The little man accompanied them outside and carefully drew the door closed behind him. Andrew no longer scowled. By the light of the storm-wracked moon and the intermittent lightning, he eyed James with a sudden interest. James bent towards him and whispered hastily:
“I have tried to tell the master, but there did not seem to be the opportunity or the words, Mr. Upjohn. I wanted to tell him how wretched Mrs. Dunham was in this house while he was away. The madam, Mrs. Shaw, made her life a misery, sir. Yes, a misery,” and he nodded his head with vehemence, and his prominent eyes glared in his small face. “You’ll not quote me direct, sir, but when you see the master, you’ll tell him that you—you’ve heard Mrs. Shaw tried to drive the poor young lady from the house, telling her she was a burden and a shame to Mr. Dunham?”
“I see,” said Andrew softly, his dark face grim in the lightning.
James nodded, over and over. “This’d not happened—today
—Mr. Upjohn, if Mrs. Dunham’s maid, Rachel, had been at home. But she’s in Pittsburgh. The only friend Mrs. Dunham had in this house. It’s pitiful, sir. Every day, there was lessons in manners and deportment, and every day Mrs. Dunham was told she was a—a fool, sir, and would never learn to take her place in society with Mr. Dunham.”
Andrew and Johnnie Barrett looked at each other in silence.
James glanced apprehensively at the door behind him. He came closer to Andrew, and whispered hoarsely: “Rachel told me. The poor young lady had found a copy of a letter her father had written to Mr. Dunham many years ago. It called her stupid, and many worse things, sir. The young lady persuaded herself it meant her sister, your lady, Mr. Barrett, sir. But I think she knew, all the time.”
Andrew’s face changed. But he could not speak. Then he said, in a voice that shook: “Melly. Poor Melly.”
James retreated towards the door. He said, with sudden hushed passion: “I don’t believe it, sir! I don’t believe the poor young lady went off with Mr. Littlefield!” He tore open the door and ran inside, closing it behind him.
The two young men in complete and somber silence got on their horses and rode away down the long gravel paths of the estate. The windless and rainless thunder and lightning rolled and flashed all about them. Night stood on the earth, hot and oppressive, and the branches of trees swooped over their heads.
Johnnie Barrett was never much given to comment, but now he said: “That is an old bitch.”
“I knew. Someway, I knew,” answered Andrew, in a low voice. His hands tightened on the reins. “I blame myself, in a way. I ought to have taken more interest in poor Melly. But she irritated me, probably because I pitied her and didn’t know how to help her. And now it’s too late.” He paused. “No, it’s not too late. If we only knew where she was! I believe that little man. She never went off with Littlefield. That was either to put Dunham off the trail—which means that Melly is brighter and more sly than I think she is—or she decided against it at the last minute. But she’s not gone away with him,” he added positively.
Johnnie’s thoughts were deep, if slow. “Andy, you’ve got to admit that Melissa was a queer one. Like a child, if you see what I mean. She never knew anything. People, grown-up people, could do anything they wanted with Melly. I didn’t know her well, but all at once I know that’s true. People could tell her anything and she’d believe it, especially if she trusted them. She couldn’t lie, and so she couldn’t believe others could. You once said she was suspicious. But I don’t think she was, except as a calf is suspicious, or a young deer. But if someone got her confidence, or she believed in ’em, she’d swaller anything.”
“Yes,” said Andrew, looking at his brother-in-law with new respect, “she’d ‘swaller’ anything. That’s been the whole trouble, all her life, with Melly. She’s older than I am, but she’s an innocent, if there ever was one.”
They cantered more quickly now, towards Johnnie’s house. There was a long silence between them. Then Andrew said an extraordinary thing, in a loud, compassionate and wondering tone: “D’you know, Johnnie, the trouble with Melly is that she is—she is what they call ‘pure.’ And that’s a bad business in this world.” He added, with bitter urgency: “Christ! If I only knew where she was!”
They did not speak until they came within sight of Johnnie’s house. Then Johnnie reined in his horse, and spoke awkwardly: “Look here, Andy. I can’t handle this—I mean, Phoebe. Had hysterics, when she was told. All about your sister disgracin’ and dishonorin’ us, and such damn foolishness. Phoebe’s a nice girl, but she’s got some wrong idees, and I’ve been a-workin’ on ’em, and maybe I’m gettin’ somewheres. I don’t know. A good girl, but she got her share of gettin’ twisted by your dad. Anyways,” said Johnnie, pleadingly, “I’d take it as a favor if you’d come in a minute and quiet Phoebe down, tell her what you think about your sister. She sets quite a store by you.”
Andrew had the natural horror of the male for female hysterics. He was about to refuse. But he liked Johnnie. He hesitated only a moment, then went on in with his brother-in-law.
Phoebe, waiting and weeping in the “parlor,” heard the jingle of their harness. She flew to the door, and with a cry of joy she saw the flickering of the lanterns they carried. She ran out onto the steps to meet them, throwing out her arms in a distraught and tragic gesture.
“Johnnie! Andy! Did you see Melissa? She was herel I wouldn’t take her in, and now she’s gone. O Johnnie, Andy, you’ve got to find Melissa!”
Melissa had once read, in an old French tale, of a suicide. The author had gone into great detail as to the mental and emotional state of the suicide in the process of causing his own death. It had been very gruesome, vivid and minute.
The suicide had reflected profoundly on his anguish, and on the despair which had finally led to this end. Never had his mind been so acute, so well-ordered, so meticulous in functioning. But the author, of course, had never attempted suicide. He had never known that a man about to take his life thinks nothing at all, has no emotions in the final moment, no feelings, no passions. He is a blind organism going unconsciously towards extinction, and if he has any sensation it is merely of a faint but pervading relief, such as one feels when escaping pain under an anesthetic.
Never in her life, not even during sleep, had Melissa been so devoid of any mental or emotional reactions. There was nothing in her but a black blindness and unawareness. She was the utter negation of all passion. She had not gone into the water deliberately. The powerful wish-to-die, which lies at the foot of the tree of life like the primordial soil which paradoxically nourishes it, had taken complete possession of her. The tree had fallen; only the soil remained, covering up the faded branches, the rotting trunk. She had gone into the water without knowing why, driven by profound and instinctive impulses. For the first time in her life, instinct, rather than reason, however grotesque, had taken over the final decision.
She saw nothing, felt nothing. The water rose to her chin; the river’s current caught and tugged at her heavy clothing. Her feet went, obediently, down and down. Now the water lapped at her lips, coldly.
An unusually sharp flare of lightning lit up the river all about her. It struck her eyes, and she blinked, and started instinctively. It was this last protective reflex of her body which suddenly woke her, momentarily, to where she was and what she was doing.
The torn moonlight glimmered over the water, silvered ridges on the flowing blackness. She heard, in her ears, the water’s loud voice, like the voice of an urgent multitude. She stood still, bracing herself against the current which urged her on. Slowly she turned her head and saw the waste behind, beside and before her. She stood and resisted for a long time, looking and realizing.
She thought: What am I doing? What brought me into the river? When did I go down into it? And then, after a blank and absorbed moment: Am I such a coward, then? Am I such a fool?
Something within her, black, deep, abysmal, had betrayed her. She had read, with scholarly detachment, about
“instinct.”
But she did not realize that it was instinct that had betrayed her now, and that neither cowardice nor courage had brought her to the very edge of death. She felt only an enormous and bitter scorn of herself, a passionate contempt. It was not a sudden love for life, or a desire for it, which made her slowly turn about, carefully search for a footing on the muddy floor of the river, and move towards the shore again. It was only a devastating disgust.
She had no plans at all. Her only desire, now, was to reach land, to be free of the loathsome thing which had brought her into the water.
The water reluctantly receded from her, fell back to her shoulders, to her breasts, to her waist, to her hips. Her long loose hair was drenched; her clothing clung to her numbed body like wet stone. Slimy waterweeds draped themselves like gleaming ropes over her shoulders, had twined themselves about her arms. In the moonlight, her face was white and set and still, and strangely old.
Now the water had fallen to her knees. She went on, doggedly, though each moment was a crucial grim struggle against the desire to lie down and rest, with the water covering her in complete forgetfulness. The water fell to her ankles.
It was then that she saw lanterns flickering madly along the shore, running up and down the fern-covered banks, lighting up the lower branches of the threshing trees. It was then that she heard men’s voices calling her desperately, mingling with the thunder. She did not answer until she had climbed the bank, until she had thrown back her dripping hair, and then her voice came strong and loud against the wind.
A lantern came running up to her, and behind it she saw the face of her brother. The lantern stopped abruptly, then swung towards her.
Later, Andrew told himself that he would never forget the sight of his sister, who had just risen out of the river. He would never forget the sight of her in the stormy moonlight, with her pale hair glimmering and drowned, with her clothing carved about her, with her face, deathly and fixed, turned towards him, the moon-torn black water behind her.
He had dropped the lantern, then, and had run the last few steps. But he was not quick enough. She fell at his feet before he could catch her.
CHAPTER 51
For at least half an hour, Geoffrey had not spoken at all. He had just walked back and forth, up and down the library, with measured steps as though he was completely occupied with his own thoughts. Even his sister had stopped talking and weeping loudly, and now huddled in her chair dabbing at the acid tears which kept oozing from her eyes.
The great grandfather clock in the hall boomed three times. The threatening storm had blown itself away long ago. Now the stars were wheeling and dimming, and the darkness had become tense with the soundless quality of waiting. It was still too early for the morning birds. The earth held her breath, and the moon sank.
For the past three hours everything that could be said had been said by Arabella, in the brightly lit library which poured its lamplight onto the dark lawns and trees outside. Arabella was completely exhausted. Even her triumph, her high elation and almost delirious joy, had subsided before her weariness. She had talked, and Geoffrey had said very little. He had walked into the house at midnight, had given his bag, hat, cane and gloves to James, had gone directly into the library, where his sobbing sister had been waiting for him, and had said one word only: “Yes?”
He had known it was about Melissa, though Arabella, naturally, had not, in her telegram, mentioned the name of his wife, and had only urged his immediate return. He had sat in the train, unseeing. He had known that some calamity was waiting to be told him at home, that it concerned Melissa and Melissa only. He had not allowed himself to think, though a thousand times during the short journey he had seen Melissa mysteriously dead, mysteriously ill, vanished. He had asked nothing of the coachman who met him. It was all Melissa. He had no sooner stepped inside the house than he knew that Melissa was gone, not dead, but gone completely. And so he had said: “Yes?”
The last of Arabella’s rouge had melted away in her excited tears, and her elaborate coiffure had become a heap of agitated strings. She had sent Ellis away. She had wanted only to sit and think, until Geoffrey returned. Fear, exultation, anxiety, dread, and hope, had alternately assailed her. There were times when she wanted to get up and fly from the house; other times when she longed only for her bed; still other times when every nerve, sinew and muscle in her body seemed tense and drawn beyond endurance. When she heard Geoffrey’s step she had been stricken with terror, and she had caught Melissa’s letter and crushed it in her hand.
As Geoffrey came across the room towards her, she had looked at his face, unable to speak. He was white and drawn, and there was a blue shadow about his nostrils and lips. She had held out the letter to him, speechlessly. He had taken it, but before reading it he had looked at her steadily for a long and inscrutable moment.
He read it, slowly and carefully, standing there before his sister. Then he folded it neatly and put it away in his pocket His expression had not changed in the least, had become neither enraged nor saddened. He said: “And now? Tell me all about it.”
She had told him, finally finding words that gushed and splattered forth hysterically, that became a mixture of orderly explanation, furious denunciation of Melissa, hypocritically sympathetic tirades against him for his folly in marrying “the drab,” protestations of her own innocence in the affair, confessions that she had heard “tales” but had refused to believe them, and her own torment when the letter had been brought to her in the morning. As she talked, she gained confidence, and her gestures became dramatic, even theatrical in their extravagance. She mouthed, demonstrated her own shocked expression of disbelief when she had first read the letter, rolled her eyes and clasped her hands passionately together to show him her second reaction, repeated her crushed denials to Ellis, imitated Ellis attempting to comfort her, threw herself back in her chair and closed her eyes to show him how she had fainted when she finally began “to realize,” rose to her feet and tragically pressed her hands against her bosom to exhibit her gathering shock of the morning, collapsed again in her chair, and burst into fresh tears.
Geoffrey had not moved or spoken during all this fine repetition of her earlier emotions and actions. He had only watched her, with a curious deadness in his eyes. Then he had said: “Yes.” He had taken out Melissa’s letter again, and had reread it. He sat down, regarded his sister unmovingly, without speaking.
Something cold ran over Arabella’s body. To divert his attention from herself, she cried: “As I told you, Geoffrey, this has been going on all summer! Whispers came to me, but I refused to believe them. Whoever would have thought it of Melissa? I knew she walked with Ravel; it was not possible not to know it. But I thought it mere friendliness, loneliness, if you will. He had gained her confidence, though I blame him less than I blame her. They often mentioned that they had been together along the river and in the woods, but in so open and, I now see, so guileful a manner, that I could not suspect in the least!”
“But you did suspect,” said Geoffrey, very quietly. “Before I went away on Sunday night, if you remember, you intimated something. So, you did suspect. And, suspecting, you allowed that filthy rascal to dine at this house regularly, you entertained him at my table. Why, Arabella? I think I know.”
He had stood up then, and had begun that endless walking up and down the room. Arabella, stunned, watched him for a little, then she burst out:
“I tell you, I did not suspect! Oh, I began to think it indiscreet! Did I not suggest to you a few days ago that you speak to Melissa? Think, Geoffrey,” and now her face glared with relief. “Think! You will remember that I told you!”
But he did not answer her. He walked up and down, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him.
She continued, her voice thick and urgent with fear of him: “It was not until last week that I became seriously concerned, and that is why I spoke to you. Until then I thought it nothing, and when I heard whispers I was only angry. I believed
in Melissa. I always thought her sly and stupid, and did not conceal my opinion from you, but I never thought for a moment that she could be guilty of such perfidy, such dishonor, such shamelessness. I have known her all her life; it was not possible, I thought, that she could be so.”
“No,” said Geoffrey, “it was not possible.”
Arabella could not speak; she had no words in answer to this.
Geoffrey repeated, as if to himself: “It was not possible. It still is not possible. I do not believe it.”
Arabella found her voice, trembling and faint: “I find it easier to believe now. You knew Charles Upjohn. You knew he was a liar, and disingenuous. You knew he was deceitful and treacherous, artful and false. You often hinted to me of these things. Melissa is his daughter. There have been times during the past months when I have discerned the more odious of his traits in her, though less prettily concealed. She does not have his arts and his poses. But she has his nature. I saw that, at last.”
“Charles,” repeated Geoffrey, and paced up and down.
If only he would say something sensible, something enraged and brutal! If even he would begin to accuse her, Arabella! She could endure anything but this quietness of his, this calm and thoughtfulness. She could endure even this, if he had shown signs of being openly stricken or outraged, or full of hatred for his wife. But it was not possible to bear the sight of his expressionless face, with only the blueness around the nostrils and mouth to testify to any inner emotion. For beyond that one reference, he had said nothing about Ravel, had not mentioned his name again.
And then she knew that he did, in spite of his denial, believe that his wife had betrayed him, had run away with another man. He was trying, she saw, to discover why, to learn how such a one as Melissa had come to this pass, and how Melissa, the silent and intolerant and fearful of strangers, had managed to interest herself in Ravel to the point of running away with him.