Melissa Read online

  Melissa had been crushed and stunned in the lean flat house below, had moved unresistingly in obedience to all the suggestions from her husband and brother. She had left the house without looking backward once. She had Walked feebly and slowly, in a dumb, dazed fashion, and had spoken to no one. She had allowed Geoffrey to tuck the robes about her and had not shrunk from his touch. All this had alarmed him. He was prepared to see her as flaccid and stupefied now as she had been only half an hour ago.

  But now she sat upright and stiff, looking steadily at the Dunham house. Her shoulders had squared themselves; her strong white chin had lifted itself in an attitude of resolution and fortitude. Her profile was sharply marked against the moving countryside, and the mouth was firm and rigid. Geoffrey was amazed, and pleased. He saw the pale frosty blue of her eyes glinting between their bronze lashes, and they were now completely conscious with a hard awareness. She was the young Amanda, unrelenting and proud, stately and cold, her mouth a line of bitterness and suppressed pain. She must have known that Geoffrey was looking at her, for she said, without turning to him: “Arabella will be very surprised.” Her voice was calm and neutral, with all her mother’s inflections and strength.

  “Yes,” said Geoffrey, matching his voice to hers. “It was very early, and, as no one had retired before three o’clock, no one was about. I left a note for her.”

  A sharp furrow dug itself between Melissa’s eyes, and she said, forbiddingly: “That was—evasive. You ought to have informed her before leaving. She has reason to feel slighted and suspicious.”

  Geoffrey might have been listening to Amanda, Amanda who had had such a rigorous conscience, such forthrightness. For some reason, he was enormously relieved. He said: “I think I did what was best, Melissa. Arabella does not like to be disturbed early in the morning, for anything.”

  She moved her head stiffly and repellently, dismissing his lame excuse. “Arabella does not like me. She will be shocked. A note was a cowardly thing.”

  In his relief and delight, Geoffrey wanted to laugh. “I don’t like women’s hysterics,” he said frankly. “Now, I am not going to say that Arabella loves you, my dear, and will greet you with cries of joy. There may be a few moments of—unpleasantness, but Arabella will soon adjust herself to the new situation. After all, she has practically no money of her own and, in her way, Arabella is a very sensible woman.”

  Melissa turned her head and gave him a cold and contemp tuous look, long and piercing. “That must be very disagreeable for Arabella, and it does not reflect creditably upon you.” Again, it might have been Amanda who had spoken, thought Geoffrey with thankfulness.

  “Perhaps we can make other arrangements for Arabella,” he said.

  But Melissa had turned away again, and did not answer. The carriage was now entering the sloping and winding grounds. Melissa watched the approach of the house steadfastly, with no sign of particular interest or disinterest. Then, all at once, she exclaimed breathlessly, her mouth shaking: “There is one thing I must know at once! You knew my father well. I—I don’t think you will lie to me now, and I must know! You heard what Phoebe said: That my father often laughed at me secretly. You must tell me honestly: Is that true?”

  The words were almost incoherent, and had come from her in a rush. He said at once, without considering, and desiring only to ease her iron misery: “Of course it was not true, Melissa! I knew your father for many years and saw him often with you. Why should you believe the jealous words of a spiteful girl who wanted only to hurt you?”

  She did not answer, but he saw her clenched hands move under the robe. He went on, bending sideways towards her: “You have all the years with your father to remember. Do you recall any doubt of him, until now? Don’t you think you are wronging him by thinking such things?”

  The stern mouth softened, and quivered only for an instant, but Geoffrey saw it. Melissa lifted her chin. She said only: “Thank you. Thank you.” Her voice was hardly audible.

  So, thought Geoffrey, with deep surprise and gratitude, she has been thinking. This is not new to her, this distrust of her father. Each fresh doubt is an agony, but she will be cured through her pain. The evidence will pile up, and she will know. She will discover everything, but the discoveries must not come from me.

  The carriage was approaching the door of the house, white and gleaming in the sun. Melissa spoke again: “I have done a wrong thing in marrying you, Mr. Dunham. It was a useless —gesture. For a moment or two—at home—I wanted to tell you that I could not go with you, now that everything—” Her voice shook, broke for a moment. Then she went on determinedly: “But I had made a bargain. It was not your fault that it was useless. There is just one other thing I want to say: You ought not to have married me. I know nothing of your way of life and I know I shall not like it. So, if you wish to send me home again now, I shall understand, and I should prefer it.” Geoffrey answered quietly: “We made a bargain, and I insist that it be kept. I shall not send you away. You are my wife.”

  The carriage stopped at the door. Melissa turned to Geoffrey swiftly and there was a sudden trembling desperation on her face. “You will not be happy, Mr. Dunham. I ask you again to let me go home, at once.”

  “And I refuse,” said Geoffrey, looking at her directly. “This is your home henceforth. And you must make the best of it.” The coachman was opening the door. Geoffrey swung out, held out his hand to Melissa. But she gathered up her frayed brown skirts and descended by herself. She did not falter. The desperatlon on her face was gone, had been replaced by a frozen and prideful composure. Standing beside Geoffrey, she looked at her belongings in the back. Geoffrey said to the coachman: “Bring in Mrs. Dunham’s bags at once and have them taken to her rooms.”

  He touched Melissa’s angular elbow, and they went up the white steps together. The hall door was opened by James, whose expression was both excited and suppressed. He bowed to Melissa and said: “Welcome home, Mrs. Dunham.”

  Well, at least the servants know, and that will save awkwardness, thought Geoffrey. Then he became annoyed at James’ covert glances at Melissa’s shabby gown and old shawl, and he said, peremptorily: “Mrs. Dunham’s apartments have been prepared, James?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir,” said James, quickly. “Miss Arabella left orders.” He coughed behind a discreet hand. “She also left word with me that she is indisposed and will not come down until dinner-time.”

  There was a curious warm stillness through all the house. No one was about. The opened doors of the drawing-rooms revealed no guest and returned no voice. The fires crackled in the library and in the hall and other rooms, and sunlight lay in great bright fans over walls and carpets. The monolithic grandfather clock chimed a melodious two o’clock, and the notes echoed softly. Geoffrey frowned. Arabella, then, had done her work well. The guests were remaining in their rooms until requested to appear. There was no one present to welcome the new mistress of the house, and now Geoffrey’s heart began to thud with anger. He must go to Arabella at once, and what he would say to her would never be forgotten by either of them.

  He turned to James and said, abruptly: “You will please send a maid to Mrs. Dunham. Also, she will have a tray in her room, at once.”

  Melissa stood in the hall. She did not look about her. She stood like a statue, wrapped in her shawl. The pink firelight danced over her white features and still mouth. Geoffrey put his hand on her arm. “Shall we go up to your rooms, my dear?”

  Silently and stiffly, holding her skirts up about her ankles, Melissa mounted the vast staircase beside Geoffrey. The numbness which had alarmed Geoffrey before had fallen upon her again. Together, they passed the carved and shining doors in the upper hall, which was also voiceless and soundless. Geoffrey opened the door of his mother’s room. Here a bright fire had been lighted, all the dust-covers had been removed, the draperies drawn back from the windows. The sunlight, flooding the room, sparkled on crystal and gilt, brightened the soft blue damask walls, the rosy Aubusson rug, the bl
ue, rose-colored and coral velvets and silks of the chairs, the love-seat and the chaise-longue. The white bed, with its raised mouldings of gold-leaf, the white and gold chests, the dressing-table with its gilt mirror and crystal and golden bottles and jars, might have been new, so fresh were they after all these years. The doors of the mirrored and white-and-gold wardrobe had been opened, and a fresh scent of cedar and faint, subtle perfume mingled with the odor of the burning fire on its white marble hearth. Now that the white velvet draperies, with their embroideries of blue, rose and gold, had been drawn back, the windows revealed the dazzling sunlit snowy slopes below, the pattern of a black bare tree. The pure light danced on the prisms of the turquoise candelabra on the mantelpiece, and on the small turquoise and crystal lamps on the white and delicate tables scattered about the room.

  If Geoffrey had expected any interest or admiration from Melissa upon seeing this large and sweetly scented room with its lovely furnishings, he was disappointed. She actually did not appear aware of it. She stood in the center of the carpet, waiting, blindly submissive again, and motionless. When Geoffrey indicated a door and said: “My dressing-room is beyond that, and my bedroom,” she turned her eyes obediently to follow his gesture. But they were dulled and glazed. Again the gray shadow of exhaustion was on her face, though her mouth was set in rigid lines.

  To Geoffrey’s thankfulness, a dark-haired and rosy little . maid, dressed all in black crisp bombazine and ruffled apron and cap, knocked at the open door and entered with a curtsey. Her bright black eyes stared at Melissa curiously and with repressed excitement, and her pretty cheeks dimpled.

  “Melissa, my love,” said Geoffrey, “this is Rachel. She will attend to all your needs hereafter. Rachel, this is your new mistress, and I think you understand your duites. You will unpack Mrs. Dunham’s bags immediately. She will have a tray in her room, and then rest until dinner.”

  Rachel curtseyed again, and said, in a subdued tone: “Yes, sir.” She hesitated, then said to Melissa, who did not seem to see her: “Welcome home, Mrs. Dunham.”

  The girl and Geoffrey looked at Melissa in a sudden awkward silence. Her hands were knotted under her shawl. Tall, thin, dressed in her hideous brown and black, she was an incongruity in this charming and graceful room. Rachel disrespectfully thought of a thin black crow among Dresden bric-a-brac. How strange for the master to marry such an odd creature and bring her to this house! Rachel was new; she had been imported only two weeks before from Philadelphia. But she had heard many stories about the Upjohns from James, who had a penchant for her. She had expected some dashing and handsome young woman, a little odd perhaps, and cold, but not this white-lipped creature with the gaunt cheeks and still, unseeing eyes.

  Geoffrey, thankful to leave Melissa with Rachel, went out of the room abruptly, in search of his sister. Rachel, who was a very smart and competent girl, was at a loss when left alone with her new mistress. What could one say to one who was obviously both deaf and dumb, for Melissa had not responded to her maid’s greetings? Rachel became uneasy as moment after moment passed and Melissa did not stir nor look at anything. Rachel smoothed the ruffles of her pert apron, and felt herself becoming warm and flushed and very awkward. She stammered: “Shall I take madam’s shawl?”

  Melissa did not reply, and Rachel approached her timidly. She lifted the shawl from Melissa’s shoulders and felt its rough texture with distaste. What a horrid, black old thing, with such a musty smell! And then Rachel saw the pale gold masses of Melissa’s hair, and she smiled in admiration. She would brush that hair to smoothness and make it glisten like old gilt. She would braid it in two long plaits, and wind it about that small and noble head. It would reveal a long white neck, which would, perhaps, be decorated by a string of opals or turquoises. Yes, Madam definitely had possibilities. Her figure, if too thin, was good. She would look like a queen! Not for her the puffs and curls and chignons of inferior women!

  Rachel drew a coral chair to the fireplace, and placed a footstool there. “Will Madam rest until her tray is here?” she suggested, in a soft voice.

  Melissa started slightly, and turned to Rachel. She seemed to see the girl for the first time. Rachel smiled courageously, and again her cheeks dimpled. Melissa stared at her blankly, like one coming out of extreme shock. Then she moved to the fireplace and obediently sat down. She did not lean against the back of the brilliant chair; she sat upright, her hands tightly clenched together on her knees. She looked at the fire, which played over her sunken cheeks and large, colorless mouth. The lines of her long thighs and legs appeared through the brown stuff of her frock. How beautiful she could be, thought Rachel, who was kneeling beside the raffia box and the black bag. She opened the containers, and gasped a little. The box contained a rusty black dress, two worn gingham frocks, a quantity of coarse cotton underwear and three pair of black cotton stockings. There were no peignoirs, no laces, no stays, no gloves, jewels or ribbons. Rachel hung up the frocks, where their full dismalness was revealed swinging from the hooks in the wardrobe, and she put away the cotton undergarments, the stockings, and the three white cotton nightgowns, in the lovely chests. The black bag contained Melissa’s notebooks, and extra shawl, several weighty books, an inkpot and a number of pens. Rachel hastily hid these in a drawer. Then she turned to the objects in the black shawl, and was surprised to find manuscripts, more notebooks, and thin reference volumes. These she put away also.

  James knocked at the door, and entered with a steaming tray, all white linen, delicate china and silver. He and Rachel exchanged an eloquent glance, then James shrugged. Rachel placed a table at Melissa’s elbow, and James deposited the tray upon it. He removed the silver covers. There was a delicate broiled squab, some rich pink ham, some hot bread and butter, a crystal dish of preserves, and a pot of fragrant tea. James bowed to Melissa, who had not turned from her marble contemplation of the fire. “Your tray, Mrs. Dunham,” he said softly.

  Melissa started, turned her head, stared at James dumbly. He indicated the tray. She looked at it without comprehension. James placed the squab on a hot plate, poured the tea. The room filled with delicious odors of marjoram and herbs and the scent of the strawberry preserves. Melissa mechanically watched all James’ motions. He meticulously rearranged the forks and spoons, and pushed back the silver vase that held a single yellow rose-bud.

  “Mr. Dunham expressly ordered this luncheon for you, Mrs. Dunham,” said James, with intuition. “It will please him if you enjoy it.”

  “Yes. Of course,” murmured Melissa. Then she added stiffly: “Thank you.” She picked up a fork. A sudden profound revulsion nauseated her. She put down the fork. Her eyes met James’ kind and steady eyes and she swallowed. She picked up the fork again. James had deftly divided the squab and dissected the meat from the tiny bones. Melissa began to eat slowly. James hovered over her. He was very sorry for this poor young creature, so starved and white and numb. He placed fresh morsels on her plate, and was pleased that she ate them all. He put cream and sugar in her tea, and she drank it obediently, like a listless child. But now a faint coral began to touch her lips. Rachel, in the background, watched with deep interest. There was something here that she could not understand. Melissa’s stricken appearance had mystified her. Anyone less like a bride could hardly be imagined. But the girl saw James’ solicitude, heard his quiet voice, and took her cue. James threw her a significant look, and she nodded like a conspirator.

  James left with the tray. He was quite satisfied. Melissa might not have savored the delicacies, but she had eaten most of them. She was now actually leaning against the back of the chair. The ghastly tint had faded from her face. She seemed enormously tired.

  “Would Madam like to lie down and rest for a while?” asked Rachel, and there was a note of soft pity in her fresh young voice.

  Melissa rose, and then moved to the center of the room. All at once, she seemed to become aware of her surroundings. Slowly, her eyes traveled over every object, from the walls to the rugs, from the bed
to the dressing-table, the delicate chairs and turquoise lamps. She saw the bright windows and the dazzling slopes beyond them. Like one moving in a dream she went to the windows and stood gazing through them. Rachel watched breathlessly. Moment after moment passed, while the fire crackled in the silence and Melissa’s head gleamed in the sunlight. Then Melissa saw the white-and-gold embroidered draperies, and she touched them as if in wonder. Her rough and reddened hand lifted them, flinched, then lifted them again. She examined the rich velvet texture, followed a golden thread with a finger. She rubbed the back of a hand over a fold, let it drop.

  Rachel pretended to be engaged in the rearrangement of the dressing-table jars and bottles, but she watched Melissa out of the corner of her eye. Melissa began to wander about the room. She looked at each chair intently. Hesitantly, she smoothed the coral velvet of the love-seat. Rachel went to the other end of the room. Melissa, in her wanderings, reached the dressing-table, saw herself reflected in the long, giltframed glass. She sat down on the white velvet seat and continued to stare at her own image. Then, automatically, her hands lifted to her disheveled hair. She smoothed it a little. Her eyes dropped to the jars and bottles, with their gold tops incrusted with blue, green, yellow and red stones. One by one she picked them up, like an absorbed child; turned them about, opened them. She held them to her nose and smelled the perfume and the lotions, concentrated with age. She put them down, studied the backs of her rough hands and red knuckles. She dropped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. But now thought came to the stilled places in her brain.

  It is all frippery and frivolity, she whispered to herself, with quick fever, for as yet she dared not think of that morning in the “parlor” of the Upjohn house where she had been so betrayed, so ruined and so stricken. It is all folly, all the foolishness of people without significance or usefulness. This is how they live, amid velvets and silks, idling away their lives like greedy grubs, demanding and buying gimcracks with colored stones, and filled with revolting odors. Was the world created for such parasites—this world of stern work and sterner thinking? The books of great men stood in dust on forgotten shelves; the music of angels was silent in closed volumes; the paintings of mighty artists waited hopelessly in deserted galleries. The universe of splendor and majesty echoed with not a single step. And all the while the frivolous and the worthless lolled amid velvet color and artificial scents, and slept and ate and laughed and coquetted, a blasphemy in the face of lofty mysteries, of toil and beauty. What did they know of dreams and grandeurs, of passions and heroisms, of dedications and the noble labors of the giants? They did not know, and they did not care. Yet they had power, an awful, ugly power, for they had money. The price of such a folly as this gold-and-crystal bottle would buy bread for an eager and starving poet. These rugs and draperies and chairs were bought with the life-blood of those who worked. These crystal and turquoise lamps could redeem the life of a great pianist. A writer of profound books might perish for want of the dollars which had bought this fretted silver box made for sweetmeats. O Papa, Papal