Melissa

  The pulses beat and throbbed heavily in her throat and temples, even in her breast, so that all her body was quaking and her arms and legs vibrated. Rachel knocked softly at the door; Melissa shrank and wrapped her towels about her. “Not yeti” she cried frantically. Mortification was almost upon her, and she completed her drying in a frenzied rush.

  She almost tore the lace-trimmed chemise as she wrenched it over her shoulders. She fastened the strings of her petticoats with hands that felt huge and numb. She looked around the room in desperation, then caught up her old brown frock and put it on. It slipped over the rustling silk with a strange and intoxicating sound, and for the first time in her life she felt against her flesh the sliding softness of a satin chemise. It was like a lewd touch, a lascivious caress. Rachel opened the door and entered, with the blue gown over her arm, and smiling as always. She continued to smile, even when she saw Melissa’s distraught face and the desperate fear in her eyes, and the brown frock.

  “But, Mrs. Dunham, I have brought your gown,” said Rachel, laying that object tenderly on the bed. “And you haven’t put on your silk stockings yet.”

  Melissa, dazed, looked down at her bare feet, bent her knees a little to cover them with the hem of her skirt. “I have no gown! That doesn’t belong to me!” she cried, with vehemence. “This is mine, and I shall wear it.”

  “But Mr. Dunham expressly wished you to wear this,” urged Rachel.

  Melissa paused. Her “duty” again! She went to the bed, lifted the lovely blue gown, and examined it scornfully. It slipped through her hands; her rough nails bruised the shining silk. She let it slip, caught it, let it slip again. The texture of it made that half-sheepish, half-childish look flash out on her face once more. Then, seeing Rachel admiringly beside her, she flung the gown down and held out her hands for the stockings, hands stuck stiffly out before her in an attitude of contempt. Rachel gave the stockings to her meekly, but there was a dimple of triumph near her mouth. She knew the words, now, that could subdue Melissa.

  Melissa sat down, turned her back, and pulled on the stockings, which were short and much too tight. Then she had her own rather artless triumph. “I have nothing but those old black boots of mine,” she announced. “They will show under the blue dress.”

  Rachel looked at the boots in dismay. Then she said, dubiously: “If you are careful, Mrs. Dunham, they will not show.”

  Grimly, Melissa fastened the shoes, stood up. She swept up the dress, opened a closet door, and disappeared within. Rachel sighed, and shrugged. She had learned a great deal about Melissa and the other Upjohns while sitting in the sewing-room; much that had puzzled her was now explained. She laughed a little, silently. The poor, frightened young ladyl She, Rachel, must do all she could to help her. Ellis was a bad and very mean fool; the other maids had been kinder in their stories about the new wife of Mr. Dunham.

  Melissa stalked out of the closet like a grenadier, full of lofty derision for the figure she must cut in this foolish blue silk. In the darkness, she had fastened it awkwardly, and Rachel went to her. This time, Melissa did not retreat. She allowed the buttons to be fastened properly; she watched Rachel’s deft fingers at the sweeping draperies, the bustle, the folds. Then she said, suddenly: “Where do you come from, Rachel?” Her eyes were younger now, and wide with simple curiosity, as she felt her first interest for any human being beyond her own family.

  “Oh, I’m from Philadelphia,” said Rachel, kneeling to straighten the hem, and thanking her private God for the fact that the boots were covered. In order to distract Melissa, she told of her orphan state, of her ten sisters, “all in service,” of her dead parents, of her own years of being maid to grand Philadelphia ladies. Melissa listened, mouth parted in wonder and curiosity; to tales of a world quite beyond her previous comprehension.

  “How old are you, Rache!?” she asked, when the girl paused to examine a loose thread.

  “I am twenty-seven, Madame,” replied Rachel, abstractedly.

  “And you never wanted to be anything but a lady’s maid?” cried the ingenuous Melissa, indignantly, and yet with an unfamiliar compassion. “It was because you never had the opportunity, of course! How cruel, how wrong, how unjust!” She could not conceive of the fact that any woman could prefer such “degrading” service to the lofty climate of the educated mind. “Oh, Rachel, if you only had had a father like mine, so learned, so wise and famous! If you only had had an opportunity to acquire and read books, and gather knowledge! It is wicked that you never had this opportunity, and there is something vile about a world which has denied it to you.”

  Rachel sat back on her heels and stared up at Melissa in pure amazement. “But, Mrs. Dunham, I like this work. I enjoy it, truly. I don’t like books. I can read well enough, but I never had any need or want for them. What would I do with them?” she added, baffled.

  “You never wanted an education?” exclaimed Melissa, aghast.

  Rachel shook her head. “No, ma’am, I did not, and that’s the truth. Neither did my sisters. It was my mother’s last, and best, hope, that all of us would find good positions in service, do our work well, save our money, and perhaps marry some respectable man some day.”

  Melissa blinked. A world of such plebeian and simple aspirations was to her incredible; it was her firm conviction that any man or woman would delight in the dream of release from ugly toil, of admittance to the cloisters of learning.

  “We can’t all be ladies with books and pianos,” pleaded Rachel. “And most of us would rather work like this, for nice people, and save a little money. After all, willing hands and hard work and respect for one’s betters is a good thing, too, and maybe God thinks it’s just as important as anything else.”

  Melissa was silent. Then she said: “It’s just that you never had an opportunity.”

  Rachel smiled cheerfully. “Well, ma’am, if that’s so, I’m glad. I couldn’t be any happier than I am now, and I could be a lot more miserable. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  Suddenly Melissa remembered a saying of William Hazlitt’s: “It is better to be able neither to read nor to write than to be able to do nothing else.” Her father had quoted that saying to her in gentle derision. “The man was evidently, and self protectively, afraid of the aristocrat of learning and letters,” he had said. “It is always the mark of the fool and the peasant to scorn one’s superiors and to find their accomplishments of no worth.”

  Melissa thought, confusedly: Perhaps, Papa, you were wrong, and perhaps William Hazlitt was right. Rachel is certainly neither a fool nor an inferior. She does her work well and cheerfully, and finds it good. What more can one wish? What, in the end, is more satisfying than to have enjoyed what one had to do, and to take pride in it, whether it be the writing of a book or the sewing of a dress or the tilling of the soil?

  She listened to her own thoughts, and then was shocked and horrified. What was she thinking? What was this new corruption which kept whispering in the secret places of her mind, this treachery and disloyalty to her father and all the glory of his life, this descending into banality and dangerous stupidity in the manner of the rest of the world?

  She said hurriedly, and severely: “I’m not so sure, Rachel, that it is well for one’s—spirit—to be content with base and degrading things. If you wish, I will lend you books, and teach you—”

  “You are very good, ma’am,” said Rachel with a smile, and with a fervent hope that Melissa would forget the horrid thought.

  Melissa’s eyes brightened. “And then you can become a governess, Rachel. That will be one step forward, and then—”

  Rachel was not sure that her young mistress was serious, but one glance at her face depressingly assured the girl that she was. She decided not to pursue the subject. As her mother had said, it wasn’t a good thing to submit to vapors.

  To distract Melissa, Rachel confided that her one and only brother had been killed in the war. This brought Melissa’s thoughts to Andrew, Andrew who wanted the land.
She felt a deep pang, but it was less violent than the pangs she had endured that morning. She turned away from the thought of Andrew, and found it surprisingly easy to do so.

  Rachel had eased her unconsciously to the dressing-table seat, and Melissa looked up, startled to see her face in the mirror and the soft blue silk on her shoulders. The bodice was artfully cut very low, a small contrivance of Rachel’s, and under it Melissa’s breasts swelled clearly and unmistakably. The color enhanced the intense whiteness of her flesh, made it shimmer like marble, turned the paleness of her eyes to a more intense blue. Incredulous, she bent forward to stare at her self, at this unbelievable transformation. Her loose, unfastened pale hair flowed over her like a long and gleaming shawl. Rachel picked up a length of it experimentally. “It is beautifull” she said, in a reverent voice.

  The eyes of the two young women met in the mirror, Melissa’s confounded, Rachel’s triumphant and pleased. Then Melissa colored. Her old habit of suspiciously sensing ridicule under the smooth phrasing of a compliment returned, but, to her wonder, she sensed no ridicule in Rachel. “That is very kind of you,” she said stiffly, and removed the length of hair in Rachel’s hand. She began to braid it quickly, her cheekbones becoming tinted. But Rachel put her fingers on the braid. “Mr. Dunham would prefer that I dress it for you, ma’am,” she urged.

  Melissa’s hands immediately dropped, and she sat like a stone. Rachel lifted a gold-backed brush and began gently to brush her mistress’s hair. With deft strokes, she brought out the brighter highlights, then, swiftly, with careful and critical judgment, she wound the mass about her hands and wrists, and swung the hair into a smooth and twisted knot at Melissa’s nape. It’s large contours outlined her tall and slender neck; the temples gleamed like dim old gold. “That is perfect for you, ma’am,” said Rachel, in a hushed tone of reverence. “No waves, no ringlets, no curls.”

  Melissa could not believe what she saw. She listened to Rachel’s admiring comments with a strange thirst. She bent forward to study her face again, and the sleek blueness on her shoulders. She flushed, and the gaunt shadows ran from her cheeks, her mouth turned pink. It was impossible to deny that she looked quite—presentable. Of course, it was all folly, but tomorrow she could forget about it. She turned her head slightly to catch the lamplight on her hair, and something warm and sweet flooded her.

  There was a knock on the dressing-room door, which opened. Geoffrey entered, carrying a small box in his hands. At his appearance, Melissa jumped to her feet, almost upsetting Rachel. She blushed violently and showed every sign of acute agitation. Geoffrey immediately observed this, and he thought to himself: She has been thinking of me. Then he saw the transformation in the girl. Slowly, he laid the box on the table, and stood in silence, studying this unbelievable portrait in blue and gilt and white. But I have always known it, he thought, it ought to be no surprise to me.

  He said quietly: “Melissa, you are beautiful.”

  Her color deepened, but now she looked at him shyly.

  Then she lifted the hem of her skirt and, with her complete simplicity, she said: “But look at these boots.”

  Geoffrey studied them gravely. A miracle had taken place. For the first time in her life Melissa was conscious of her appearance. It was a delicate miracle, one that must be nourished and accorded the utmost care if it were to survive.

  “The boots,” said Geoffrey, “are regrettable. But there is nothing we can do about it just now. Within a week or so, proper ones will arrive for you. I think that, with care, these will pass unobserved.”

  It did not occur to Melissa to ask from what source the gown had come. Anything could happen in this extraordinary house, and she wondered, confusedly, why the boots were not forthcoming as the gown had been. Geoffrey opened the box and brought out a velvet container. He opened it and showed Melissa the string of turquoises, diamonds and topazes within. “My mother’s,” he said, as she regarded them with dazed interest. “There are many more, but this is suitable for tonight. It is unfortunate that your ears were never pierced, for there are ear-rings to match. We can change that later. There are also a bracelet, a ring and a brooch here.”

  He picked up the necklace, and moved behind the girl. She started when she felt his fingers at her neck, and shivered a little. But she held herself as still as possible. The necklace gleamed and flashed in the lamplight.

  Geoffrey stood away, and smiled at her as one smiles at a child. Rachel fastened the bracelet on Melissa’s thin wrist, slipped the ring, which seemed a bit loose, on her finger, and pinned the brooch at the deep blue cleft of the bodice. Fire now sparkled with Melissa’s every breath and movement. Rachel stood off and clasped her hands in ecstasy. Before the two pair of admiring eyes Melissa was again darkly suspicious but, search as she would, she could discover no taint of ridicule in either. Was it really possible that she was not hideous and an affront to others? Was it to be believed that she could arouse admiration, not only for her learning but for her actual physical appearance? Her father had often remarked, in a tone at once indulgent and fond: “There are many women who are beautiful, Melissa, but they are invariably fools. There are rare women who have intellect, but they are seldom graced with beauty. Beauty is evanescent, a mere physical manifestation. But intellect is as durable as a diamond, and its brilliance is increased by polishing on the fine grinding wheel of thought. Be thankful, my darling, that you have a brain, if no beauty. I prefer it so.”

  A thought flashed into her mind: Papa had discernment. He could find beauty hidden deep within apparent ugliness. If I am beautiful, as Geoffrey and Rachel say, then Papa must have known it, in spite of my appalling clothes. Why, then, did he attempt to deceive me into thinking that I was ugly? There is always a reason for everything, as you often said, Papa. What was your reason in leading me to believe that I was repellent?

  In her distress, she-forgot her shyness and looked directly at Geoffrey: “My father often told me I had no beauty whatsoever.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. More and more he was beginning to understand. He must, he reflected, speak very carefully. He knew what he must do: He must use Charles dead as a weapon against Charles alive. He made himself smile.

  “Perhaps your father was afraid that you might become too vain, and so neglect him. But he often asked me, asked me many times in fact, whether I did not consider you the handsomest girl I had ever seen. When I assured him that I did, he was inordinately pleased.” He paused. “Your father once expressed his regret that he was unable to clothe you as he desired, to give you the jewels to enhance your appearance. But he was always happy when I promised him that I would do these things for you, myself, some day.”

  Melissa’s tight face softened, and she regarded Geoffrey eagerly.

  Geoffrey went on mendaciously: “How pleased your father would be if he could see you tonight, Melissa. He would be enormously proud. You are dressed as he would have dressed you, had he been able. Who knows? Perhaps he is aware of you at this moment, and is all puffed up with pride.”

  But Melissa frowned at this sentimental childishness. However, she looked at herself in the mirror frankly and openly, without coyness. “I really do seem rather handsome,” she observed. “I should not have believed it.”

  Geoffrey was almost unendurably touched. Involuntarily, he glanced at Rachel. The girl was gazing at Melissa with deep understanding and womanly pity. Geoffrey said, with unusual feeling in his voice: “Rachel, you have done wonders. I cannot thank you enough.”

  Rachel, moved, could not speak, but she curtseyed in silence. She picked up a bottle and sprayed Melissa’s hair with a delicate scent, and gave her a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Melissa examined the latter with her innocent wonder.

  Geoffrey held out his arm to her. She looked at it, mutely, for she was a stranger to the ordinary courtesies. “It is my pleasure to take you downstairs to our guests,” he said gently. She hesitated, then put the tips of her fingers on his arm with awkward timidity.

 
CHAPTER 28

  Arabella sat among her guests, clad in lavender velvet, lace, amethysts and pearls. Her hair was elaborately dressed, with a curled fringe over her wrinkling forehead, puffs at the sides, and a chignon at her neck. Pomade, lavishly applied, had brightened her hair; powder and “tint,” equally lavishly applied, had almost removed all signs of her recent tears and rages, though the edges of her eyelids were still raw. A cloud of attar of roses flowed about her.

  She had always feared her brother, and she had always disliked him. But now these emotions were hugely increased to terror and hatred. She knew he never spoke idly, and that, if she did not please him tonight, she would find herself homeless. He was quite capable also of sending her away without a penny, she reflected, raging inwardly. She was at his mercy; she must do nothing tonight to arouse him again. Her future was insecure enough, as it was, with that horrible creature now mistress of this house. Any slip on her part would render her situation untenable.

  She was very sprightly, very gay and vivacious, as she conversed with her guests tonight, before the fire in the “Yellow Room.” She fluttered her handkerchief, she coquetted, she arched her eyebrows with coy meaning, she simpered and laughed. Oh, yes, indeed, she had known for a long time of dear Geoffrey’s attachment to Melissa Upjohn! The marriage had originally been scheduled for long before the holidays, but then such calamity had visited dear Melissa! First, her father had died; his death had been followed by the death of her mother, and there had been so much to do, with that dear child Phoebe in positive collapse and Andrew’s future to be settled. Then the atmosphere of the house had become so very, very morbid, my dears, and Melissa’s health had begun to fail under the strain. So very terrible. She had been so devoted to both her parents. The dear girl had such fortitude, however. She had been the strength of her household. One is sometimes deceived as to the endurance of the female temperament, its supposed lack of stamina. That was very foolish. When need arose, a woman could be at least as strong as a man. Dearest Melissa had proved that.