Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
“Melissa is a lady,” said Geoffrey, coloring.
The Judge shook his head impatiently. “Well. Maybe. Got good blood. But it’s a funny kind of blood. She’s her Pa’s daughter. Now, if it was that little Phoebe you was after, I could understand. Geoff, I can’t see you doin’ this and not lettin’ my tongue wag. Why, I’ve loved you, my boy, since you were a kid. I knew your Pa well. A fine old gentleman. Whattl he say about this marriage?”
Geoffrey did not answer. He looked again at his watch, and then stood up and went to the smeared windows. He said, “Ah!” in a tone of relief. The Upjohns’ shabby old buggy was just drawing up to the door. Melissa, clad in her one good gown, of a rusty dark-brown color, and with her mother’s black shawl over her head and shoulders, sprang out of the buggy. With bare and competent hands she tied the horse to the hitching-post. She turned, with swift resolution, took a step towards the door of the Judge’s office, then stopped abruptly. She stood against the background of white, almost deserted street, shop-windows and box-like wooden houses. Her breath rose in pale vapor before her face, and through it Geoffrey could see her wide strained eyes and tense white mouth. A wing of her gilt hair lay smoothly over her forehead, under her shawl. He thought that in spite of her pallor and the gauntness of her cheek he had never seen so beautiful a face, so stern, so austere, so classical. There was such a high and noble purity in every plane, every modelling, such a carved chastity about her brows, with their white and petrified lines.
Poor child, he thought, watching her, unseen, from the corner of the window. She looks as if she were about to mount the gallows but was determined to do it with high courage and fortitude, with invincible pride.
The Judge said, pleadingly: “Think what your Pa would say, Geoffrey. It isn’t too late. The girl hasn’t come yet. By the way, why the devil is she marryin’ you, and you, her? What’s between you? If there was ever a woman less likely and less fit to enter the holy state of matrimony, that girl is the one.”
“Here she is, now,” said Geoffrey. The bell rang with a peremptory sound. The Judge started. “It isn’t too late, boy. Think it over. It goes against me to commit a crime like this, against a friend.”
But Geoffrey was opening the door with a calm and reassuring smile. “Come in, Melissa,” he said, gently. “I’ve been waiting for you, and the Judge is ready.”
Melissa entered, not reluctantly or slowly, but with her old high stateliness. The Judge said nothing. He stood in the center of the room, his hands under his coat-tails, and peered at her formidably, his lips stuck out under his mustache. She ignored him, and let Geoffrey take her shawl. Then, clasping her hands before her loosely and with composure, she waited. She looked at neither of the men.
The Judge sighed, and advanced to her, and held out his hand. “Howdy, Melissa.” She regarded him for a steady moment, then gave him her hand. He was shocked at its coldness, and studied her face. And so his voice was more gentle when he added: “What’s this I hear about you marryin’ Geoff Dunham, Melissa? Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” she said clearly. Geoffrey came to her side, and involuntarily she moved sideways away from him. But she looked only at the Judge. However, he had seen the movement, and frowned deeply.
“Why, Melissa?” he asked, with a note of urgency. “It’s my duty to ask you this, for marriage is no light thing, my dear. It is very serious, and holy, and mustn’t be entered into without thought.”
Melissa’s pale lips parted, and she said: “I know all this. I intend to be a good wife to—to—Mr. Dunham. I’ll try very hard, so he won’t need regret it.”
The Judge was silent. He peered into her eyes, which reflected back his own face but nothing else. They were like blue translucent pieces of mirrored glass, without emotion or feeling.
The Judge cleared his throat, and his voice cracked a little when he said: “My dear, what is the trouble that really brings you here? Tell me, and perhaps I can help you.”
Geoffrey began to speak, but the Judge raised his hand sternly, and regarded Melissa with much gravity. The girl’s eyes dropped; she stood like a statue. Her face was as smooth as some sleeping and noble mask.
“Yes, Melissa?” said the Judge, softly.
She looked at him again, proudly. “I want to marry Mr. Dunham. He asked my mother—before she died. She gave her consent. I have accepted him.”
“But think, Melissa!” urged the Judge. “Geoffrey isn’t a man of your world. He is much older than you, almost old enough to be your father. I am afraid this marriage will bring you only unhappiness, my child.”
Melissa’s lips stirred, and she said, very quietly: “Thank you for your solicitude, Judge Farrell. But I know what I am doing. I can only say that I would never marry any other man.”
The Judge lifted his shoulders in a despairingly resigned gesture. But he would not surrender yet. He said: “Melissa, are you prepared to marry this man, conduct his household in a good and proper way, perform your wifely duties and bear his children?”
Melissa started very slightly. Her under lip drew in on a long breath. Geoffrey watched her intently. Then, without fear, she looked into the Judge’s penetrating eyes. “Yes,” she said, very clearly.
The Judge turned to Geoffrey, and said in a cold, dull voice: “I think you can see, Geoff. You are not a fool. You can see what there is to be seen. I don’t understand anythin’ about this. But if you two wish to be married, I will marry you.” He looked at them both for a long and bitter moment. “Take her hand, Geoffrey.”
Melissa turned her head and gave Geoffrey a wide and distrait glance. But she lifted her hand and laid it in his. It was as chill and stiff as a dead hand. His fingers closed about it warmly and gently. “Witnesses, Judge?” he asked.
The Judge did not answer. He opened a door in the rear of the office, growled something. Then he went to the window, knocked on the frosted pane loudly, and beckoned to Geoffrey’s coachman, who was huddled in his coat on the carriage seat. The man looked up, surprised, then climbed down clumsily, and stamped into the office. The Judge’s clerk, a wizened dark little old man, emerged blinking from the chambers beyond the office.
The Judge said loudly: “I am about to unite Mr. Geoffrey Dunham and Miss Melissa Upjohn in holy matrimony, and you are to be the witnesses.”
The two men stared in dumb amazement, then glanced at each other. Geoffrey saw the astounded exchange, and bit his lip. But he still held Melissa’s hand, and studied the rigid profile. A pale shaft of sunlight touched her pale bright hair, so that she appeared to be haloed.
The Judge picked up his book, and said bitterly: “If anyone knows of any impediment to this—this marriage, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
The coachman and the clerk gaped, and were silent. Dully and slowly, the Judge proceeded with the ceremony. Melissa’s responses were clear and firm. Geoffrey replied quietly. Within a few moments the ceremony had been completed.
The Judge laid his book down upon the desk and stood looking down at it in silence. He knew that Geoffrey and Melissa had not kissed, that the girl still stood there in her frozen silence, as if utterly unaware that she was now a wife. The Judge shook his head.
“Thank you, sir,” said Geoffrey. Unobtrusively he laid a large yellow bill on the desk. He tried to scan his old friend’s face. But the Judge, obdurately, would not look at him.
The coachman went out slowly, the clerk popped back into his hole, as if frightened. Geoffrey laid Melissa’s shawl about her shoulders and over her head.
“Aren’t you going to wish us happiness, Judge?” asked Geoffre”
The Judge turned ponderously. He gave his friend a long and level look, but said nothing.
“Thank you,” said Geoffrey, ironically. He took Melissa’s arm. “Come, my dear,” he added.
The girl went out with him. She walked as if asleep. The Judge watched them go. And then he began to curse with such profanity that the clerk behind the closed door put
CHAPTER 23
Because of the coldness of the day, and the sluggishness of the holiday season, few saw Melissa Upjohn and Geoffrey Dunham emerge from Judge Farrell’s offices. Melissa, walking, as usual, like a somnambulist, moved towards her shabby buggy and the decrepit horse she had hitched to it. Geoffrey said a few words to his coachman, who, still dumfounded, nodded in a dazed way. Then Geoffrey went quickly to the buggy and helped Melissa to climb into it. She did not resist him, and indeed, appeared unaware of him. He looked up at her, as she perched on the hard narrow seat, and said: “Move over, Melissa. I am driving now.”
She had taken up the reins in her bare red hands and now looked down at him dumbly. “I said,” he repeated, gently but firmly, “that I am driving now. Move over, please.” Mechanically, she obeyed him, and he sprang up into the vehicle. And then she shrank back from him as far as the torn and flapping curtains would allow. She said: “I am quite capable of driving home, thank you.” But Geoffrey took up the reins in his fur-lined gray gloves and slapped them on the back of the old horse. He turned the buggy around, and the creaking vehicle lurched and swayed down the rutted street past the blind little shops, the post-office, the court house, the red-brick school, all roofed with snow, with snow high upon their window-sills. They passed a few buggies and carriages, and the occupants, struck by this strange sight, reined in their horses to stare, too astonished to answer Geoffrey’s salute. The empty Dunham carriage followed, the coachman shaking his head and rubbing his chin.
Melissa did not speak, nor did Geoffrey at first speak to her. Under his expert guidance the horse came feebly to life and trotted anciently. Melissa, seeing that Geoffrey did not attempt anything formidable, and observing the amiable serenity of his strong and somewhat brutal profile, let her taut body relax. She huddled in her shawl. After a little while, as the buggy began the slow ascent to the Upjohn farm, she began to peep at her newly acquired husband out of the corner of her eye.
She felt her poverty, the poor brown stuff of her woolen frock, the ragged fringes of her shawl, the redness of her hands and the clumsiness of her boots. These contrasted strangely with the rich light gray of his pantaloons, the thick soft fur that lined his black broadcloth greatcoat, the gray beaver of his tallish hat. His gloves fascinated her. She let her eyes drop to his polished boots. She let them rise, as if against her will, to the large strength of his legs, the bigness of his strong arms, the massive lines of his well-set shoulders. Then they touched his square chin, the wide, somewhat thick mouth, the jutting arrogance of his nose with its Roman hump, and the straight black brows over his eyes. Now she did not try to look away. Geoffrey was quite conscious of her artless and simple scrutiny, the stare of a wondering child, and he had to draw in his lips to keep from smiling. He knew that for the first time Melissa was seeing him objectively, not obliquely, not with jealous bitterness and suspicion.
He kept his eye on the snow-filled road, and was careful not to look at her, as one is careful not to startle a child or a proud and timid animal. He hummed a little, as if to himself, a cheerful note. He saw that Melissa’s hands, half folded in the piteous shawl, were no longer trembling. Then he said: “Have you left word for your brother and sister that you were marrying me this morning?”
She shrank again. “No,” she murmured.
He raised one brow, as if in indulgence. “Well, I left word for Bella. She will be waiting for us. So we’ll stop at your home, and tell Andrew and Phoebe, and then—”
“Arabella?” asked Melissa, sharply. She sat up very straight. “I don’t intend to go up—up there, Mr. Dunhaml”
Geoffrey smiled humorously. “‘Geoffrey,’ if you please, my dear. Remember: I’m your husband.”
But Melissa was actually shaking. “I do not intend, I absolutely do not intend, to go to your housel” she cried.
Accustomed as he was to her incredible innocence, Geoffrey was freshly surprised at her words. He turned his head quickly and gave her a swift glance. He wanted to tell her not to be an appalling fool, but when he saw her panic- stricken face, her quivering lips, her look of utter terror, he shrugged, and urged on the horse.
The Upjohn house was in sight now. Melissa drew a deep and audible breath. “I mean,” she said, faintly, “that I cant go up there just yet, Mr.—, I mean, Geoffrey,” and she said his name with such reluctance that he wanted to smile again. “I can’t go there for a few days, until Phoebe is ready to leave with me. There—there are a number of things we must do, together. We’ll have to dismiss Sally and Hiram, and put the farm up for sale, and see Andrew off to Harvard, and sell what we must and prepare—prepare our clothes. There are two frocks for Phoebe, to be fitted—”
Geoffrey did not reply. He knew she was gazing at him with imploring fear. Her voice was stronger, and pleading now, when she continued: “This was all so sudden—Geoffrey, and Phoebe will have to be prepared. She—she will feel I am deserting her, or hurrying her too much. She is so delicate, you see.”
Delicate, be damned, thought Geoffrey, remembering Phoebe. A sharp iron nail floating in honey, that little baggage. My dear, he thought of Melissa, you are in for a number of shocks, and you won’t like what you’ll find out about your fragile little sister.
He said, soothingly: “Of course. I understand, my love.” His voice reassured her, though she winced at the affectionate last two words. “You see,” she went on more bravely, “everything sudden has always been such a shock for Phoebe. She has always been so protected by all of us. And she will have to accustom herself to the idea of going with me to your —your house. I’ll have to persuade her very hard.”
She glanced at him hopefully. But Geoffrey was guiding the horse up the road. “You do have an extra room for Phoebe, please?” she said. Then she brightened. “I don’t want to discommode you and Arabella, and so I am sure that Phoebe could share a little room with me. We shan’t bother anyone very much. We just want a small place in which we can work together—on my father’s manuscript, and on Phoebe’s poems.” The whole picture she was so innocently drawing struck Geoffrey as profoundly ludicrous, and he had to struggle to keep from laughing out loud at this absurd girl. He wanted to drop the reins and pull her into his arms and kiss away that frozen tautness from her lips, that dreaming mist from her eyes. He wanted to tell her not to be a poor damned little fool, that she was his wife now, and that, by God, he was going to teach her what it meant to be a wife. But he under stood what a wild, strange creature he had married, what a pure, fierce innocence, and he had known, before, what patience he must expend, what long and tedious care, before she could shake off the stone shell in which she was encased and crushed, and emerge as a woman. His wooing must come after marriage, for there had been no wooing before, and now, as he thought of it, he was excited and full of anticipation. There would be no forcing of Melissa, for any show of force would forever drive her from him.
“There will be plenty of room for Phoebe,” he said kindly. “She can have any room she wishes, and I assure you that we’ll do everything we can to make her happy.”
Melissa’s pale cheeks actually became pink. “Oh, thank youl” she murmured fervently. She paused, then looked at him again, as if she had never seen him before. “You are so kind,” she added, in a wondering tone. “I didn’t know—” And her color became hotter.
He wanted to kiss her with an almost overwhelming desire and tenderness. His hands tightened on the reins. The horse turned homeward, up the long lane. Then Melissa first became aware of the carriage following.
“I have to get home some way,” said Geoffrey, seeing her start.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “But Andrew could have driven you.” Her hands fumbled with the fringe of the shawl. “Andrew,” she faltered, “will need quite a lot of money. He —he will pay you back, later, when he has been graduated and has a post. With interest,” she amended, appeasingly.
Once more, Geoffrey could hardly keep himself from l
Old Sally had heard the crunching of the wheels on the snow, and she flung open the door, a tirade on her lips. But when she saw Geoffrey, and the carriage drawing up behind the buggy, she stood in silence, her mouth falling open, and gaping. Geoffrey took Melissa’s arm and led her to the door. She did not resist, and again he felt profound relief. She was about to speak to Sally, but he broke in smoothly: “Sally, I know you will be happy to learn that Miss Melissa and I were married this morning.” He beamed down at the fat old woman, who blinked and gaped and fell back. He held out his hand to her, and slowly she dropped her pig’s eyes and looked at it. Something yellow and folded showed in the palm, and she gasped. She feebly took his hand, a transfer was made, and she gulped, mutely standing aside so that Melissa could hastily brush past her. “Thank ye, thank ye very kindly, sir,” stammered Sally, her eyes sticking out from her face. “Married, did you say, sir? This morning?”
“Yes, Sally.” He went past her and gave her his coat and hat and gloves, in the dank chill of the narrow hall. She took them mechanically, not removing her eyes from his face. She was still incredulous and stunned. Melissa had disappeared, but her firm swift tread could be heard upstairs, and her voice eagerly calling for her brother and sister.