"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.