Melissa did not, Geoffrey knew, share many of the instincts and jejune impulses of the rest of humanity, but she did share one, and to an overpowering degree, the desire for clearcut issues. The stronger the desire for such issues, the more sinister the man, and the more intrinsically stupid, Geoffrey was convinced, not matter how intelligent he was considered. The beginning of wisdom, then, was to understand that there are no clear-cut issues anywhere, nothing which one can absolutely accept to the exclusion of anything else. Those who did not know this were the most dangerous men on earth, more dangerous even than those who believed nothing at all. Out of these came the fanatics who lighted the auto-da-fes, who hung the gibbets with man-flesh, who inspired pogroms, who instigated and encouraged wars and died in them fervently, who incited man to tear at the throat of his brother. Intense belief in anything very often excited hallucinations in the victim, and if sometimes those hallucinations gave rise to great poetry and acts of selfless heroism, they also gave rise to the calamities which periodically almost destroy mankind.
The more Geoffrey considered Melissa’s problem, the more apprehensive he grew. His only relief, when the problem became too exigent, was to remember the morning, two days ago, when he had gone into her bedroom and had seen her lying, white, spent and unconscious, on her bed. Miriam, Andrew’s wife, was beside her, her competent brown hands ministering to the poor girl, while the Judge had hovered distressedly in the doorway, and the doctor packed up his bag.
Somewhere, in the room beyond, Phoebe was weeping, unconsoled by her husband who was as yet too shocked and too outraged by his wife’s part in this tragedy to do anything to comfort her.
Geoffrey had taken the chair indicated by Miriam, and had sat down beside Melissa. He had looked at her for a long time. She might have been dead, as she lay there, her closed eyelids dark and bruised, her mouth carved and bloodless, her cheeks sunken. Her long silver-gilt hair had been braided neatly by Miriam, and lay on her pillows. The warm bricks, wrapped in flannel, which had been placed at her feet and against her body, had not yet warmed her or brought life back into that poor, tormented mind.
Geoffrey’s love and compassion had risen to such heights they were actually a torture. He had longed to take Melissa in his arms, but the doctor had refused to allow him even to touch her. He must wait until she awoke naturally.
She did not awaken until long past noon. By this time, Phoebe had been partially forgiven by Johnnie, and sometimes tiptoed timidly into the room to look at her sister, and to avoid Geoffrey’s eyes. How he must hate her, she thought. But Geoffrey did not hate her. She was only a silly, malicious and envious young woman; in short, she was human. He did not hate his sister; for the first time in his life, he did not even dislike her. For she, too, was human, and had he not once told himself that, being human himself, nothing human was alien to him? One might rail against the vices of humanity, detest them in exalted moments, hate and loathe them. Nevertheless, the fact remained that these were the natural instincts of man. Only centuries of unremitting effort would avail against man’s instincts. The Church understood this, however the lofty theorists might cry that man’s instinctual nature was his best and that man was naturally “good.” The Church stood as an enemy against man’s inherent bestiality, and though Geoffrey, in the past, had smiled at dogma and what he called “cant,” he understood, now, that these could be powerful spells against the evil that was born in humanity and which had projected an objective reality of confusion, hatred, and intolerance upon a whole world.
Melissa awoke without any preliminary moan, sigh, or restlessness. She merely opened her eyes. There was no confusion in them, no bewilderment or pain. She saw Geoffrey beside her, and she lay and looked at him steadfastly, not lifting her hand, or moving. She accepted his presence. He bent over her and took her hand; it was cold but relaxed. Then she smiled faintly, and said, in quite a normal voice: “I tried and tried to remember what it was you once said to me, Geoffrey. It was terribly necessary for me to remember, but I had forgotten.”
Geoffrey could not speak; he could only wait. He was alone with her now. She did not try to take her hand out of his. The fingers began to twine about his fingers as simply and trustfully as a child’s. Her light brows drew together for an instant, and then her smile grew stronger, a smile he had never seen before. In fact, he was not sure that he had ever seen Melissa smile, and the phenomenon was all the more remarkable and engrossing to him.
She said: “I remember now what it was. You said you loved me.”
He made his own smile humorous and indulgent. “So, you forgot it! That is nice to know.”
But Melissa, as he ought to have remembered, had no sense of humor at all. She became agitated.
“Oh, how stupid you must think me! How can you ever forgive such stupidity!”
He said quickly: “Now, Melissa, you take everything too seriously. You are not in the least stupid.” His voice changed, and he said gently: “You never really forgot, you know. It was in your mind all the time. I knew it was there. Just as I know you love me, too. If I had not known it, I should never have married you,” he added with magnificent mendacity.
When he saw the sudden white brilliance that rushed over her face then, he thought he could not bear it. Her head moved weakly towards him on the pillow, and he got up and quite simply bent over her and kised her mouth. As he did so, he could see into the pale blue depths of her eyes, innocent, marvelling, full of tears. He sat down on the edge of her bed and lifted her in his arms. Her head fell against his shoulder. But she could not look away from him.
“Geoffrey,” she said, and then over and over again: “Geoffrey.”
When Phoebe and Miriam, aroused by the sound of voices, tiptoed into the room they found Melissa asleep in her husband’s arms, like an infant, her cheek pressed against his chest, both her hands holding one of his. Geoffrey did not see them enter. He held Melissa close to him, his lips on her hair.
She had asked no questions. She had made no explanations. To her innocence, everything was possible, everything acceptable.
Later, when Melissa slept again after meekly eating the hot soup which Geoffrey fed her, Arabella came in, fearfully. She was ready for anything except Geoffrey’s kind greeting. She could not believe it. She began to cry, to upbraid herself. Geoffrey led her outside into the hot mauve twilight, where they could be alone. The dark lavender hills stood against a background of fire, and a long purple peace floated over the fields and meadows.
“Don’t cry, Arabella,” said Geoffrey. He took his sister’s arm, and for the first time in his life he felt pity for her, even fondness. “It’s all over. I think it’s about time, don’t you, that we should understand each other? You were quite right about me. I’ve been something of a swine to you. I’m sorry, I truly am. Late as it is, you must try to forgive me.”
This excited Arabella beyond control. She accused herself of all manner of crimes, against him and Melissa. She confessed her plot of the past months, her hatred for “poor Melissa,” her determination to get her out of her brother’s house, her envy and malice and resentment. Geoffrey listened without comment. If Arabella expected him to show anger, to denounce her, she was happily disappointed. He listened very gravely and attentively. And he knew that he, too, was guilty, guilty of the misery and humiliation which had driven his sister to such cruelty and ruthlessness.
He said, when her sobs would not let her continue: “Well, Arabella, I suppose it is partly my fault. It goes back more years than I like to remember. Shall we try to forget all of it, you and I; shall we promise each other never to speak of it again?”
“But Geoffrey,” she said, timidly, allowing him to dry her tears, “you surely will not want me in your house, after this? You surely will want me to go away?”
“Nonsense. Of course not. What should we do without you? You know that insofar as household knowledge is concerned, Melissa is practically a child. And I have a feeling she won’t improve very much. And what wh
en the children come? Who will guide and help them, treat them in a common-sense fashion, instruct and discipline them? Melissa? Bella, don’t you find the thought a little ridiculous?”
Arabella looked at him in disbelief, hardly daring to believe that he spoke seriously. But he was smiling at her, inviting her to smile at Melissa with his own indulgent tenderness. And so she began to smile, tremulously. She said: “Oh, Geoffrey.”
She began to see herself with several as yet nameless little children at her knee, listening to their childish lessons, listening to their Sunday-school texts. She heard their pretty babble; she saw herself comfortably, and relievedly, growing gray and stout, a lace cap on her head and a white fichu crossed crisply on her plump bosom. The children would listen to her with adoration, awed by her wisdom and gentleness and patience. This touching and delightful picture made fresh tears come to her eyes. She could even see Melissa in the background, Melissa with a book in her hand, gratefully watching Arabella’s “way” with the children, and thankful that someone was relieving her of a task that would doubtless bore her.
There would, of course, be one child named Geoffrey, who would early show a genius for art. She would take him, and him alone, up to her studio. She would show him her canvases. She would teach him to paint. She saw him as a man, saying: “All the homage I receive, all the fame I have acquired, is due to my saintly aunt, Arabella Shaw, of immortal memory.” But no. That would not be entirely satisfactory. Arabella swiftly deleted the “immortal memory,” and added: “Who is standing at my side, faithful and patient as always.” She saw the admiring and reverent faces of a whole multitude, and her heart swelled.
There would be at least one little girl with golden hair and a grave face, whose triumphs in Philadelphia and New York society would be the result of her aunt’s impeccable taste and guidance. She saw herself supervising brilliant weddings. She heard the wedding march, as the white brides, with bent heads, walked by the sides of their husbands down the flowered aisles of some great cathedral. The brides blushed, and dropped their eyes. But as they passed their aunt they looked up, and their first smiling glance of love was for her, and for her alone, in passionate acknowledgment.
Geoffrey, unaware of these delicious visions, was saying: “And, of course, there must be a special and liberal allowance for you, for yourself and no one or nothing else. I ought to have done that in the beginning.”
“Oh, Geoffrey,” said Arabella, weakly, only half listening, and still absorbed in her dreams.
“I’m not going to say,” added Geoffrey, “that we shan’t have, from time to time, new and unique difficulties with Melissa. I know her too well. But I am trusting to your patience, Bella, and to your kindness. We must never forget what her life has been, and we must make allowances.”
Arabella felt herself capable of dealing with a hundred Melissas’ oddities. “Do I not know and remember that dreadful Charles Upjohn!” she cried. “How can I ever forget what he did to that poor child! I shall never forgive him.”
“Don’t think of him, Bella. I promise you he has gone, and gone forever. I drove out his ghost last night. He’ll never bother Melissa again.”
She stared at him. But he was not smiling.
CHAPTER 53
The next morning Geoffrey had a long talk with Andrew, and with his friend, Judge Farrell, while Miriam and Phoebe helped Melissa to prepare for her return to her home.
“The first thing I am going to do,” said Andrew grimly, “is to pull down that damned old house. We’ll start, almost immediately, before the crops are ready. Every stick and stone will come down. I ought to have done it months ago. Melissa could see it any time she wished, and as long as it’s there, she’ll remember my father.” He paused. “She remembers him now, with disgust, but that’s almost as bad as the other way she remembered him.”
Geoffrey was surprised at the younger man’s subtlety. He nodded his head. “I’m going to take her on a—delayed—honeymoon,” he said. “We’re going to Europe. You can take down the old eyesore while we are gone.”
“No,” said Andrew positively, “I’m going to start tomorrow. You won’t be leaving for at least two weeks.” He added: “And there’ll be no piece of furniture, not even a saucer or a cup, a book or a chair, to remind her. It all goes.”
“Why not burn the whole damn thing down?” asked the Judge, with humor. “Simpler.”
Geoffrey laughed and then was amused to see Andrew in his forthright way so reminiscent of Melissa considering the idea. Humor, thought Geoffrey, was not a conspicuous Upjohn trait. Only Charles had had it in any measure at all.
Geoffrey expressed with frankness to both of his sympathetic friends his deep concern about Melissa. “If she were younger,” he said, “the problem would not be such a source of anxiety to all who care for her. Ordinarily healthy children learn early that man is naturally ‘evil,’ a murderer and a liar and they accept this fundamental truth as they accept the food they eat and the air they breath. By the time they reach maturity they have incorporated this knowledge in their own minds and have made compromises, steadily adjusting themselves to their own natures and to the very similar natures of other men. Unless they become either saints or politicians, they give no particular thought to it, neither lamenting it nor plotting to use it unduly.”
The Judge nodded soberly, while Andrew listened in intent silence.
“But Melissa,” continued Geoffrey, “is no longer young. The full nature of man has been revealed to her at a time when she is not young enough to digest and forget it, to accept it as one of the irrefutable facts of life. It was revealed to her when she possessed both the awful innocence of a child and the maturity and insight of an intelligent human being. Her well-developed mind is incapable of forgetting as a child normally forgets. Moreover, though a young child does not reflect, and so cannot comment to himself on his own nature, Melissa not only can see but inevitably will meditate upon what she sees. I am afraid this will be a constant source of misery to her.”
“Well,” said the Judge, after thoughtfully considering this, “I can see that you’re going to have your hands full, Dunham. I don’t envy you. But it is something, I suppose, to have a woman like Melissa as a wife.”
Geoffrey sighed. “I don’t know. If Melissa could be thrown into such disruption, such despair and agony, upon her first real contact with the world and the nature of men, then she is due for successive and steadily more devastating shocks. Worse, she possesses an inflexibility of temperament, a fanatical inability to compromise. Sometimes, in spite of everything, I am afraid that she will be constantly besieged and embattled. This does not argue very well for her own peace of mind.”
Andrew said, with firmness: “Melissa was always a fighter. I don’t think you ought to worry too much. Melissa without a fight for something or other on her hands would be miserable. I know.”
Geoffrey laughed. “Yes, I see. And they’ll always be fanatical fights. I suppose I ought to try to find harmless subjects for her to fight over.”
“I think,” said the Judge, “that the only hope for the girl will be to convince her that her latest opinion cannot possibly be the true and final one, that there are no fixed verities anywhere in the universe. Try to get her to doubt what her senses reveal to her, help her to be uncertain about any posi tive judgment of her own, and I think everything will be all right. Of course, it would be her salvation could she develop a sense of humor, but I suppose that is too much to expect.” Geoffrey laughed again. “Sometimes I wonder whether the development of a sense of humor, with its ability to compromise, is not the final corruption of man.”
Phoebe came out, still avoiding meeting Geoffrey’s eyes, and announced that Melissa was ready to go home. Arabella, too, had arrived in the Dunham carriage, and was waiting.
Geoffrey went into the large, old-fashioned bedroom, trying to cover, with a smile, his anxiety over Melissa. She was waiting for him, dressed in the clothing Arabella had brought: a soft, pale-blue
poplin gown with cascades of white lace at breast and elbows. A broad yellow straw hat had been tied on her head, and her hands were gloved. There was a quiet and tranquil air about her, subdued and meditative. When Geoffrey entered, her white face became illuminated with that new look of hers, a shy yet fixed adoration which made her tired eyes kindle with brilliance. This always disconcerted Geoffrey while it delighted him. He began to wonder whether it was a good thing for Melissa to have transferred her fanaticism to himself. It imposed too impossible a burden on a mere human being. It had in it, for Melissa, the potentiality of pain, disillusionment and distress.
He sat down beside her and took both her hands in his. He leaned towards her, no longer smiling, but very grave:
“My darling, I am taking you home now. You are going to be very happy there, with me. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, Geoffrey,” she said, and her hands clung to his.
He sighed. “Melissa, I must talk to you before we leave. It is very important. You know, now, that you were wrong about many things and had formed dangerous opinions which almost destroyed you?”
“Yes.” She spoke simply and fully. “I was wrong. I was so very wrong about dear little Phoebe, and Arabella. They are so good. I never knew people could be so kind.”
Geoffrey frowned. “Melissa, listen to me closely. Phoebe and Arabella have not changed in the least. They are neither better nor worse than they were a week ago, a month ago, a year ago, or when they were born. If you continue to think them angels, formerly unjustly maligned by you, you are going to have plenty of shocks. I want you to remember this: Accept everybody just as he or she is. Demand from them nothing impossible in kindness, virtue, generosity, sympathy or wisdom. At the present moment, you think I am all perfection. If you continue to think that, you are going to suffer, and that might embitter you and turn you against the whole world. We are all just human beings. You have no right to expect anything very much from anybody.”