Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
Sally glanced at her sharply. She had always thought Melissa ugly, almost as ugly as herself. Now the girl looked haggard and old, her bunched skirts dragging, her bodice badly buttoned, her hair disheveled. Sally smiled to herself. There was no need of telling Melissa that the tasks she had suggested had always been her own. She’d break this fine miss in well, before the mistress knew anything about itl
Melissa sat down before the churn and looked at it, stupefied. She had done very little about this house, for her work with Charles had taken most of her time. Muttering impatiently, Sally waddled over to the churn and showed how the task should be done. Melissa took the handle, moved it up and down with slow regularity, her stricken eyes fixed on nothing. The sound of the churn made a dull and dolorous swishing in the kitchen.
The brief brownish light had faded outside, and now the clouds hung threateningly low. The kitchen was dark and gloomy, and chill in spite of the brick range. Narrow, like all the other rooms in the house, its high small windows looked out upon the vegetable gardens, now black with frost and full of dead stalks and dank leaves. Beyond them stood the farm buildings, gray and weatherbeaten, streaked with the rain of last night. The walls of the kitchen were of brick, the floor of irregular fieldstone, grimed with the grease of generations. A row of water pails stood under the windows, and, beside them, pails for slops for the pigs, and other refuse. Sally’s broken old rocker stood before the range, and there was a stool before the churn. These, with the table, were the only articles of furniture in the kitchen, except for a food “safe” against a far wall, A pantry lay off the kitchen, filled with flour and sugar barrels, its shelves containing salt and spices and slabs of oily bacon. It had a smell of mice and cheese, and was windowless.
Melissa’s hands moved up and down on the churn handle. Sally slapped and pounded the dough, greased the bread tins. She watched Melissa with sidelong glances.
She began to grumble. “Too much to do for one lone woman around here. Got to have more help. Not gettin’ any younger. I’m a-goin’ to tell your Ma that if I don’t get more of a hand, Miss Melissa, I’m leavin’.”
Melissa did not answer, for she had not heard. There—must —be—a—way, she thought, the words keeping time with the churn. Her numbed mind kept up the refrain; she had already put aside the unbearable mortification of Geoffrey Dunham’s “offer.” She thought of it no longer; it was like something indecent, to be forgotten as soon as possible.
But where was there a way? There was no money. The only opportunity of obtaining any money was through her father’s still unpublished and unfinished manuscripts. She had all his notes. It would not take too long! With the promised increase in royalties, she could save Phoebe and Andrew. She would hoard the money; her mother should get not a single penny of it. It belonged to Phoebe and Andrew. Melissa’s hands slowed on the churn. When the work was done, she herself would go to Philadelphia and find a situation. Her mother would not be able to keep up the farm; if she would not sell it, she would lose it. Her hands fell from the churn. What was she doing here, wasting her time like this, when there was so much work to do, and so little time! She stood up, and began to walk with fast irregular steps to the door.
Sally, seeing this, shouted: “See here, Miss Melissa, there ain’t no butter, and you got to help, or I’ll go to your Ma this very minute and leave!”
Melissa stopped abruptly, then turned about. “But I have work to do, Sally. Miss Phoebe will be down later, and probably my mother.”
Sally put her fists on her hips, and stood there glowering, like an immense and quivering obscenity. “Now, looky here, Miss Melissa, I got to have another hand or two. Your Ma’s sick; she ain’t a-comin’ down; she’s a-failin’, and you might as well know it. Miss Phoebe ain’t no good without your Ma on her tail. You gotta help, and keep on helpin’ everyday, or I leave now. Now!”
“You can’t do that, Sally,” said Melissa, coldly. She paused. “Unless I work on my father’s books, we’ll have no money to pay you.”
Sally tossed her head and snorted. “You ain’t got no money anyways, and I ain’t a-goin’ to wait. You help now, ma’am, or I’m through.”
Melissa stood and looked at the old woman. But Sally was not to be quelled. With a gesture of bitter resignation, Melissa went back to the churn. I can work at night, she thought. But how slowly it will go then. No matter, I’ll work all night, if necessary. There was no use appealing to Amanda. Melissa knew her reply in advance. She would collaborate with Sally in her daughter’s humiliation, agree that Melissa must help.
With her heart full of anguish, misery and anger, Melissa continued to churn. When the butter was ready, Sally showed her how to salt and beat it and place it in the molds. Then she must wash all the lamp chimneys in cold and greasy water, which rapidly turned black. She must fill all the lamps, trim the wicks, and place the cleaned lamps on a shelf near the range. The air darkened steadily, and Sally grunted about her own work.
“If your Ma and Miss Phoebe wants to eat, they can come down. I ain’t a-goin’ to carry up no more trays, with my rheumatism. You better find out, Miss Melissa.”
Melissa crawled heavily up the stairs, weighted down with her crushing weariness. She passed the study with averted eyes and a catch of her breath. She knocked on her mother’s door, and when she received no answer she opened it a crack. Amanda lay straight and rigid on the bed, apparently sleeping. Melissa closed the door and went to Phoebe’s room. But at the sight of her sister, Phoebe turned her face to the pillow and wept loudly.
Melissa went to the bed. “Darling,” she said, “shall I bring you a tray? You must eat, you know.”
Phoebe sniffled, her face still averted. “Just a little broth, please, and perhaps a poached egg, and some tea.” She burst into fresh tears.
Melissa hesitated. “Don’t, don’t, dearest,” she murmured. She knew nothing of tender and consoling gestures, and stood like a young man, overpowered with uneasiness and helpless grief. “Don’t cry, Phoebe. We’ll find a way for you.”
Phoebe only wept, and Melissa went out. She looked for Andrew. His room was empty. Melissa looked through his window and saw the fresh marks of a horse in the muddy path below. Melissa frowned, sighed, went downstairs.
“Some hot clear broth, and a poached egg, with toast and tea, for Miss Phoebe, Sally,” she ordered. “I’ll take up her tray.”
Sally tossed her head grimly. “You’ll do more than that, Miss. You’ll cook up the whole shebang. You’ll find the soup in a kettle in that there pantry, and the eggs, too, and the bread and tea in the safe. I’ve got too much on my hands just now.”
Burning with suppressed rage and tiredness, Melissa awkwardly prepared Phoebe’s tray. The soup was greasy, and she winced. The water for the eggs boiled slowly on the sullen range, as did the kettle. The tray was a sorry sight when she had finished, the broth viscid, the eggs hard on the watery toast, a scum on the cup of tea. Sally watched her with furtive satisfaction. Melissa tucked up her skirts under her belt and carried the tray upstairs. Phoebe, rumpled flushed, tear-stained and childishly lovely, sat up and inspected the tray and cried out in horror, “Oh, that terrible Sally! How dare she send up a tray like this to me?”
“I made it,” said Melissa, with new humility and wretchedness. “She says I have to help with a lot of the work now.” Then she felt some impatience. What did food matter, anyway, except to sustain life? Why this fuss about proper delicate preparation? A hard-boiled egg was still an egg, and bread was still bread, even if burned. It would keep Phoebe alive, and that was all that could be expected. “Eat it, Phoebe. It will give you strength. I have no time to bother.”
Phoebe lifted her shining head and stared sharply at Melissa. Then, though she did not smile, a dimple appeared in her pink wet cheek. “You say Sally’s making you help?” she asked. A crafty amusement flashed into her eyes, a surprised satisfaction.
“Yes, yes. Do eat, Phoebe. I’ll come back for the tray.”
Phoebe watched her siste
r leave the room, and now she smiled broadly, and her small round breasts heaved with suppressed laughter. Good old Sally. She, Phoebe, would slowly but surely relegate all her chores to that silly old Melissa. It would serve her right. She hoped Sally would just make a slave of stupid old Melly.
Melissa sat at the kitchen table and ate dry bread and cheese and water. She was not conscious of what she was eating. When she was finished, she would go at once to the study and begin to work. Her mind busied itself with the uncompleted notes. She forgot Sally and the kitchen.
Her lunch completed, she stood up. Sally said at once: “You better reddy up the parlor, Miss Melissa, and clean up the hearth and bring out the ashes. Your Ma sits there of nights, and she’ll not like it if it’s still dirty. And then there’s the beds and the slops. I ain’t asking you to brush up the floors, but I gotta have some help.”
Melissa regarded her with dismayed hatred. “I’ve worked for hours, Sally. Now I must do my own work.”
Sally rapped an iron spoon furiously on the range. “Go ahead,” she said. She deliberately untied her apron. “I’m a-leavin’ now, and Hiram with me, and it’s good riddance to all of you.”
Melissa clenched her fists. Then, in a shaking voice, she asked for the ash container and dusters. She went into the cold dim parlor and began her awkward work. The ashes got under her nails and into her clothing. She spent an hour in dusting. When she returned to the kitchen, Sally was preparing the evening meal.
She said, not looking at Melissa: “Hiram’ll show you how to milk when he brings the cows in. I ain’t a-doin’ it any more, I can tell you that. You’re young and strappin’, Miss, and it’s on your hands now. Did you make yours and Mr. Andrew’s beds and bring down the slops? And you’d better take out those pails to the pigs, when you’ve done that.”
Melissa worked, raging silently and helplessly. All this time wasted, while she, Melissa, did the work of a hired girl! It was not to be borne. The manuscripts waited. Tonight, thought Melissa, blind and staggering with exhaustion, tonight I’ll work. She could hardly keep her eyes open when she dragged the pails out to the pigs. Their smell, their gruntings, nauseated her. When she returned to the kitchen, Sally gave her the feed for the chickens. Her shawl fluttering in the cold and acrid wind, Melissa went out again, driving herself with inflexible determination. The chickens scrambled about her skirts and she backed away from them. The sky darkened over her. She looked at the cold brown fields and the dark hills beyond, and smelled snow in the air. A tear or two involuntarily fell over her chilled cheek, and she wiped them away with angry impatience.
In the west, the sky was very gray and heavy. But now, slowly, torn splashes of bright brass appeared through the clouds, and a wan and spectral light fell on the earth, turned the hills to a yellowish brown. Far along, in the distance, the lights of Midfield began to blink. Melissa heard Hiram herding in the cows, and started. Sally had told her she must learn to milk. Sighing, almost groaning, Melissa put down the empty tin in her hands, and went towards the barn, the mud sucking at her shoes.
She hated the barn. She never went there if she could avoid it. She smelled the manure, the sharp ammoniac stench, heard the stamping of the cows. There was a dry stink of hay and a wet smell of straw. Hiram, seeing her come in, gave her his foolish grin and asked no questions.
“I’m afraid of the cows, Hiram,” she said, wincing away from the animals.
“Nuthin’ to be ’fraid of, ma’am,” he said, with another grin. “Ma sent you out? She be a-gettin’ old, y’know. It was probable that he was not as stupid as he looked. He began to pitch feed into the mangers.
Over an hour later Melissa stumbled into the kitchen, carrying the pails of milk. Her hands were burned, aching and sore, and she shuddered at the memory of her milking lessons. She put down the pails. Sally was not in the kitchen. Melissa flung down her shawl, looked at her hands with loathing, and washed them. There were large blisters on her palms.
She heard Sally’s lumbering steps on the stairs, unusually hurried now. She turned. Sally’s great flabby face was contorted with fright. “Somethin’s happened to your Ma, ma am. Groanin’ and makin’ funny sounds in her bed. Go out to the barn and tell Hiram to ride like mad into the village and git Dr. Mellonl”
CHAPTER 12
A score of times a day Melissa said to herself, but aloud, in a faint dull voice: “I cannot go on.” And many Hmw a day she climbed up and down the steep back stairs, balancing trays, basins, kettles of hot water, mustard plasters, warmed blankets and fresh glasses. Many times a day she brought them downstairs again, including wrinkled sheets and pillows for airing in the cold snowy wind. The hours became individual nightmares of exhaustion, all alike. The stairs became a treadmill, on which her feet were forever set, so that sometimes she had to pause and wonder, in confused agonies of weariness, whether she had been climbing the stairs just now or descending them.
Her mother lay in her still and darkened room, bolstered up by several pillows, her stertorous breathing, her sighs and gasps an ominous sound in the hushed quiet. A shaded candle burned day and night between her windows. She never spoke, for that was forbidden. She could, not lift her hands, It was
Melissa who had to turn her every fifteen minutes. It was Melissa who had to bathe her and change her sheets, comb her whitened hair, hold the glass to her lips, feed her, ease her in a hundred aching ways, rubbing her feet and shrunken arms, wiping the sweat from her pallid forehead and her gray cheeks, administering certain pungent drops to her every half hour by the clock, twenty-four hours a day. It was Melissa who sat up with her at night, sometimes falling into a tormented doze in her straight chair, to come awake with a start so violent as almost to throw herself to the floor. There was no company, no surcease, for Melissa. She could not even read. She had once had a vague thought that she might work on her father’s manuscripts during the night watches, but the candlelight was too dim, and that dreadful moaning and gasping from the bed beat into her brain like iron fists.
Dr. Mellon had suggested a woman from the village to relieve Melissa, but Melissa replied simply: “We have no money. Besides, my father would have wished me to stay with my mother.” So she sat there at night, rising every half hour to give the poor semiconscious woman her drops in water, to wipe away her sweat, to lift up her pillows. She sat and watched the candlelight, and finally she could think no more, was only a pair of burning eyes and a throbbing heart. She watched the candlelight on the high mouldering ceiling; she watched the shadows flickering on the walls, and chasing themselves in fugitive shapes over the black, lurking furniture. She watched the gray dawns come, and was sometimes so prostrated that she had to watch those dawns for a long time, until they lightened, before she knew whether the morning was coming or it was about to be night again. Sometimes she did not know whether she was awake or dreaming that she was awake, and the clock became to her an evil, clicking enemy who was trying to escape her and carry the dangerous minutes away, and with them her mother’s life. Sometimes, when she approached Amanda’s bed, she felt singularly light, as if formed only of mist, so that she seemed to drift, and her hands had no substance; and sometimes she felt that every muscle had become weighted lead and that she could not carry her body a single step forward.
The long, dusky brown days crept into December, became white and blinded with snow, became lost in blizzards. The wind howled down the chimney, scattered sparks on the bedroom hearth. The draperies stirred in the gales that seeped through the shutters. At night, the house rumbled and complained in the maelstrom of the storm. But Amanda’s glazed eyes hardly moved; she seemed intent only on getting the next breath, and the next; all her being, all her efforts and spirit, were concentrated on that terrible necessity. When she looked at Melissa, she did not appear to recognize the girl. When old Sally crept into the room, or the doctor, she glanced at them blindly, then dropped her lids.
Dr. Mellon had told Melissa that her mother had a very slight chance for life. It was his
opinion, though he did not tell this to Melissa, that long years of tension, of strain, of frustration and old grief, had wrecked that indomitable heart. He himself was always amazed to find her still alive when he called; he was filled with respect that a human will could so long defeat inevitable death. He was an old man, and knew the powers of the human will, and he suspected that Amanda would not die until she had fulfilled some mission she had set for herself.
His concern now was for Melissa, and he admired her for her indestructibilty, for her grim determination not to collapse. Always thin, she had become emaciated, and the beautifully formed bones of her face now turned angular, sharp and clear, the flesh refined away by exhaustion. Her light-blue eyes, formerly abstracted and clouded and cold, grew almost vivid with the fever of weariness. Quite often she forgot to dress her hair even in her own rough and careless fashion, and allowed it to hang in two long braids of pale gilt almost to her thighs. Wearing her funeral black, which, though wrinkled and creased, had a sad air of elegance, she reminded the old doctor of some mourning Teutonic goddess, some Freya inconsolable and dark with unreason. No argument to spare herself elicited even a protest; she did not seem to hear. The doctor was not deceived that it was devotion to her mother which kept Melissa constantly in that somber bedroom, for he had known the Upjohns for many years and had delivered all Amanda’s children. It was something else, perhaps a rigid sense of duty, or an obscure accusation of guilt, or even hatred. The doctor shook his head. He was old, but there were many things he did not know regarding the hidden places of the human soul, he confessed to himself. Finally, he gave up his arguments with Melissa, which were always one-sided. He began to hope that poor Amanda would soon be at peace and that her daughter could rest.
Even old bloated Sally was subdued by the event of Amanda’s fatal illness. She hardly complained: firstly, because in the face of approaching death she was afraid, and, secondly, because she knew that Melissa would not hear her.
Melissa sat down before the churn and looked at it, stupefied. She had done very little about this house, for her work with Charles had taken most of her time. Muttering impatiently, Sally waddled over to the churn and showed how the task should be done. Melissa took the handle, moved it up and down with slow regularity, her stricken eyes fixed on nothing. The sound of the churn made a dull and dolorous swishing in the kitchen.
The brief brownish light had faded outside, and now the clouds hung threateningly low. The kitchen was dark and gloomy, and chill in spite of the brick range. Narrow, like all the other rooms in the house, its high small windows looked out upon the vegetable gardens, now black with frost and full of dead stalks and dank leaves. Beyond them stood the farm buildings, gray and weatherbeaten, streaked with the rain of last night. The walls of the kitchen were of brick, the floor of irregular fieldstone, grimed with the grease of generations. A row of water pails stood under the windows, and, beside them, pails for slops for the pigs, and other refuse. Sally’s broken old rocker stood before the range, and there was a stool before the churn. These, with the table, were the only articles of furniture in the kitchen, except for a food “safe” against a far wall, A pantry lay off the kitchen, filled with flour and sugar barrels, its shelves containing salt and spices and slabs of oily bacon. It had a smell of mice and cheese, and was windowless.
Melissa’s hands moved up and down on the churn handle. Sally slapped and pounded the dough, greased the bread tins. She watched Melissa with sidelong glances.
She began to grumble. “Too much to do for one lone woman around here. Got to have more help. Not gettin’ any younger. I’m a-goin’ to tell your Ma that if I don’t get more of a hand, Miss Melissa, I’m leavin’.”
Melissa did not answer, for she had not heard. There—must —be—a—way, she thought, the words keeping time with the churn. Her numbed mind kept up the refrain; she had already put aside the unbearable mortification of Geoffrey Dunham’s “offer.” She thought of it no longer; it was like something indecent, to be forgotten as soon as possible.
But where was there a way? There was no money. The only opportunity of obtaining any money was through her father’s still unpublished and unfinished manuscripts. She had all his notes. It would not take too long! With the promised increase in royalties, she could save Phoebe and Andrew. She would hoard the money; her mother should get not a single penny of it. It belonged to Phoebe and Andrew. Melissa’s hands slowed on the churn. When the work was done, she herself would go to Philadelphia and find a situation. Her mother would not be able to keep up the farm; if she would not sell it, she would lose it. Her hands fell from the churn. What was she doing here, wasting her time like this, when there was so much work to do, and so little time! She stood up, and began to walk with fast irregular steps to the door.
Sally, seeing this, shouted: “See here, Miss Melissa, there ain’t no butter, and you got to help, or I’ll go to your Ma this very minute and leave!”
Melissa stopped abruptly, then turned about. “But I have work to do, Sally. Miss Phoebe will be down later, and probably my mother.”
Sally put her fists on her hips, and stood there glowering, like an immense and quivering obscenity. “Now, looky here, Miss Melissa, I got to have another hand or two. Your Ma’s sick; she ain’t a-comin’ down; she’s a-failin’, and you might as well know it. Miss Phoebe ain’t no good without your Ma on her tail. You gotta help, and keep on helpin’ everyday, or I leave now. Now!”
“You can’t do that, Sally,” said Melissa, coldly. She paused. “Unless I work on my father’s books, we’ll have no money to pay you.”
Sally tossed her head and snorted. “You ain’t got no money anyways, and I ain’t a-goin’ to wait. You help now, ma’am, or I’m through.”
Melissa stood and looked at the old woman. But Sally was not to be quelled. With a gesture of bitter resignation, Melissa went back to the churn. I can work at night, she thought. But how slowly it will go then. No matter, I’ll work all night, if necessary. There was no use appealing to Amanda. Melissa knew her reply in advance. She would collaborate with Sally in her daughter’s humiliation, agree that Melissa must help.
With her heart full of anguish, misery and anger, Melissa continued to churn. When the butter was ready, Sally showed her how to salt and beat it and place it in the molds. Then she must wash all the lamp chimneys in cold and greasy water, which rapidly turned black. She must fill all the lamps, trim the wicks, and place the cleaned lamps on a shelf near the range. The air darkened steadily, and Sally grunted about her own work.
“If your Ma and Miss Phoebe wants to eat, they can come down. I ain’t a-goin’ to carry up no more trays, with my rheumatism. You better find out, Miss Melissa.”
Melissa crawled heavily up the stairs, weighted down with her crushing weariness. She passed the study with averted eyes and a catch of her breath. She knocked on her mother’s door, and when she received no answer she opened it a crack. Amanda lay straight and rigid on the bed, apparently sleeping. Melissa closed the door and went to Phoebe’s room. But at the sight of her sister, Phoebe turned her face to the pillow and wept loudly.
Melissa went to the bed. “Darling,” she said, “shall I bring you a tray? You must eat, you know.”
Phoebe sniffled, her face still averted. “Just a little broth, please, and perhaps a poached egg, and some tea.” She burst into fresh tears.
Melissa hesitated. “Don’t, don’t, dearest,” she murmured. She knew nothing of tender and consoling gestures, and stood like a young man, overpowered with uneasiness and helpless grief. “Don’t cry, Phoebe. We’ll find a way for you.”
Phoebe only wept, and Melissa went out. She looked for Andrew. His room was empty. Melissa looked through his window and saw the fresh marks of a horse in the muddy path below. Melissa frowned, sighed, went downstairs.
“Some hot clear broth, and a poached egg, with toast and tea, for Miss Phoebe, Sally,” she ordered. “I’ll take up her tray.”
Sally tossed her head grimly. “You’ll do more than that, Miss. You’ll cook up the whole shebang. You’ll find the soup in a kettle in that there pantry, and the eggs, too, and the bread and tea in the safe. I’ve got too much on my hands just now.”
Burning with suppressed rage and tiredness, Melissa awkwardly prepared Phoebe’s tray. The soup was greasy, and she winced. The water for the eggs boiled slowly on the sullen range, as did the kettle. The tray was a sorry sight when she had finished, the broth viscid, the eggs hard on the watery toast, a scum on the cup of tea. Sally watched her with furtive satisfaction. Melissa tucked up her skirts under her belt and carried the tray upstairs. Phoebe, rumpled flushed, tear-stained and childishly lovely, sat up and inspected the tray and cried out in horror, “Oh, that terrible Sally! How dare she send up a tray like this to me?”
“I made it,” said Melissa, with new humility and wretchedness. “She says I have to help with a lot of the work now.” Then she felt some impatience. What did food matter, anyway, except to sustain life? Why this fuss about proper delicate preparation? A hard-boiled egg was still an egg, and bread was still bread, even if burned. It would keep Phoebe alive, and that was all that could be expected. “Eat it, Phoebe. It will give you strength. I have no time to bother.”
Phoebe lifted her shining head and stared sharply at Melissa. Then, though she did not smile, a dimple appeared in her pink wet cheek. “You say Sally’s making you help?” she asked. A crafty amusement flashed into her eyes, a surprised satisfaction.
“Yes, yes. Do eat, Phoebe. I’ll come back for the tray.”
Phoebe watched her siste
Melissa sat at the kitchen table and ate dry bread and cheese and water. She was not conscious of what she was eating. When she was finished, she would go at once to the study and begin to work. Her mind busied itself with the uncompleted notes. She forgot Sally and the kitchen.
Her lunch completed, she stood up. Sally said at once: “You better reddy up the parlor, Miss Melissa, and clean up the hearth and bring out the ashes. Your Ma sits there of nights, and she’ll not like it if it’s still dirty. And then there’s the beds and the slops. I ain’t asking you to brush up the floors, but I gotta have some help.”
Melissa regarded her with dismayed hatred. “I’ve worked for hours, Sally. Now I must do my own work.”
Sally rapped an iron spoon furiously on the range. “Go ahead,” she said. She deliberately untied her apron. “I’m a-leavin’ now, and Hiram with me, and it’s good riddance to all of you.”
Melissa clenched her fists. Then, in a shaking voice, she asked for the ash container and dusters. She went into the cold dim parlor and began her awkward work. The ashes got under her nails and into her clothing. She spent an hour in dusting. When she returned to the kitchen, Sally was preparing the evening meal.
She said, not looking at Melissa: “Hiram’ll show you how to milk when he brings the cows in. I ain’t a-doin’ it any more, I can tell you that. You’re young and strappin’, Miss, and it’s on your hands now. Did you make yours and Mr. Andrew’s beds and bring down the slops? And you’d better take out those pails to the pigs, when you’ve done that.”
Melissa worked, raging silently and helplessly. All this time wasted, while she, Melissa, did the work of a hired girl! It was not to be borne. The manuscripts waited. Tonight, thought Melissa, blind and staggering with exhaustion, tonight I’ll work. She could hardly keep her eyes open when she dragged the pails out to the pigs. Their smell, their gruntings, nauseated her. When she returned to the kitchen, Sally gave her the feed for the chickens. Her shawl fluttering in the cold and acrid wind, Melissa went out again, driving herself with inflexible determination. The chickens scrambled about her skirts and she backed away from them. The sky darkened over her. She looked at the cold brown fields and the dark hills beyond, and smelled snow in the air. A tear or two involuntarily fell over her chilled cheek, and she wiped them away with angry impatience.
In the west, the sky was very gray and heavy. But now, slowly, torn splashes of bright brass appeared through the clouds, and a wan and spectral light fell on the earth, turned the hills to a yellowish brown. Far along, in the distance, the lights of Midfield began to blink. Melissa heard Hiram herding in the cows, and started. Sally had told her she must learn to milk. Sighing, almost groaning, Melissa put down the empty tin in her hands, and went towards the barn, the mud sucking at her shoes.
She hated the barn. She never went there if she could avoid it. She smelled the manure, the sharp ammoniac stench, heard the stamping of the cows. There was a dry stink of hay and a wet smell of straw. Hiram, seeing her come in, gave her his foolish grin and asked no questions.
“I’m afraid of the cows, Hiram,” she said, wincing away from the animals.
“Nuthin’ to be ’fraid of, ma’am,” he said, with another grin. “Ma sent you out? She be a-gettin’ old, y’know. It was probable that he was not as stupid as he looked. He began to pitch feed into the mangers.
Over an hour later Melissa stumbled into the kitchen, carrying the pails of milk. Her hands were burned, aching and sore, and she shuddered at the memory of her milking lessons. She put down the pails. Sally was not in the kitchen. Melissa flung down her shawl, looked at her hands with loathing, and washed them. There were large blisters on her palms.
She heard Sally’s lumbering steps on the stairs, unusually hurried now. She turned. Sally’s great flabby face was contorted with fright. “Somethin’s happened to your Ma, ma am. Groanin’ and makin’ funny sounds in her bed. Go out to the barn and tell Hiram to ride like mad into the village and git Dr. Mellonl”
CHAPTER 12
A score of times a day Melissa said to herself, but aloud, in a faint dull voice: “I cannot go on.” And many Hmw a day she climbed up and down the steep back stairs, balancing trays, basins, kettles of hot water, mustard plasters, warmed blankets and fresh glasses. Many times a day she brought them downstairs again, including wrinkled sheets and pillows for airing in the cold snowy wind. The hours became individual nightmares of exhaustion, all alike. The stairs became a treadmill, on which her feet were forever set, so that sometimes she had to pause and wonder, in confused agonies of weariness, whether she had been climbing the stairs just now or descending them.
Her mother lay in her still and darkened room, bolstered up by several pillows, her stertorous breathing, her sighs and gasps an ominous sound in the hushed quiet. A shaded candle burned day and night between her windows. She never spoke, for that was forbidden. She could, not lift her hands, It was
Melissa who had to turn her every fifteen minutes. It was Melissa who had to bathe her and change her sheets, comb her whitened hair, hold the glass to her lips, feed her, ease her in a hundred aching ways, rubbing her feet and shrunken arms, wiping the sweat from her pallid forehead and her gray cheeks, administering certain pungent drops to her every half hour by the clock, twenty-four hours a day. It was Melissa who sat up with her at night, sometimes falling into a tormented doze in her straight chair, to come awake with a start so violent as almost to throw herself to the floor. There was no company, no surcease, for Melissa. She could not even read. She had once had a vague thought that she might work on her father’s manuscripts during the night watches, but the candlelight was too dim, and that dreadful moaning and gasping from the bed beat into her brain like iron fists.
Dr. Mellon had suggested a woman from the village to relieve Melissa, but Melissa replied simply: “We have no money. Besides, my father would have wished me to stay with my mother.” So she sat there at night, rising every half hour to give the poor semiconscious woman her drops in water, to wipe away her sweat, to lift up her pillows. She sat and watched the candlelight, and finally she could think no more, was only a pair of burning eyes and a throbbing heart. She watched the candlelight on the high mouldering ceiling; she watched the shadows flickering on the walls, and chasing themselves in fugitive shapes over the black, lurking furniture. She watched the gray dawns come, and was sometimes so prostrated that she had to watch those dawns for a long time, until they lightened, before she knew whether the morning was coming or it was about to be night again. Sometimes she did not know whether she was awake or dreaming that she was awake, and the clock became to her an evil, clicking enemy who was trying to escape her and carry the dangerous minutes away, and with them her mother’s life. Sometimes, when she approached Amanda’s bed, she felt singularly light, as if formed only of mist, so that she seemed to drift, and her hands had no substance; and sometimes she felt that every muscle had become weighted lead and that she could not carry her body a single step forward.
The long, dusky brown days crept into December, became white and blinded with snow, became lost in blizzards. The wind howled down the chimney, scattered sparks on the bedroom hearth. The draperies stirred in the gales that seeped through the shutters. At night, the house rumbled and complained in the maelstrom of the storm. But Amanda’s glazed eyes hardly moved; she seemed intent only on getting the next breath, and the next; all her being, all her efforts and spirit, were concentrated on that terrible necessity. When she looked at Melissa, she did not appear to recognize the girl. When old Sally crept into the room, or the doctor, she glanced at them blindly, then dropped her lids.
Dr. Mellon had told Melissa that her mother had a very slight chance for life. It was his
His concern now was for Melissa, and he admired her for her indestructibilty, for her grim determination not to collapse. Always thin, she had become emaciated, and the beautifully formed bones of her face now turned angular, sharp and clear, the flesh refined away by exhaustion. Her light-blue eyes, formerly abstracted and clouded and cold, grew almost vivid with the fever of weariness. Quite often she forgot to dress her hair even in her own rough and careless fashion, and allowed it to hang in two long braids of pale gilt almost to her thighs. Wearing her funeral black, which, though wrinkled and creased, had a sad air of elegance, she reminded the old doctor of some mourning Teutonic goddess, some Freya inconsolable and dark with unreason. No argument to spare herself elicited even a protest; she did not seem to hear. The doctor was not deceived that it was devotion to her mother which kept Melissa constantly in that somber bedroom, for he had known the Upjohns for many years and had delivered all Amanda’s children. It was something else, perhaps a rigid sense of duty, or an obscure accusation of guilt, or even hatred. The doctor shook his head. He was old, but there were many things he did not know regarding the hidden places of the human soul, he confessed to himself. Finally, he gave up his arguments with Melissa, which were always one-sided. He began to hope that poor Amanda would soon be at peace and that her daughter could rest.
Even old bloated Sally was subdued by the event of Amanda’s fatal illness. She hardly complained: firstly, because in the face of approaching death she was afraid, and, secondly, because she knew that Melissa would not hear her.