Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
“They aren’t my guests.” Geoffrey set down his glass with a thump. He smiled. “Remember that my father was a gentleman, even if my mother wasn’t a lady. And now we come back to the Upjohns, who have been ignored by the rich peasantry around here. Or perhaps Charles, with a gentleman’s good sense, refused to have anything to do with them.” At the sound of that hated name, Arabella trembled violently. “A gentleman! He was a freak and a nobody, and so are the rest of them, though you refuse to see it. Look at that dreadful Melissa, with her bunched frocks, her milkmaid’s hands, her uncouth voice, her big stride, her chapped skin, and her utter lack of style! It would be like having a stable-boy in our drawing-room to admit that creature!” Now all her hatred for Melissa, all her natural venom, spewed out of her. “You should hear what everyone says about your fine Melissa Upjohn! She is a caricature and a byword, a graceless, ugly, frumpish, untidy female, with the manners of a farmhand.”
She stopped, panting. Geoffrey turned and looked at her steadily, at her gaudy gown, her trumpery ringlets, her masses of tinkling jewelry, her fat, suffused face. And he thought of Melissa with her high air of breeding and race, the strong nobility of her features, her disheveled elegance, her pride and heroic carriage.
He said, quietly: “Go away, Bella. I have things to think about and you annoy me.”
Arabella uttered a whimpering cry, gathered up her green-silk skirts, and fled the room. He knew that she would go upstairs to her glittering and lace-draped chamber, and would sob and weep and beat her pillows and impotently hate, not only the Upjohns, but himself. Probably me, more than anyone, he thought, and smiled.
He sat down and poured his glass full again. He stretched his big legs out to the fire. He pulled a dog’s ear, and the dog, fawning, put its paws on his knees. He looked at the great affectionate eyes, then pushed the dog away.
“Well, anyway, you’re honest,” he remarked, “and that’s something.”
CHAPTER 18
Now that Arabella had gone, he could light a cheroot and smoke in peace. He was somewhat annoyed with himself. He had not seen Arabella for a month, had written her but three letters, had been greeted upon his return with cries of pleasure, and had immediately quarreled with the poor old fool. “It’s the pots coming out in me,” he said aloud, thinking of his mother’s source of fortune, and grinning. Well, after he’d done a little thinking he would go to Arabella and make his peace. After all, she managed his house expertly, was a good hostess for him. He owed her considerable, even if she almost constantly exasperated him and could not conceal, however she tried, that she hated and feared him. Besides, she was due very soon for a profoundly severe shock; he might as well be civil to the poor silly thing as long as possible.
He had been thinking of Melissa all the way home, and now he resumed his thinking. He was essentially a man of action and directness, and he saw now that he would have to exercise considerable subtlety, a thing he despised. I hate this fiddle-faddling around with women, he thought. But females of breeding must have this pre-nuptial dance, or all their confounded sensibilities were offended. A man could not go to them and say candidly: “I adore you. I love the way your breasts curve out of your bodice, and the glimmer of your thighs under that pretty silk, and I want to bite your white neck, very gently, before proceeding to more ardent familiarities. So, considering that you entrance me, and that I want to go to bed with you, will you honor me by meeting me at the altar? A foolish preliminary, but a necessary one, it seems.”
He had said this often to ladies, without, of course, the altar business, and they, not being genteel, had delightedly accompanied him to whatever destination he suggested. They were honest women, and they knew what a man really wanted, even when he spoke of love. But genteel women were not honest; they always pretended that gentlemen wanted only to hold their hands and discourse with them on a high plane. They assumed such an air of delicacy and innocence that it quite sickened a man.
Melissa was worse than genteel. She was ignorant. Geoffrey was quite certain that her life on the farm had not enlightened her in the least Doubtless she thought roosters existed for the sole purpose of making soup. Their connection with eggs would be a dark mystery to her. As for the other animals, if she had ever seen them in amorous play, she had probably thought it only high spirits, if she gave it a thought at alL Yet Geoffrey was sure that though she was a sleeping nymph she could be awakened to full womanhood. She had her uneasy instincts, buried though they were. It was his duty to excavate them, and he saw now that it would be no easy work.
The first step—and probably the hardest—was marriage. How to browbeat, blackmail or bully her into it? He knew that she was unimpressed by his wealth or position or power; her father had taught her that these were without value. And he was no infernal milksop of a man, who could talk to a woman of spiritual and poetic things. He could not startle her with unsuspected gifts of the mind, for he did pot have them. The best way to approach her would probably be with his own translation of Virgil or of Plato, or with a dissertation on the influence of Greek art on the Renaissance. If he appeared before her as a man, she would only look at him blindly. Yet it was as a man that he must eventually appeal to her, for that was the only way to awaken her slumbering soul and arouse her woman’s body. The bedroom, he reflected, has cured more women of the vapors than anything else. But how to get Melissa into the bedroom? He would do it some way, but the way was still obscure.
“Curse you, Charles,” he said. “You’ve made it damned hard for me, or for any other man. But you’ll not win, you affable old rascal. I’m getting a faint inkling of how you corrupted Melissa’s mind, and, knowing that, I know also that I’ll be able to drive out the corruption.”
As he was a man who rarely deluded himself, he wondered again, as he had wondered a thousand times, just why he wanted Melissa and loved her. He had known handsomer women, and certainly more amiable, complaisant and charming women. He had known women who had amused him, excited him, and pleased him. Melissa had none of these allurements. It was beyond understanding, he thought impatiently. But he had only to bring Melissa’s pale fixed face with its clear, fanatical eyes before him, to imagine her walking or gesturing, and he was all a-flutter like some idiot school-boy. In a way, she was the only woman he had ever loved. He could think of her for hours at a time, and not once imagine her naked. If this thought occasionally came to him it was with immense excitement and tenderness, something he had never felt before. She was everything to him: child, woman, potential friend, the dearest thing on earth. And he could not understand why. She had never smiled at him more than once or twice, and it had been a tight, shrinking smile, more like a grimace, and only for the sake of politeness. He could not recall that he had ever heard her laugh, and laughter in a woman was very important. But he had only to see her to be enthralled and touched and moved.
“Just a prancing, middle-aged Galahad—that’s me,” he thought. “All clad in white armor and riding a white horse. ‘My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure’!” He burst out laughing and stood up, throwing his cheroot into the fire.
Now that he had determined to marry Melissa, and that as soon as possible, he had the naive impulse to look about his house and see it through Melissa’s eyes. The servants were well-trained. He rarely saw them, except at meal-times. Yet evidences that they were in the house were everywhere. He went out into the hall. Under the arch of the black marble pillared fireplace fresh logs had been laid on the glowing ashes, and they spluttered heartily. The three gilt and crystal candelabra on the mantelpiece had been lit, and the great square hall was filled with a soft golden glow of mingled fire and candlelight. It danced on the floor of dark red and black squares, on the paneled walls, on the walnut stairway curving up to the room’s vast arch. It glimmered on the enormous grandfather clock, and the old gilt face brightened. The clock sounded its deep melodious chimes, then there was a soft booming as the hour, six o’clock, was struck. Fresh flowers fro
Still seeing no one, for the servants were busy with preparations for dinner, Geoffrey threw open the large double doors that led to the drawing-rooms. They were dark. He lit a lamp. It was cold in these rooms, for no fire burned on the hearths. Only when guests were expected were the rooms aired, the candles and the lamps lit, and the fires laid. The first room was the formal drawing-room, but the one beyond it was used as a ball-room during the holidays. This first room was called by Geoffrey (who “had no sense of elegance or dignity”), “the Yellow Room.” Arabella preferred to call it “the Louis Fifteenth Room.” The pottery fortune had been used to advantage here. Old Mr. Dunham and his wife had traveled over Europe and had brought back whole cases of treasure. A minor French palace had been sacked for these lovely furnishings. It was an enormous room. It’s walls had been hung with yellow silk damask, delicately figured. The wide ceiling had been painted in soft cream, and bright gold-leaf mouldings cast an intricate pattern over it of flowers and birds and twining leaves. The rug was of the softest and dimmest Aubusson, in tints of faded gold and cream. The fireplace itself was of golden marble, veined with delicate brown, as was the hearth. Two golden cupids, over the fire-place, held candelabra filled just now with unlighted, tall, pale-yellow candles. Brass andirons, glittering in the shifting lamplight, held waiting logs.
Over the fireplace was a fine old painting of nymphs, white hounds and cupids at play against a background of dim green forest and pale shining sky. It was a charming picture, but only Arabella could discourse with familiarity on the famous artist. It furnished, in its brighter and different tints, the only relief from the prevailing gold. Endless little carved golden chairs, with gold damask seats, were scattered about the room, and many settees and love-seats to match. Even the delicate and spindling tables had been painted gold, and the tops were of the same golden marble as the fireplace. Here and there were cabinets, on tall golden legs, their curved fronts painted in faded scenes of pillars, gardens and swooning ladies. A golden and cream pianoforte stood between the tall windows, a yellow Chinese vase on it filled with yellow roses and green leaves. The very draperies were of golden velvet, with golden fringes, and hung in massive folds from ceiling to floor. The lamps had golden bases, and their shades were of carved gilt over yellow glass.
Geoffrey, to tease Arabella, frequently remarked that the room gave him the jaundice. Secretly, he admired it, though its golden coldness sometimes oppressed him. He could not remember whether Melissa had ever seen this room. He suspected not. It was never opened except for important guests. Only Charles and Phoebe had seen it in its full, resplendent, and golden New Year’s glory, with all the lamps lit and a fire roaring on the hearth.
Geoffrey lit a candle which he had removed from the cupid candelabrum, and carried it through the broad arch into the room beyond, which was used as a ball-room. It repeated the gold decorations from the first drawing-room, but these were scattered, and the Aubusson rug had been removed in the holiday preparations.
He and Melissa, he thought, would be married in the Yellow Room, and there would be a dance in this ball-room in celebration. In imagination he already saw the gay velvets and silks of the women, the sconces lit and shining, the fire blazing. He heard the lilting music, and the laughter.
He returned to the library, went through it to the rear, and opened the dining-room door. Here all was richness, majestic and inviting, from the crimson Oriental rug to the pale-rose damask walls, from the black-marble fireplace to the cathedral-like crystal chandeher that swung from the walnut-beamed ceiling. A shimmer of silver shapes on the immense sideboard greeted Geoffrey’s candle, and cabinets winked with their array of glasses.
Now Geoffrey went upstairs and passed the long rows of guest-rooms, the walnut doors brightening as he passed. He stopped a moment at Arabella’s door. She was still whimpering behind it. He frowned, hesitated, then passed on. Here were his own apartments, his somber but luxurious bedroom, the dressing-room beyond, and, adjoining the dressing-room, the room which Melissa would occupy. These had been his parents’ apartments, and now he occupied them. His mother’s room had never been used, not ever for guests. It was tacitly understood that it would belong to his future wife. He opened the door, and stepped inside. Bitter cold greeted him. But it was a charming soft room, large and airy, with a view of the side-gardens and long slopes, spectrally white now in the growing twilight, but green and restful in summer. Here the walls had been hung with the palest blue damask; a rosy Aubusson rug covered the floor. Turquoise glass candelabra stood on the white marble mantelpiece, and were reflected in a huge gilt-framed mirror. The furniture had been covered with dust-sheets, but Geoffrey remembered them well. There was a blue chaise-longue, rose-colored little chairs, a coralvelvet love-seat, white velvet hassocks, and small turquoise and silver lamps on the bed-table and other tables, which had been painted a soft white. Thin draperies of white velvet, patterned with blue, gold and rose, had been drawn closely over the windows to keep out the sunlight. The gilt threads in them danced before the candle in Geoffrey’s hands.
He looked at the shrouded chests, which he remembered as white also, at the dressing-table with its long gilt-framed mirror. He recalled that his mother had kept the dressing-table covered with crystal and golden bottles and little jars. He saw them sparkling in lamplight and firelight, and, in memory, he felt the warmth of a fire.
This was Melissa’s room, all this delicacy and brightness and charm. Then he remembered Melissa’s black and bunchy frocks, her austere face, her long stride, and smiled. Well, he would change that. He saw Melissa, in a blue silken negligée, sitting at the dressing-table, her long pale hair rippling to the floor. He saw the gold and crystal brushes in her hands, smelled the perfume she would use.
Satisfied, and quite excited, he went out, and again passed Arabella’s door. He knocked. She sobbed loudly. Impatiently, he called: “Oh, come, Arabella! Open the door for me.”
But she called faintly: “Come in.” He pushed the door open and found Arabella, as he had expected, weeping on the bed. He put down his candle and looked at her. She was very mussed. He said: “If I offended you, I’m sorry. And now bathe your eyes, my dear, and get ready for dinner. We’ll have a little wine in the library, if you wish.”
But Arabella was not yet ready to be placated. She sobbed: “To think that you would so insult your sister because of those horrid Upjohns, that very horrid and hideous Melissa! I can’t bear it, I can’t!”
“It seems to me that it was you who were insulting Melissa. I never mentioned the girl,” said Geoffrey, coldly. “I thought the Upjohns were your friends, too, but you attacked them viciously.”
Arabella wiped her eyes, as yet at a loss for words. Then, impetuously, she opened her mouth to accuse Geoffrey further, when she saw the candle which he had placed near her on the table. “Where have you been? What is the candle for?” she asked, in a voice hoarse from weeping and anxiety.
Geoffrey sat down in her bed-side chair. “I’ve been on a tour of inspection. The holidays, you know. Wanted to see if the Yellow Room still gave me the jaundice. And then I looked over Mother’s room.”
Arabella sat upright on the bed, her ringlets flying in agitation. She stared at her brother, with swollen and reddened eyes, and they became sharp and pointed like marbles of granite. “Mother’s room? Mama’s room? Why?” Her heart began to pound with dread and panic, and she pressed her hand against the lacy ruffles over it.
Geoffrey shrugged. “Just curiosity, perhaps. I haven’t been in there for years. Possibly I just wanted to see whether it was being well-kept.”
Arabella regarded him in intense silence, and he looked back at her, smiling amiably. Then at last she
Geoffrey shrugged again. “Isn’t it supposed to be my bride’s room? Perhaps I’m thinking of marrying, even at this late date.”
He stood up and surveyed the welter of lace and velvet and crystal and flounces in his sister’s room. It’s thick perfume suffocated him.
“Marrying?” whispered Arabella sharply. “You are thinking of marrying, Geoffrey?”
He scowled impatiently. “Oh, the devil! I don’t know. I’m playing with the idea, Bella. Why shouldn’t I amuse myself?”
Arabella’s panic almost overwhelmed her. She could hardly breathe. She twisted her lace handkerchief in her hands. She could not look away from him.
“Who, Geoffrey?” she stammered.
Geoffrey moved his large head in exasperation. “I didn’t say ‘who,’ Bella. Don’t be a fool. The next thing, you’ll be announcing my engagement and making an ass of me. Don’t go around, for God’s sake, making sly comments and giving coquettish hints. There’s no one yet. And now, join me in the library and let’s have a little peace in this house.”
He went out of the room, and Arabella watched him go. Her heart was still thumping in terror. She had to sit still for quite some time before it slowed down and she could move.
She went to her dressing-table and bathed her eyes and patted her hair. She looked at her broad and puffy face, then hastily powdered it. It’s color had gone; it was quite pasty. She opened a drawer, brought out a pot of rouge, and applied it skillfully. But her little eyes were strained with fear.
She argued with herself, as she had argued so many times before on similar occasions of alarm. She was frightening herself unnecessarily. Geoffrey was only teasing her, for he knew that she hated the thought of his marrying. But now her panic did not subside. Some instinct warned her. She clasped her hands together tightly. Who? Some girl of good family in Philadelphia or New York, some spoiled and petulant minx who would render her life intolerable? Some chit, with pettish and pampered ways, who would regard Arabella as only a superior house-keeper? The idea was not to be borne.