Chapter XXI: Funeral

Enoch Withycombe had always promised to sound his horn again in sight of his end, and three days after he woke the echoes of the Vale he died. On the night that his music vibrated over hill and valley for the last time, Melinda had pushed his chair to the cottage door. When Lawrence called on the following Sunday afternoon, though he sat for a while beside his bed, the old hunter had already drifted into a comatose state, and the story Maynard had hoped to tell was never heard by him.

A bitter grey day dawned for a funeral attended by unusual mourners. The dead sportsman's master had made a promise and he kept it. Hounds did not meet that day; but the master, the huntsman and the whipper-in both clad in pink, and two brace of hounds were at the grave side--a bright flash of colour in the sombre little crowd that assembled.

Melinda Honeysett and her brother, Jerry, were chief mourners, while behind them came the fox-hunters; and of those who followed, some took it amiss to see such an addition to a funeral; while others held it most seemly and fitting.

Indeed for many days afterwards the question was heavily debated, and Arthur Chaffe and Ben Bamsey, who were both at the grave side, considered squire and parson alike to blame for an impropriety; while Joe Stockman, who came with Susan, Maynard and Thomas Palk, highly approved of the innovation. John Bamsey and Lawrence were among the bearers. They had also helped to carry the dead man from his home to the grave, for it was a walking funeral. Half a dozen private carriages followed it, and Melinda was bewildered to arrange the many gifts of flowers that came to her from her father's old friends of the countryside.

"Fox-hunters have long memories seemingly," said Jerry to his sister, as they read the cards attached to wreath and cross.

After the funeral was ended and when Enoch lay beside his wife, on the north of the church tower beneath a naked sycamore, it happened that Maynard found Dinah Waycott beside him in the press of the people. She had come with the Bamseys and, knowing that he would be there, now reached his side, bade him "good day," and unseen put a letter into his hand.

For a moment he picked up the thread of their conversation, where they had left it on the night by Dart River a week before.

"I couldn't tell him--he was too far gone next day," he said quietly, taking her letter.

"No matter," she answered, and then moved away.

The crowd drifted down the lanes and up the lanes. The men in pink mounted their horses and rode away with the hounds. Enoch's old master also departed on horseback, as did a dozen other men and several women. Soon only Melinda and Jerry were left to see the grave filled in and dispose the wreaths upon it. Mr. Chaffe kept them company. He cheered them by saying that never in his long experience, save once, had he known any man of the people enjoy such splendid and distinguished obsequies.

"A magnificent funeral despite the hounds," he said, "and Buckland did ought to be proud of it. There was a journalist from a Plymouth newspaper there, Jerry, so you'll be able to keep a printed history, with all the names, for future generations of your family to read aloud."

But Jerry was weeping and paid no heed; while his sister also, now that the strain had passed and the anticlimax come, hid not her tears.

Soosie-Toosie, her father and the two labouring men walked home together and Joe uttered a vain lament.

"A thousand pities the man's sailor son, Robert, couldn't be there," he said. "It would have been a fine thing for him to see what his father was thought of. And he'd have supported Melinda. She stood up very well and firm; but I know she'll miss him a terrible lot--her occupation gone you may say; for there's nobody leaves such a gap as an invalid that's called for your nursing for years. When the place is suddenly emptied of such a one, you feel as if the bottom was knocked out of your life, same as I did when my wife went."

Joe was in a mood unusually pensive and his daughter felt anxious. She tried to rally him, but failed.

"I'm looking forward," he said. "In that great rally of neighbours there was a lot of old blids from round about--a good few up home eighty years old I shouldn't wonder; and such was the bitter cold in the churchyard that you may be certain death was busy sowing his seeds. I hope to God I be all right, and I thank you for making me put on my heavy clothes, Soosie."

Palk walked behind them and talked fitfully to Maynard.

"'Twill ruin Christmas," said Thomas. "He was a famous man and there'll be a gloom fall over the place now he's dropped out."

"It won't make any difference," answered the younger.

"It may make a valiant lot of difference, and that nearer home than you think for," answered Palk.

But Maynard shook his head.

"There's nothing in it. Joe won't offer for her--Mrs. Honeysett--if that's what you're thinking; and if he did, 'tis doubtful if she'd take him. I've heard her tell about him to her father."

"And what did she tell?"

"Nothing but good. She knows his worth and all that. But Enoch didn't set very high store on master. I wondered why sometimes."

"Did you? I lay he knew him better than what you do. And he knew this--that a man who worked his only child like Stockman works his would make his wife a proper beast of burden."

"Everybody's selfish. I dare say when the news of the rise reaches us presently, you'll think better of him."

Then Stockman called Lawrence and Susan fell back to the horseman.

"He wants to tell Maynard about some ideas he's got, and it will distract his mind to do so," she explained.

"Be master under the weather about Mr. Withycombe, or is he only pretending?" asked Thomas bluntly.

"He's a very feeling creature is father," answered the woman. "He didn't care much for poor Mr. Withycombe, and Mr. Withycombe never quite saw father's good points, like most of the people do; but father's down-daunted to-day. 'Tis a landmark gone; and death's death; and he's fearful that another old person here and there may be took presently, along of the cruel cold in the churchyard."

"The wind curdled down off the Beacon like knives," admitted Palk. "Mrs. Honeysett kept her face very steady."

"She did. But she's a brave creature."

"She've got the cottage for her life, however."

"Yes. Squire's left it to her for naught, so long as she likes to bide there."

"A deep thought--how long she will bide there."

"Yes, it is. Jerry will be gone, come presently; but she'll have a neighbour. There's a widow man and his daughter took the cottage--the haunted house that joins hers. He's a new gardener to Buckland Court and don't fear ghosts."

"So I heard tell."

They were silent and then Thomas, now on very friendly terms with Susan, asked a question.

"Will it make a difference to Mr. Stockman, Mrs. Honeysett being set free of her father, miss?"

"I couldn't tell you, Tom. I've axed myself that question. But I'm not in father's thoughts."

His caution made him hesitate to speak again, but he knew that another question would go no farther than his listener.

"And if I may venture to put it, would you like to see him wed, miss?"

Susan slowed her steps that no sound of their voices might reach Joe. Her eyes were on his back as she answered.

"Yes, I think I would. A wife would add to his peace and comfort."

"She might add to yours."

"She might; but I'm not troubling as to that. Still, if she was a nice woman, I dare say she would."

"A wife--nice or otherwise--would open your father's eyes," declared Thomas. "In all respect I say it; but where you be concerned, he's got to make such a habit of you, and got to take you so terrible much like he takes his breakfast, or his boots, or any other item of his life, that it would be a very good thing for his character if he found out what you was."

"He don't undervalue me I hope," answered Susan. "Because a man don't say much, it don't follow he don't feel much, Thomas."

"But he do undervalue you cruel, and for that reason I'd be very pleased indeed if he was to get a woman for himself. Because no female he'm likely to find will show your Christian power of taking everything lying down. In fact no woman as ever I heard tell about can rise to such heights in that partickler as you; and your father have got so used to you, like a good pixy about the place, ready and willing to work night and day; and if he was up against another woman, he'd very soon have the surprise of his life."

"If a wife was so fond of him as what I am, she'd treat him so faithful as what I do," argued Soosie-Toosie; but Thomas assured her that she was mistaken.

"Don't think it," he said. "No wife ever I heard tell about would drudge for nought same as you. However, I be going beyond my business, and no doubt you'll tell me so. But 'tis only on your account, I assure you."

"I know it, Tom, and I thank you for your good opinion. But father's built in a higher mould than you and me. He's born to command, and I'm born to obey. Us generally do what's easiest, to save trouble; and if he was to marry again, he'd still be born to command, and any woman, knowing him well enough to take him, would understand that."

"They might, or they might not," argued Mr. Palk. "When a man goes courting, he hides a lot in that matter and, strong though the governor may be, there's women very well able to hold their own against any man born; and Melindy Honeysett is one. But it may happen. The mills of God may be grinding for it; and then master would look at you, and the scales would fall from his eyes I expect."

As soon as he was alone, Lawrence Maynard read the letter from Dinah. It was the first time he had ever seen her writing, and he found it a large, free hand with a hopeful slope upwards at the end of each line.

But the note was very brief. She committed herself to no opinions and only begged Lawrence to come to her in Lizwell Woods, a mile or two from her home, on the following Sunday afternoon.

"I'll be where the Webburn rivers run together, so soon after three o'clock as I may," she said.