“Well, James, what is it? What’s wrong with you? You’ve the face of an undertaker.”
James was immediately frightened. He first decided to deny that anything was wrong, and tried to assume a more cheerful expression. He had come to the conclusion that there was no way in which he could “speak” to Geoffrey, except obliquely.
“It’s just that Mrs. Dunham’s maid, Rachel, has had to go to Pittsburgh, sir, for a few days, to care for a sister who has become ill.”
“Oh,” said Geoffrey. He regarded James thoughtfully. “You miss the girl, eh? Sweet on her?”
James blushed. “Well, you could call it that, sir, if you wish. But it’s because Mrs. Dunham misses Rachel. She’d come to rely on her, if I may say it.”
Geoffrey did not believe this. He could not imagine Melissa “relying” on anyone. Moreover, why Melissa’s temporary loss of Rachel, who, Geoffrey was certain, was of no importance to Melissa, should sadden James, was quite beyond Geoffrey’s comprehension. But James was looking at him steadily, if fearfully, and Geoffrey’s interest was vaguely aroused.
“Well, the girl will be back soon,” he said tentatively. “And I’m sure that Mrs. Dunham can care for herself for a few days.”
“But Mrs. Dunham is unhappy—about it,” replied James clumsily.
“Unhappy, eh?” Geoffrey thought this over. He did not know whether to be pleased or displeased that Melissa found the loss of a servant distressing. Again, he could not credit it. Knowing Melissa’s painful reserve, her terror of strangers, her inability to make friends, it was not possible to believe that the absence of a girl she had known only in a servile capacity should upset her. Melissa had the arrogance of her type of mind: she would be entirely unaware of the existence of anyone who could not share her interests.
Geoffrey found it all very absurd. He yawned, and lay down. “If Mrs. Dunham is unhappy over her brief loss, James, she will soon be happy again, eh?”
There was nothing James could say. He only sighed in answer, turned down the lamps, and crept away. Geoffrey, irritated again, watched him go. Then he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
But he could not sleep. All at once, the door that separated his apartments from Melissa’s became vivid and sentient to him. It was the only thing in the room, an insistent presence. He turned his back to it and thumped his pillows. Then, slowly, he became angry. He thought of Melissa sleeping soundly and obliviously behind that door, and suddenly she seemed to him an obdurate and silly fool, and one quite hopeless to change. How many nights had he slept like this, alone, with the locked door between him and his wife! How many times had she sat at the table with himself and Arabella, mute and pale, starting if he spoke to her, and replying, if she replied at all, in a faint stammer! If anything, her aversion and fear in his presence had increased these last months. Not even his hypocritical questions about her “confounded work” brought forth a reply that could be regarded as remotely sensible or interested. She was becoming whiter and thinner, even if less fanatical and domineering in opinion.
The night was very quiet now, and Geoffrey’s thoughts became louder and more extravagant. It was hopeless. The girl was miserable, completely wretched. He had done a ridiculous thing in marrying her. She would never want him; she would never be at home in this house. She had her existence here, but she lived in that lean and barren house down the hill, with her dead father and his dead and dusty books. What an idiot, he, Geoffrey, had been, thinking that he could rescue her from a malevolent and exigent ghost! She had not even begun to comprehend that she needed rescuing. She would have been far happier had she remained in her old home, where she could sit in familiar suroundings and live in that empty and soundless world of her own.
I will try once more, thought Geoffrey. If she refuses to go with me, I shall be forced to make other arrangements. She can return to her father and all his damned works, and I will give her a small income. If she will accept it. But she will have to accept it. She has no other choice.
He had come to his decision. But still he could not sleep. He kept seeing Melissa’s white face and long gilt hair, and the lost look in her eyes.
Melissa, too, was sleepless. She had heard Geoffrey’s arrival. While he was with Arabella, and even later, when she had heard him go downstairs, she had lain rigid in bed. She had heard him return, and then his voice and the sounds of his preparations for bed. She had listened with an enormous intensity, as if she possessed nothing but ears.
Then there was only silence behind that door, silence that became full of tumult. After a long while, Melissa slipped from her bed and went to the door. She pressed her hand to it, as Amanda had once pressed her hand to her daughter’s door, and with a similar anguish. Then, slowly slipping down beside it, Melissa crouched in the warm darkness, and now it was her cheek that was pressed to the wood, pressed so strongly and so urgently that the bones of her face protested.
She finally fell asleep in that position. She dreamed that she had opened the door, that she had gone to Geoffrey, crying: “I love you! I love you!” And he had held out his hand to her in the darkness, and she saw the shadow of it in the darkness. She had taken his hand, and had held it convulsively to her breast, and had burst into tears.
She awoke. It was still dark. The tears were wet on her cheeks. She understood now. But she understood also that she could no longer remain in this house where she was unloved and unwanted, where she had been taken in in an indifferent if generous pity.
She crept into bed, and held a pillow in her arms, clutching it passionately, sobbing into it, as if she could get from it some consolation, some tenderness, so great was her need, so terrible her sorrow and despair.
CHAPTER 45
Geoffrey was annoyed to discover, when awakening after a very short sleep, that he had overslept. He had wanted to see Melissa at breakfast time. But now James brought him a tray, and found his master in a very bad mood indeed. During the night James had decided that he must speak, even at the risk of losing his post, but one look at Geoffrey’s dark sullen face made his courage run away like a mouse. He served Geoffrey in silence, helped him to dress.
Geoffrey went downstairs and found his sister in the morning-room, arranging flowers. Her rouge was harsh in the early light, and her morning-robe of green tissue faille, floating with panels, was entirely too young for her, and enhanced the false brassiness of her hair. Her sharp eyes took in Geoffrey’s mood, and she said cheerily: “Good morning, dear Geoffrey. Is it not pleasant today? I do believe the hot weather has abated a little.”
She fluttered up to him archly, and pinned a rose-bud to his coat. The tendrils of her hair tickled his chin, and he lifted his head, trying not to be freshly irritated.
“Where is Melissa?” he asked abruptly. “I especially want to see her this morning and to have a talk with her.”
Arabella concentrated upon the delicate matter of adjusting the rosebud. Then she stood off and surveyed her handiwork with pride. But her heart began to beat unevenly. She smiled at the flower, put her head to one side, and said absently: “She often walks in the morning, after breakfast, and sometimes meets Ravel for one of their everlasting talks about the most absurd things.”
She went back to her vases and to the heaps of flowers on the table. Her hands shook. Geoffrey knew that Ravel was a new, if temporary, neighbor. He had often, on his visits home, invited the younger man to this house. He had, in a way, even begun to like him, or at least to be amused by him, for Ravel had lately lost his facetious mannerisms and poses. But this was the first he had heard of Melissa showing any interest in him. He was surprised, and he smiled a little, which was not exactly the reaction Arabella had expected. After a few moments, she glanced up, and when she saw that smile she could have struck him with the bouquet she held.
“Well, well,” he said jocularly, trying to readjust himself to the vision of Melissa actually talking to someone, actually walking with a stranger. “What can she find in that jackanapes to interest
her? You mean, Arabella, that she sees him often and alone? How did he manage that?”
Arabella sat down abruptly, full of rage. She smiled sweetly. She said; “Oh, yes indeed, she often sees him alone.” The time for complete caution was gone. She looked at Geoffrey’s amused face, and hated him. Yet she did not dare go too far. “I believe he is writing a poem on which he consults her frequently.”
Geoffrey burst out laughing, and with the laughter his black mood disappeared. “How typical of Melissa!” he exclaimed. (The fool! The dear fool!) “No doubt she gives him the benefit of her classical education, with her usual severity and insistence on perfection.”
“I believe,” said Arabella, in a stifled voice, “that he is writing a poem which he is to dedicate to her. Melissa told me that.”
Geoffrey considered this, and was more and more amused. “He told me about the poem, and I generously offered to read it when he had finished it. So he is dedicating it to Melissa! This is very interesting, indeed, very rich. And it is also good news, for it shows that Melissa is slowly coming out of her shell, poor girl.” He bent to sniff at a flower-filled vase. “When does she return from these edifying walks?”
“There is no particular time,” said Arabella, heavy with her defeat and fury. She tried once more: “We both know dear Melissa, of course. But I have heard whispers from others; there is some thought that Melissa is a trifle indiscreet in being seen so regularly with Ravel along the river.”
“What nonsense!” said Geoffrey, still pleased at the thought of Melissa emerging from her solitariness. “Let the old women wag their heads. Can you imagine Melissa, dear Arabella, having an intrigue with anyone? If she wanders around with that popinjay, and listens to his poems, she has no more intention of being improper than has a young child.”
“Oh, of course, dear Geoffrey!” cried Arabella. She waited, still hoping that she had planted an ugly idea in her brother’s mind. But he only mused on what he had heard, then laughed again, his hateful, boisterous laugh. She said: “I do think, though, that you might suggest to Melissa that she see Ravel less often. It does no good to inspire gossip.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind! Ravel is evidently good for Melissa; though, knowing Ravel, I wonder how he came to find her interesting. She is definitely not the type for him. But he is probably bored to death in Midfield. Bella, can you imagine anyone who knew Melissa even slightly, believing in any such gossip about her?”
“Certainly not!” said Arabella, her voice shaking with her emotions. “It is all very silly.”
Geoffrey strolled towards the door. His sister watched him go. He whistled softly, and glanced through the windows at the warm, bright sun. “Not going to church, eh?” he said.
“No, dear Geoffrey. If you remember, I never go on the Sundays you are home. We see you so seldom as it is.”
He was in a mood to be touched by this. “Well, I am afraid that you wont see much of me today, however. I am going to work in the library. When Melissa returns, will you send her in to me? We are going to discuss the European matter.” Arabella waited until he had left the room, then she flung the scissors violently from her and began to cry. She had tried, and it had been useless. She had lost everything. She had not the faintest doubt but that he would succeed with Melissa, and that her own life was over. Perhaps, though, Geoffrey would give her an allowance and let her go away to Philadelphia to live, among her friends, or perhaps he would buy her a small house in Midfield. She wiped her wet eyes and looked at the sunshine streaming through the windows. The great house was fragrant and silent about her. Her home! This was the house in which she had been born, which she loved and cherished, which was part of herself! How could she bear to leave it, to give it up to a slut and a drab, a fool and a dolt?
Her tears came faster, and she wept as she had never wept before.
CHAPTER 46
Geoffrey worked busily on the copy for Mr. Dickens’ latest novel. It was a bundle of London newspapers containing all the installments of the story, which was to be published in book form in the spring. Geoffrey’s chief editor had scrawled disparaging remarks in the margins, for he was no admirer of the writer. Geoffrey deleted the scribblings, or, in reply, wrote some sarcastic remark.
He became so absorbed that he did not know how time was passing. Then, when he glanced up, to rub his aching eyes, he saw Melissa standing mutely on the threshold, a thick sheaf of papers in her hand.
He was so startled that he did not rise. Suddenly, he knew that she had been there a long time. She had been standing there and looking at him while he worked, watching him in her curious still silence. Only fear could inspire such muteness, such timidity, and Geoffrey became angry. Why was she so pale and thin, and why was there so much speechless misery in her eyes? Was he so abominable, so repulsive, so fear-inspiring, that he could bring her to such a pass? All his resentment of the night, his sense of hopelessness, his angry resignation, returned in full force and, with them, an intense depression and pain.
He said, without greeting her by so much as a single word or smile: “Why do you stand there, Melissa, like a dummy? Why don’t you come in? Why didn’t you indicate you had returned, like a sensible person?”
For a moment longer she stood there. He sat behind his desk, his cold eyes fixed upon her, and in them she thought she saw derision and impatience. She looked at him and she felt that something flowed out of her towards him in a wild and frenzied current of anguish and longing, and this made any word she attempted to say die off in her throat. She toyed with the papers in her hand. She became even whiter, if possible. Her hair was disordered. Her mouth had fallen open a trifle, and there was a pinched blueness about it.
Geoffrey, more and more angered and hurt, said sarcastically: “Well, come in. I want to talk to you, Melissa if you can spare time from these poetic excursions with Ravel, about which I have just heard.”
Melissa said, in the faintest of voices: “I didn’t see Ravel today.”
“Come in, come in!” said Geoffrey impatiently, throwing aside his pen. “Apparently, though, you find his company more congenial than mine. You couldn’t have been unaware that I had returned, yet you went in search of that grandiloquent poet rather than greet me.”
“I had something to tell him,” whispered Melissa. But Geoffrey only heard the dry rustle of the sound, and he was too incensed to care. He watched her move heavily towards him across the floor. She did not take her eyes from his face. They were enormously widened and abnormally bright and fixed. Then she was standing before him, in front of the desk.
They regarded each other in a thick silence. The sunlight poured over the books on the walls and made a tangled pattern on the floor. Birds cheeped in the trees outside; a soft wind fluttered the draperies. At this closer range, Geoffrey studied Melissa’s face. When she would be on her death-bed she would have such a face and wear such an expression of suffering and torment. He wanted to get up and go to her, to hold her in his arms, and the impulse was so strong that his whole body stiffened. But he would only frighten her the more, only send her fleeing from him in complete terror. He remembered the night of their marriage, and his promise. Because of his own pain, his rage against her increased, and his compassion. He must be very patient, and kind. But he had already a for-boding of defeat and despondency.
Then, without looking away from him—she seemed to be hypnotized—she thrust the sheaf of manuscript at him and said feebly: “I’ve completed Papa’s book. It is all here. I hope you may admire it as it deserves.”
His face tightened and darkened ominously. He regarded her steadily. Then he took up the manuscript. How was he going to speak to her? What was he to say? He had no words at all with which to approach that tortured mind and reason with it. Sightlessly, he began to ruffle the carefully written pages of the manuscript. He even read a phrase or two, in the first section. It was obvious that old Charles had not improved, that his writings were as pedantic and solemn and without interest as they had a
lways been.
With a motion of his hand he put the book aside. “Why do you not sit down, Melissa?” he asked coldly. He began to rise, as if to offer her the chair beside him, but she sat down with such haste that he stopped. So, he thought, it’s come to such a pass that she is terrified at the very idea of my even approaching her. Certainly her expression and features had, in the last moment or two, become more haggard and drawn. But why did she stare at him so strangely, as if the poor girl was nothing but eyes? Did she believe she had to watch him like this, so that any move of his might not escape her besieged notice? He began to feel the full force of her anguish and dread.
“There are some things I wish to talk with you about,” he began, in as neutral a tone as possible.
She lifted one hand in a jerky and distracted gesture. “You haven’t really looked at Papa’s book,” she stammered. “I wish you would. It—it is very important to me.”
He was about to refuse brusquely, and then he thought that he would oblige her and give her a little time in which to lose her panic in his presence. So, with a motion that was not free of exasperation and contempt, he pulled the manuscript towards him again and flipped through some pages towards the close, never unconscious for a moment of her piercing and distraught eyes.
Every page was neat and perfect, written in her clear, angular hand. Geoffrey’s mind was too preoccupied to allow him to concentrate, and it was his intention merely to pretend to read. But then a phrase or two began to penetrate his consciousness, and he found himself reading with the true editor’s attention.
In the summary comparing modern scientists and philosophers with the ancient Greek, there were several quotations from Darwin and Huxley. Then Melissa had written: