father had been employed that afternoon, and now knew that a
terrible disappointment must have overtaken him. She wept half the
night on his account and mourned not a little on her own; for Joe's
failure must inevitably increase her personal difficulties and double
the future problems of Thomas and herself.