Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
CHAPTER 29
The room opened out before Melissa like a huge golden cave, brilliantly sparkling with crystal, dazzling her eyes, assaulting her senses. She had been frightened. Now she was blinded, overwhelmed. Phoebe had described this room to her, but she had been incredulous. Confusion fell over her. Wherever her terrified eye fell, it encountered fresh and impossible beauties and splendors. She was dimly aware that she was being introduced to strange people and bobbing faces, but she could only give them a bemused glance before she returned to the staggered contemplation of the room. She had been in this house three times in her early childhood and girlhood, but she had entered the library only, never the drawing-rooms.
Someone was leading her to a chair before the fire. She lifted her astounded eyes to the mantelpiece and stared at the golden cupids with their uplifted candles. A glass of wine was in her hand. She gazed at the colorful painting on the wall above the great roaring fire. Someone was speaking to her. She said “yes,” in a faint dim voice; she looked at the golden chairs, the golden tables, the golden love-seats, the golden draperies. Her heart was beating strangely, as if with fear and amazement. She felt herself caught up in a blaze of golden light and shadow, and once she put up her hand and touched her cheek in a bewildered gesture.
Finally it came to her that she was behaving like a shinned peasant. Proudly, she lifted her head, forced herself to look at these strangers from whom she instinctively shrank. They knew of her father, she must do him justice. She must shake the golden mist from her eyes and conduct herself as a daughter of Charles Upjohn. When she saw Arabella glancing with mean and smiling significance at a very unprepossessing and pallid lady in black, who reclined languidly in her chair, a hot wave of shame and anger ran over the girl and her face settled in its old expression of rigor and sternness. She must remember that these women were fools and parasites, of no use whatsoever in the world—and that she was the daughter of Charles Upjohn.
“From what gallery did you steal this ravishing creature, Dunham?” a gentleman’s soft and admiring voice was saying. “I swear, she is direct from the hand of Phidias himself!” Melissa became aware of the blur of voices about her and what seemed a veritable cloud of faces.
If Melissa was stupefied, the guests were ill at ease. Their lessons in etiquette, while young, had not taken cognizance of how one should behave when a sudden, unexpected and fantastic marriage takes place in one’s very midst, especially when all the circumstances are as odd and bewildering as these were. None of them were intimate friends of Geoffrey’s; most of them disliked him, or, at best, had only an indifferent regard for him. Even the latter thought him somewhat ruthless, often irascible, sometimes brutal with his tongue, though they admitted that, in his way, he was a forthright and honest man. “In his way,” however, covered a multitude of sins.
And now this unpopular man had suddenly, without previous announcement or hint, ambiguously precipitated a bride into their midst, expected them to behave themselves as if such weddings were daily occurrances and ought not to arouse more than a passing comment. They had valiantly done their best, all of them. They had stammeringly Scattered congratulations and good wishes right and left, had inspected, with furtive attention, this very extraordinary and very beautiful young bride, and then, seeing that Geoffrey did not encourage them to more exuberant remarks, nor expect them to ask questions, they subsided into uneasy awkwardness. The gentlemen did propose a toast to the bride, but it was obvious that she was not aware of this courtesy. She sat stiffly in her blue silk before the fire and looked at them blindly, as if their antics were not sufficiently unusual to attract her attention. All this convinced the ladies that, for once, dear Arabella had been right. There was something definitely queer about the whole thing. One or two of the women, who had cynical minds, cast side-glances at Melissa’s figure, to ascertain whether the solution to the mystery lay there.
The gentlemen were overwhelmed by Melissa’s strange cold beauty, by the classic fixity of her features, by her frozen composure and air of austerity. Because she was young, and had such an unearthly loveliness, they were inclined to believe that Dunham had in some way victimized her, and they felt instinctively protective. Their ladies were not so generous. With the exception of Mrs. Holland, they came to the conclusion that the girl might be somewhat handsome but that she had no real fascination or charm. They had not yet heard her voice; she had made no comment. She only sat there like a stiff, life-size doll, and seemed to see nothing. They did not know that she was frightened into a dazed condition, that she feared them as she always feared the stranger. Where the gentlemen saw a mysterious tragedy, the ladies saw stupidity. After their failure to elicit any conversation from Melissa, they began to give Arabella sympathetic glances, and Arabella’s eyes filled with tears of righteousness and self-pity.
But now, when Ravel Littlefield made his admiring remark, Melissa came out of her stunned condition. She looked at Ravel, who was again standing against the becoming background of the golden mantelpiece. His wondrous profile was lit up by the fire; his eyes were melting as they gazed ardently at Melissa. Suddenly, the girl blushed, and she hid her reddened hands under a fold of her blue gown. She looked away from Ravel with dignity,, and he was freshly enamored.
“Thank you,” answered Geoffrey, indulgently. He stood behind Melissa’s chair and lightly touched the golden coil near his hand. Melissa started at his touch, a movement which was not lost in the suddenly avid guests. Mr. Holland’s kind heart was moved to pity. He advanced towards Melissa and gave her a courtly bow. She looked up at him, shrinking, but when she saw how kindly he was, she managed a rigorous and uncertain smile. Little drops of moisture had appeared on her upper lip.
“Mr. Holland is our most famous portrait-painter, my dear,” said Arabella. “Perhaps Geoffrey can induce him, some time, to paint your portrait.” She gave the ladies a sly and long-suffering smile, to which all except Mrs. Holland responded.
Melissa found her tongue. She stared at Mr. Holland, puzzled. “My father often spoke of the artists he had known in Philadelphia and New York, famous artists,” she said, in her clear, neutral voice. “But he never mentioned you, sir.” She appeared doubtful and suspicious.
Everyone, even Geoffrey, was taken aback by this gaucherie, and stood or sat in silence. Geoffrey turned red. Mr. Holland said, very gently: “I have heard of your father, my dear, and I have read all his wonderful books, but we never met. Besides, perhaps I am not as famous as Arabella infers.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Melissa, with appalling frankness.
Melissa, whose sensibilities had not been blunted by social contacts, began to be acutely aware of the currents in this room. Her mother had once remarked that men were kinder than women, and Melissa had scoffed at this. But now she wondered whether it were not true. She felt nothing but interest, admiration and cordiality on the part of the gentlemen. Of course, it was only because of Geoffrey. Yet one side of her spirit warmed, as a body is warmed when it is turned towards a fire. The other side remained frozen. That was the side turned to the ladies. She felt a distinct malignance flowing from that ugly long-faced woman in black who leaned so languidly against the arm of her chair, who had such lank, oily, brown hair, and kept giving that young man near the fire such mutely intense glances. She felt amusement from Mesdames Eldridge and Holland, pallid hatred from Mrs. Bertram, and venom from Arabella. She was frightened anew, surprised, and then humiliated. They were laughing at her; they thought her ugly and ridiculous. She lifted her chin haughtily, turned her head from them, and encountered the passionate gaze of the young man before her.
Amazed, she could not look away. For the first time, she was aware that he was singularly handsome and that he was admiring her. He was not pretending, she could see that. She was absorbed in his admiration, and now she felt the bright smoothness of her hair, her white neck, the jewels at her throat, the soft caress of the silk against her skin, the length of her thighs. A long warm tremor ran over h
He, in turn, was fascinated by this unique young creature and her evident wonder. A connoisseur of women, he understood, by intuition, a great deal about Melissa. Here was no swooning, pampered, artificial fool of a woman, artfully aware of the effects she created, corrupt, vain and shallow. She was as clear, cold and fresh as a spring river pouring down from white mountains into a virgin valley. She was as untouched as new snow. She was like a white young birch-tree in unfathomed forests. All sorts of extravagant similies rushed through the young man’s mind. From Arabella’s conversation prior to Melissa’s entrance, he had learned of Melissa’s background, and had feared a blue-stocking. Well, there was nothing about the girl to dispel that apprehension. She had the intelligent woman’s clear, steadfast eyes, her broad white brow, her air of dignity, reserve and consciousness. Ravel, understanding women, knew that a man’s approach to a woman of intellect was not by way of admiration of her brains. She could be won only by implied and outrageously frank devotion to her physical charms. Yet, he reflected, there was something else here, which he had never encountered before. He began to think that the way to Melissa was not only through open admiration.
He became very excited, and now he was enormously stirred. He recognized the first emotions of “true, real love.” There was the thrill of infatuation, the excitement, the stir, the warmth. But these were hugely magnified, as they had never been magnified before. There was another thing, and that was a kind of heavy sadness. Infatuated, not only by Melissa but by his own unique emotions, he looked in urgent silence at the girl, and she gazed back at him, fascinated by what she saw in his eyes.
Involuntarily, she asked a question which only a Melissa would ask, and she asked it abruptly: “What do you do?”
Fortunately, everyone else was engaged in polite conversation and did not hear this. Ravel did not find it strange. Nothing about Melissa was strange to him now. He answered, with a rare simplicity: “I am a poet. Of a sort.”
Mrs. Littlefield, who could return from the most engrossing scandal at the sound of her beloved Ravel’s voice, immediately turned her head. She smiled at Melissa in her shadowy, malevolent fashion, looked at Ravel adoringly. “‘Of a sort,’ my darling?” she asked, raising her brows. “How can you speak so disparagingly of your wonderful work?” She looked at Melissa. “My dear boy is one of America’s great poets, as yet unrecognized by an insensate public but some day to blaze like a new star in our literary heavens.”
Melissa was startled. A poet. Earnestly she scrutinized Ravel, and he returned her scrutiny with an expression of somber ardor, which, for the first time in his life, was not affected. Now he was filled with a strange and powerful tenderness, a kind of hunger.
“A poet,” repeated Melissa, almost inaudibly. “My father often said that a poet was the only true interpreter of life.”
Ravel experienced a sensation oddly akin to humility and shame.
“I am afraid, then, that I am not a real poet,” he said. “I have done nothing significant in my writing. I should say I am a spinner of sugary phrases and light superficialities. I have had it in my mind for a long time to write a great dramatic poem about Orpheus and Eurydice—” He paused. “I think I shall write it, now,” he added, very softly.
But Melissa, naturally, inferred nothing from this; to her it was a bare statement of fact. Her pale blue eyes became animated, they flashed with the cold and undefiled passion of her mind. “How wonderful that would be!” she exclaimed. “Yes, you must write it!”
Her voice, with its clear, strong intonations, captured the attention of the others, and every face turned to her. But she did not see them. She saw only Ravel. Her whole face had kindled. There was a breathlessness about her. Bewitched, Ravel could only look at the girl.
It was at this moment that dinner was announced. The gentlemen offered their arms to the ladies, who rose with a long rustle of silk. Melissa stood among them, like a marvelously carved statue of blue ice, iridescent and sparkling. She took Geoffrey’s arm, and walked beside him into the dining-room.
CHAPTER 30
The dark warmth and subdued light of the dining-room startled Melissa almost as much as the golden dazzle of the drawing-room had done. She saw the dark masses of crimson roses and green leaves in the center of the lace-covered table, the candles blazing in the silver candelabra at each end, the glimmer of polished silver on the side-boards, the faint gleam and sparkle of fine glass in the cupboards, the fire on the hearth which sent its scarlet waves over ceiling and panelled wall. As this was Geoffrey’s wedding-night, he placed Melissa at his right, while Arabella still sat in her old place of authority at the foot of the table. Tomorrow, she knew, Melissa would occupy that place—that green, blank-faced chit with the red hands!
Ravel Littlefield sat beside Melissa. He had become unaccountably silent. He watched Melissa frankly surveying the room, her mouth opened slightly as if in wonder. He saw, for the first time, the mauve stains of fatigue under her eyes. He saw also that when she glanced at Geoffrey it was with that childlike indifference which a very young girl accords an adult. He speculated on this. Once, Geoffrey smiled at his bride, and she smiled back, with a child’s awkward uneasiness. Certainly it was not the smile of a woman in love, or that of a wife; Ravel became very thoughtful, and then, curiously elated. His intuition, always acute and super-sensitive, informed him of many things long before his conscious mind caught up, like a heavy-footed animal trying to keep pace with a winged bird.
While his intuition informed him clearly of many things, the other gentlemen, and the ladies, too, sensed something wrong, in a diffused sort of way. By this time, not even Mrs. Littlefield or Mrs. Bertram believed that anything furtive or indelicate was behind this unheralded wedding; their perplexity was all the greater for not having an ugly explanation to fasten upon. The gentlemen reflected that, had Dunham been a poor man and this a girl of suddenly inherited wealth, and a booby to boot, the explanation would not have been difficult. But the reverse was true. Certainly the girl was handsome, but even more certainly she did not look upon her new husband with that delightful and blushing shyness traditionally expected. She hardly looked at him at all, not even with shrinking. She did not seem to be very much aware of anyone else, either. Unless—and now more than one eye sharpened—it was of that blackguard, Ravel Littlefield.
A marriage dinner was expected to be gay. But all at once, even the most interested voice became silent. A kind of dim disquiet spread from the table to the farthest corners of the room. The sound of the soft-footed servants grew loud; the clink of silver was startling; the crackle of the fire became intolerable. Geoffrey was carving, the roast with unusual meticulousness, as if he wished the task to last indefinitely so that he need not look up. The guests watched him as if their lives depended upon their complete attention. They felt the presence of the speechless girl in their midst; out of the corner of their eyes they saw her blue rigidity, the pale shine of her hair, the sparkle of her jewels. She oppressed them by her very presence, though they did not know why.
Involuntarily, Geoffrey glanced up and looked squarely at his wife. The silver tools remained suspended in his hands while he looked at her as if only she were in this room. And it came to him that he was wrong, and had always been wrong, about her, that he had been confused by certain conventionalities of behavior which he had not known he had accepted. He had thought her a narrow and beleaguered child, a foolish if beloved girl, of intolerant and obstinate opinions, deluded by a dream that never was, confounded by her own illusions. In a way, that was true, but as she sat there beside him, among his friends, so much apart, so forever and ever much apart, he saw, in her enormous and undefiled simplici
None of this had corrupted Melissa, because she had never encountered it. But Geoffrey thought: Even when she encounters it, will not hurt her. She has, in herself, a tragic human dignity which noise and fearful customs have destroyed in everyone else, including myself. We try desperately to drink dead sand in the delusion that it is living water. Melissa knows she is alone, that is why she has majesty. We refuse to acknowledge it, and that is why we are noisy and miserable animals.
Arabella thought, malignantly: There she sits, that odious creature, like a graven image, with not the slightest expression on her face! Oh, it is not possible that I must endure this! Surely, I shall wake up in a little while and discover it is a nightmare!
Ravel thought: This is. Eurydice, who has lived so long among shadows that she is blind to the sunlight, and turns back from the world. He thought: I love her.
He looked at Geoffrey, who was gazing at his wife, and the others, also aware of Geoffrey’s motionlessness, looked at him. The servants paused, and stared likewise, becoming conscious of a strong, strange current in the room, running towards their new mistress, who seemed not to see or hear anything. This unfathomable tension lasted only a moment or two, yet to almost everyone it seemed to last for a long and unendurable time.