Geoffrey looked grave. “Andrew,” he said, putting out his hand. But Andrew knocked it aside, and rushed from the room. A moment later the door slammed behind him.
Melissa put her hands over her eyes and began to weep silently. Geoffrey went to her slowly. She murmured: “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“Do about what?” asked Geoffrey, coldly.
Melissa, at this, dropped her hands with abruptness. Geoffrey was standing apart from her and wore such a detached and indifferent air that she was struck. She stared at him with the open bewilderment of a child, and again that strange misery and desolation of the night before returned to her. She stammered: “About Andrew and Phoebe.” She searched his face with intense anxiety, but the anxiety was not for her brother or for her sister. It was something else, something which could not be explained, and it made her feel forsaken and deserted, and terribly alone.
A dog had folowed Geoffrey. He smiled at the animal, bent over and pulled its ears. He spoke to it affectionately. Melissa watched his caressing hands and, all at once, she reasonlessly hated the dog with its maudlin eyes and adoring expression. Noticing Melissa at last, it bristled and growled, sensing what neither Melissa nor Geoffrey had recognized.
“I don’t like dogs,” said Melissa nervously. The silly and mindless thing, licking its master’s hands in devotion and servility! She could not look away from Geoffrey’s big strong fingers, and when they stroked the dog’s neck and back she shivered and glanced away, a unique and indescribable thrill running over her body.
“Well, I like dogs,” said Geoffrey, with finality. He said: “It’s all nonsense, you know, about Andrew and Phoebe. I thought that was all settled yesterday.” He paused. “Did you sleep well? I don’t suppose you did, or you’d not be up so early.”
“I’ve been working on Papa’s books again.” She was alarmed at the sound of her own voice, it was so faint and hoarse. She remembered suddenly the scene last night, and was sick with mortification and pain; again, she wondered at these things. Without volition, she moved closer to Geoffrey, and she heard her own foolish words with a kind of astonishment, for she had not willed them, and they were so pleading: “I think this is Papa’s best.”
“Good,” said Geoffrey, and she detected the falseness in his hearty voice. “But don’t work too hard on it just yet. Remember, these are still the holidays.” He whistled to the dog, who was regarding Melissa with savage hostility. “Come on, old fellow,” he said, and he went away.
Melissa stood alone in the quiet library, with the sun shining on the books and dappling the long draperies. The house was very quiet still, though she heard a distant door open. She went to a window, dragging herself as if over-whelmingly tired. A blaze of white and cobalt blue met her eyes. Far down below, she saw her old home, a bleak mar on the landscape. Again, to her mingled outrage and surprise, she found that she was crying, that the sick wretchedness and pain were engulfing her.
She struggled to control herself. Then, horrified, as the sobs rose in her throat, she turned and ran from the room, and up the stairs, her head bent. She burst into her bedroom, and the sobs broke from her. Rachel was tidying up the room and she looked at her mistress, dumfounded.
Melissa threw herself into a chair, uncaring now for anything or anybody. As usual, she could not find her handkerchief. She fumbled at her skirts and applied the edge of her petticoat to her eyes and face. Rachel watched her with anxiety and sympathy. Then she said, timidly: “Mrs. Dunham, may I help you?” She opened a drawer and brought out some scented kerchiefs. She went to Melissa and held them out dumbly. Melissa snatched at them and dabbed roughly at her tears.
Rachel could not help it; she knelt beside the chair, and then, careless of her “station,” she put her arms about her mistress and drew down the bedraggled head onto her shoulder. She said nothing, but her hands were tender.
Melissa, as if astounded or bewildered, remained stiff for a little while; then, all at once, she fell into Rachel’s arms and wept with complete abandonment and despair, as only the strong and the narrow can weep.
CHAPTER 33
Geoffrey tapped at Melissa’s door, then entered. Rachel was putting the final touches to the hem of the brown velvet, while Melissa, bootless, stood on a stool like a mannequin. She was very stiff and careful, moving at Rachel’s slight tuggings like an obedient child. The brown velvet, golden in the folds, encased her stately figure tenderly and perfectly. She was in the act of trying to pull up the shirred bodice, complaining of its lowness and arguing with Rachel, when Geoffrey came in. She was in profile to him, and had been so vehemently engrossed with the argument that Geoffrey heard her last words: “But I tell you, Rachel, this is indecent! Moreover, the exposure would give me lung fever. I shouldn’t dare bend—” She stopped, became aware of Geoffrey, and turned red with embarrassment. Her hand flew to her breast in a gesture infinitely touching and virginal.
But Geoffrey apparently noticed nothing. He stood at a little distance and admired the dress. The color slowly left Melissa’s face, and he saw how haggard she was. Her eyes were swollen and very pink, and her lips parched. She was not aware of it, but she listened to Geoffrey’s comments with a kind of intense anxiety and eagerness. Then she said.: “This is so time-wasting, but Rachel tells me I cannot wear the blue dress twice in succession.” Her voice was timid, and she dropped her head. Her breast glowed with pale pearly tints in the winter light.
“Oh, certainly, that would never do!” said Geoffrey, gravely. “It is absolutely forbidden a lady to wear a gown twice running. That is the worst of social errors. One might suspect she has nothing else to wear.”
“Foolish,” commented Melissa, faintly. “Besides, everyone knows you have a lot of money—Geoffrey.” She said his name almost inaudibly, with a slowness that only Rachel could interpret. She added, in a louder voice: “Of course, this dress is warmer than the blue, but not half so pretty. But it is very nice,” she continued, as if afraid she had offended him, “and I thank you very much.”
The desk, and a nearby chair, were littered with papers and notebooks. They were incongruous in this charming room, with the crystal glittering and the silver sparkling, and all the colors as fresh as dawn.
“You did not come down to luncheon,” said Geoffrey, sitting down where he had a clear view of the proceedings and could offer his opinion.
“I had a headache,” said Melissa quickly, then her expression became annoyed. “No, I didn’t. I was just—just—” She stopped, and her mouth trembled. She looked down at Rachel imploringly.
“Mrs. Dunham felt indisposed,” said the maid, with a respectful smile at Geoffrey.
“Yes, indisposed,” said Melissa, with her new eagerness. “And I wanted to do some more work, on Papa’s book. I had a tray, though. Rachel brought it.”
“Not too polite,” said Geoffrey idly. “Our guests wondered.” Melissa forgot everything in a return of her old exasperation. “I shouldn’t think they’d mind. After all, they don’t know me, and I have nothing in common with them. I came only yesterday, and how could they be interested in me, or I in them? We are strangers.”
Geoffrey, too, was exasperated, but for another reason. Then he could not help smiling.
“They are interested in you because you are my wife,” he said, “and because you are their hostess, and because they expect to see you often over a period of many years.” He watched Melissa’s blank face for a moment, then went on: “You do not seem to like the prospect.”
“No,” said Melissa, “I do not.” She considered the matter judicially, and again Geoffrey had to suppress a smile. “They are not the kind I should choose as friends. Except, perhaps, Mr. Littlefield. The poet.”
“Ravel?” Irritated, Geoffrey sat up. “That limpid-eyed scoundrel and poseur? I am surprised at you, Melissa. I thought you had more discernment. The man’s an actor, and a poor one at that. A parasite. And a poet!”
The old stern and censorious look flashed over
Melissa’s face. “There is nothing wrong with being a poet, sir.”
“Well, perhaps not a real poet—”
“Such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?” suggested
Melissa with such passionate scorn that she stepped down from the stool, the hem of the velvet gown a glittering mass of pins. “Such banality, such syrupy triviality, such superficial sugariness—!”
“Edgar Allan Poe thinks highly of him,” said Geoffrey, amused.
“Another so-called poet of no consequence! How Papa and I used to laugh at his pretensions! And you quote a man like that, on the subject of poetry!”
“You probably have a low opinion of Whitman, also?” said Geoffrey.
Melissa flushed with intense indignation. “That low poetaster! That coarse and obscene brute!” She stood before Geoffrey, all cold violence. “Surely, sir, you do not call these men poets? I cannot believe it of you!”
“We should be happy to publish Mr. Longfellow,” said Geoffrey. “He has promised us a book of ballads. Now, Melissa, whom do you consider a poet? I am really interested.”
“Mr. St. John Edmonds! Papa thought his poetry in the best Greek tradition, excellent metres, sonorous rhythm—”
“Never heard of him.”
“No! Because he is beyond the comprehension of fools and triflers!”
Rachel gasped softly. At the sound, Melissa jerked her head over her shoulder and encountered the girl’s shocked eyes. Melissa swung her head back in Geoffrey’s direction. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, quickly, perplexed. “Rachel thinks I have said something rude. Oh, what nonsense! This having to watch everything one says, and not being honest.”
“By all means, let us be honest, and let the sensibilities crash where they may,” said Geoffrey, genially. “I hope you will be a little hypocritical this afternoon. We are all invited to look at Arabella’s collection of the paintings she has done during the past six months. In her studio upstairs.”
Melissa had never heard of Arabella’s “art,” and the idea was so novel to her, so astounding, that she gaped. “She paints—Arabella?” she exclaimed, incredulous.
Geoffrey stood up, and shrugged. “So she claims. But then, as a fool and a trifler, I am no judge. However, it seems she has a reputation, of a sort. You might be interested.” He smiled, and the smile could be called nothing less than wickedly gleeful as he thought of Melissa’s comments. Serve Arabella right. “On second thought, you need not be hypocritical, my love. Artists always vehemently declare they want an honest opinion.”
“I shall be very glad, indeed, to give it,” said Melissa in a stately tone. But she appeared abstracted. She could not quite associate Arabella with paint and canvases. “You mean she really paints—things?” she asked, dubiously, “What things?”
“Oh, landscapes, flowers, the dogs,” Geoffrey made a large gesture. “Anything that suddenly has a ‘mood.’”
Melissa’s pale gilt brows drew together in increasing perplexity.
“Like Courbet?” she asked. “Papa took me to New York, just after the war. There were two of Courbet’s paintings on display. A colorful nude, painted while he was still in his Paris art school, and another. Very chiaroscuro. Papa remarked on the effect of great exaltation in his work; quite revolutionary, too. One caught the profound impression of an extraordinary mood. Arabella is of the same school, perhaps?”
“Oh, doubtless, the same school,” said Geoffrey, with an evil smile.
“How very interesting!” cried Melissa, her former opinion of Arabella doing a handspring. “How little one knows of others! And how unjust one can he!”
Geoffrey knew that this naïve generosity should not be greeted with a burst of laughter, so he hurried towards the door, calling over his shoulder, in a curiously muffled voice, that the exhibition was to be at four o’clock.
Melissa mounted the stool again. She was quite excited. “I could never have imagined it! Would you have thought it, Rachel?”
Rachel tugged at the hem, and Melissa turned. “I have heard that Mrs. Shaw paints upstairs,” she said.
“You have seen her work?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, none of the servants are permitted there.”
“No? How silly. But then artists are very shy.” The thought of shyness in connection with Arabella freshly amazed Melissa, and she felt remorse. “One never knows,” she mumbled, with wide eyes. She forgot Geoffrey. She forgot her pain. Her single mind was fast rushing after Arabella, and there was nothing else. It was half-past two. She urged Rachel on with the gown.
But fast as Rachel worked, it was slightly after four o’clock before the gown’s alterations had been completed. The hem covered the awful boots. Rachel had fastened the last velvet button when Geoffrey entered, bringing with him a string of golden-brown topazes, ear-rings to match, a bracelet of topazes and diamonds, and a ring. Melissa snatched them impatiently from Geoffrey’s hands and put them on, herself, without glancing in the mirror. She was so excited over the prospect of the exhibition that some color had returned to her cheeks and lips, and she was less haggard.
Geoffrey made some admiring comment, but Melissa would have no wasting of time. She took Geoffrey’s arm and strode beside him down the corridor to the stairs leading to the third floor. He said, trying to slow her down somewhat: “I have sent Andrew and Phoebe invitations for dinner on New Year’s Eve, Melissa. As they are in mourning, they will not remain for the later festivities and the champagne, and you will be excused for the same reason.”
“Oh, they won’t come,” said Melissa positively.
“On the contrary, they have already accepted.”
This, Melissa could not believe, and her arguments were vehement and hectoring as she accompanied Geoffrey upstairs. He had to quiet her at the door of Arabella’s studio.
The guests were already assembled in the great cold room, where the canvases on display were ranged on easels along the walls to catch the bleak north light. The large windows, undraped and bare, looked down from an immense height on the desolate white slopes below and on the distant woods and hills. Far to the west, over a range of hills, the sun was standing in a crimson lake of fire, and the sanguine reflection flooded into the room.
The guests slowly circled about, in utter silence, inspecting one painting after another. Arabella accompanied them, Arabella in lavender satin and lace and diamonds, her painted countenance beaming archly and modestly as she explained each canvas. The entrance of Geoffrey and his dreadful wife interrupted her, and for a moment her pale eyes were malignant. Startled at the sudden stopping of her flow of talk, the guests turned to find the cause, and they regarded Melissa with intent scrutiny, to see what changes the consummation of her odd marriage had made in her. Ravel Littlefield, in the background, looked at her piercingly and with a strange intensity.
But Melissa saw no one but Arabella. She left Geoffrey’s side and almost ran to her sister-in-law. She exclaimed: “Oh, Arabella, I did not know you were an artist! This is truly wonderful!”
Arabella was taken aback. She stared up at Melissa’s austere face, so unusually animated now. She gave the girl a twisted and remote smile. “So it seems that you do not know every thing, my dear?” she said, in a gracious tone, with a jeeringly condescending insinuation. “I can hardly believe it.” She brushed Melissa’s cheek with her tinted lips, standing on tiptoe to accomplish this. “I trust you have recovered from your indisposition of last night?”
“I wasn’t indisposed,” said Melissa, confused. “I just did not care to remain any longer. So I went upstairs and began my work on Papa’s books. I worked almost all night.”
My God, thought Geoffrey. He dared not glance at any of his guests, who were suddenly and passionately interested. In fact, they began to congregate about Melissa. Ravel Littlefield’s expression was one of the utmost enjoyment. He stood near Melissa, and his eyes danced, first on Geoffrey, and then on Geoffrey’s wife. All the ladies’ faces were a study, and Mrs. Littlefield worked
her livid lips as if tasting a rare morsel.
Arabella said, kindly, her eyes dwelling with exaggerated fondness upon Melissa, who suddenly felt something peculiar in the atmosphere: “You must not work so hard, my dear Melissa. You worked all night, you say? Whenever did you sleep?”
Melissa paused. Slowly, her perplexed gaze wandered from one listening face to the other. Then she said, simply: “From about half-past two until half-past seven. The manuscript must be completed for summer publication and there is a lot to do.”
Even kind little Mrs. Holland exchanged glances with Mrs. Eldridge, and the two ladies colored up to their eyebrows in a desperate effort to suppress their mirth. There was not a sound in the room; every man and woman stood as if turned into a statue. Every eye was directed upon Melissa.
Geoffrey stepped to the girl’s side, lifted her hand and placed it upon his arm. “And now, my love,” he said, “shall we join the Philistines and give our attention to the works of art so carefully arranged for our inspection?”
“The Philistines?” began Melissa. But Geoffrey was drawing her with him to the first painting. The others, giving one another eloquent and furtive looks, followed. Arabella smiled. She resembled a plump shark more than ever.
CHAPTER 34
Geoffrey Dunham had quickly, if painfully, learned that the best defense against the voracious and malevolent interest which poor Melissa’s ingenuous blunders aroused in the unsympathetic and conventional was a bland, blank face and an air of natural acceptance. It had taken him only twenty-four hours of squirming mortification, half-laughing and half-infuriated amusement, to learn this. Once let enemies, or even friends, learn that Melissa could discomfit him or appall him, and he might as well hide his wife and himself somewhere and let the world mercifully forget. Taking Melissa and everything she did and said with matter-of-factness, disarmed, or, at least, kept comment in careful whispers behind his back.
Melissa Page 33
