Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
The crushed letter lay in Melissa’s hands, and slowly all its letters and all its lines began to dance before her in a kind of wavering fire. The fire seemed to enter her brain, to fill it with a dazzling empty light of numbness and overpowering shock. She had no thoughts at all, no sensation but a sort of utter and devastating paralysis of emotional reaction. Even her fingers, holding the letter, turned numb and senseless. She read and reread the paper over and over, some phrases rising from it like brilliant swords to strike at her eyes. Somewhere, something was beating like wild drums, and somewhere, someone was screaming on one prolonged note. But she felt nothing, though that disembodied creature nearby began to feel a horrible nausea and an unendurable agony creeping through the deadness.
She sat there. From some far distance she heard the faint echo of a voice: “Mrs. Dunham, ma’am, you have only five minutes more. I think I heard Mrs. Barrett’s rig come up the drive.”
Melissa carefully smoothed the letter with her cold fingers, and reread it. Sweat had started out all over her, icy and sickening. A great pain had pierced her head and her breast. She put the letter down, stood up, and faced Rachel. “Oh, no,” she said, very calmly and quietly. Her eyes, however, pierced Rachel in a penetrating frenzy. “It isn’t true, Rachel. He didn’t mean me, did he? He must be referring to Phoebe. Though it is still so unkind—that about her having no—no intelligence—” Her voice began to fail, and she struggled with it, so that it emerged from her throat as a croak. “You have seen Phoebe, my sister, haven’t you, Rachel? Is she not very beautiful? Phoebe is a poet, too—” And then she stopped, and could not speak again. But she looked at Rachel with her great pale eyes as if she were dying.
“Mrs. Dunham!” cried Rachel, terrified. She ran to Melissa and caught her by the arms. “You are ill, ma’am. What is wrong?” In affright, Rachel stared at her mistress’ face.
Melissa stood very still. “There is nothing wrong with me,” she said, uttering every word precisely and carefully. “Noth ing at all. It is the heat. I have never known such heat before in July. Where is my kerchief, Rachel?”
But Rachel produced her own handkerchief, and with trembling hands wiped away the sweat from Melissa’s forehead and upper lip. She wished she might dart away for the smelling-salts, for help, but Melissa’s whole appearance was so terrible, so stricken, so wild, in spite of her calmness, that the girl was afraid she might fall to the floor.
“Please read the letter, Rachel,” said Melissa. “You will see my father means Phoebe. It is so unjust— Phoebe must never know. It would hurt her immeasurably. Phoebe used to write the most wonderful poetry. I had such hopes for her. And now it is all over. But it is still unkind, and cruel of Papa. Phoebe must never know—”
She held the letter out to Rachel, who, still holding Melissa by one hand, took the letter and read it slowly. Most of the words were unintelligible to her, but she caught the meaning, and she gasped. She wanted to crush the hideous thing in her hand, to throw it down and stamp on it, and she was filled with hatred for a dead man she had never seen or known.
“No,” said Rachel, her own voice breaking, “Mrs. Barrett must never know. It is cruel, indeed. But fathers don’t always know about their own children, do they, ma’am? And, besides, it is possible that Mr. Upjohn wanted to—to keep his daughters with him. Kind of like jealousy, ma’am. I’ve heard fathers sometimes do outrageous things, keeping their daughters from suitors and—and—benefactors.”
“It was indeed kind of Mr. Dunham,” said Melissa, frowning like one in profound and only half-conscious shock. “It was kind, wasn’t it, Rachel?”
“Oh, surely, very kind, ma’am,” said Rachel. She held Melissa’s arms, and gently pressed her down into a chair. Then she darted to the dressing-table, found the smelling-salts, returned to Melissa, and put the opened bottle under the girl’s nose. But Melissa did not turn aside, or cough, as the pungent fumes struck her nostrils. She merely sat like stone, looking emptily before her, her arms fallen heavily over the arms of the chair.
“Phoebe,” said Melissa, “had a truly great imagination. Perhaps Papa did not realize that, in full. Mama always monopolized Phoebe, and kept her so busy. Papa must have thought Phoebe rather tiresome and ordinary. I did, too, until I saw her poems. And Papa thought them excellent and extraordinary, also. Rachel, what is the date of that letter? March 15, 1860. That was before the war. That was eight years ago. Yes, yes, of course. Phoebe was twelve years old then. At the school-girl’s age. She was ready for school.” Her voice died again. But she gazed at Rachel with those enormous and fainting eyes, so numbly pleading, so desperate.
“Just at the school-age, yes, ma’am,” murmured Rachel, in growing distress. Again she wiped the sweat from Melissa’s forehead.
“Phoebe must never know. It would hurt her immeasurably,” repeated Melissa with stony emphasis. “She would never forgive Papa. She could not bear to live, if she knew of this letter. There—there would be nothing left to live for, Rachel. There is nothing ever left to live for, when—when the heart has been struck like this, and all the faith and the dreams are gone, and everything is so very empty.”
“I think Mrs. Barrett has much character, ma’am,” replied Rachel. “Unkind letters never hurt very much, in the long run, especially when they are prompted by jealousy and deliberate misunderstanding.”
“Oh, Papa was not jealous, nor did he misunderstand,” said Melissa, in a loud and childlike tone of denial. “But that was before he knew about Phoebe’s poems, of course. After he had read them, he would not have written such a letter.”
“Mrs. Dunham, will you not lie down, and let me tell Mrs. Barrett and Mrs. Shaw that you are indisposed?” pleaded Rachel, almost in tears.
Melissa seemed to see Rachel for the first time. She shook her head, as if outraged. “Oh, no, Rachel, that would never do at all. That would be very impolite. Arabella has often told me that a lady must receive her invited guests, no matter how ill she may be. Only death, Arabella said, could be an excuse for such discourtesy. Rachel, I do feel very ill, though. I think I might feel this way if I were dying—”
However, she pushed aside Rachel’s hands, and stood up. She absently smoothed the black lace on her breast, and pushed up the ruffled sleeves. She appeared to be half asleep, moving mechanically. She pressed her hands against the wings of hair on her temples. “I really must go down,” she said, in her curious, slow tone of emphasis. “Phoebe would be disturbed. She might wonder. She must never know, and if I did not go down she might come up here, and even see the letter.”
She glanced behind her at the desk. She turned and thrust the letter into the sheaf of notes. Now she began to shiver so violently that she almost staggered. Rachel watched her with helpless alarm.
“Why not destroy the letter, Mrs. Dunham? Then you could be sure that no one would ever see it.”
“Oh, no,” answered Melissa, seriously, “that would be very wrong. Everything of Papa’s is important.”
She turned heavily, and then, as if she had forgotten Rachel entirely and was walking in the numbness of complete sleep, she moved slowly towards the door, and went out.
The long staircase lay before her, a shadowy darkness falling down into bottomless space. She held to the balustrade very tightly, and went downwards, step by step. Her knees were strangely fluid and jelly-like. There was no air anywhere. Melissa found it difficult to breathe. Though she moved so slowly, her heart was beating in her breast and throat and temples in swift hard strokes of intolerable pain. Her head swam; there was no feeling in her feet and she had to grope in a swirling mist.
She did not know that Rachel stepped down beside her, hands ready to catch her if she fell.
CHAPTER 42
Arabella had invited Phoebe to the comparatively cool and tree-shaded quiet of the terrace behind the house, where enormous elms had tangled their branches together against the intense blue of the summer sky. The slabs of gray stones that formed the floor of the terrace we
Though none of the Upjohns could claim any affection from Arabella, the latter sometimes regarded Phoebe with a slight fondness. Unlike the other Upjohns, Arabella would reflect pleasantly, Phoebe was no freak, had no peculiarities, no strangeness of character, no odd ways, none of the long and somber taciturnities which made Andrew a formidable presence, no sudden hard intuitivenesses which had made Amanda, his mother, a companion able to inspire uneasy suspicions, no elegant affectations like Charles’, which had been all the more irritating because one suspected that he knew they were such. Phoebe was no fool, and she had, in Arabella’s estimation, a normal and human maliciousness towards those more fortunate in a solid, worldly sense, a bent for gossip, a healthy interest in clothes, and in the scandals of Midfield, and a pleasure in the afflictions of envied others. All this was understandable to Arabella, and she enjoyed Phoebe’s visits, especially now that Phoebe was safely married to a prosperous young farmer, well-dressed and socially acceptable. And because Arabella enjoyed the superiority of compassion, she could gaze on Phoebe affectionately and meditate on what a wretched life the poor girl must have led among the queer Upjohns.
Moreover, Arabella strongly suspected that Phoebe despised and ridiculed her sister, which fact gave Phoebe a warm charm in her eyes.
Phoebe, however, had a charm of her own on this hot July day. Clad in rose-sprinkled dimity tied with rose-colored ribbons, with a rose-laden wide, flat straw hat on her golden head, pink streamers flowing over her young shoulders, and black sandals tied with more pink ribbons on her dainty crossed feet, she was a most delightful vision of young freshness and beauty. Always plump, her few weeks of marriage had increased her flesh, so that her face was a mass of rosy dimples, smiles and flashes of blue from sprightly eyes. Released from the strain of her ominous home, she had revealed a new gaiety and liveliness, enhanced by the malice of her laughing remarks and a natural shrewd wit. She loved her new husband, her well-built, secure house, the rich acres of the farm, her pretty clothing, her rig, which was her own, the two servants who waited upon her sedulously, and her position as a rising and sensible young matron in Midfield. She was always content and happy until she visited the lofty splendors of the Dunham house and looked enviously at the “yellow” room, the immense library, the park-like grounds, and felt all the luxury which only great wealth can impart to any establishment. She was apt to return home in a peevish mood, full of condemnations of her dull sister and commiserations for both Geoffrey and Arabella, who must always be afflicted by the gaunt and Gothic presence of Melissa.
John Barrett usually felt very uneasy about Phoebe after these visits. After them, she was often discontented, petulant, hard to please, captious and faintly whining. As he was a simple-minded young man, very kind and upright, it never occurred to him that Phoebe was simply envious and resentful of her sister’s good fortune. He thought, merely, that Melissa must have upset his darling, and his sentiments towards his sister-in-law would take on reproachfulness and annoyance. On the occasion of his few meetings with Melissa, he would demonstrate a silent surliness foreign to his real nature, and Melissa shrank from him and became even more silent in his presence. She resented him for his “rape” of little Phoebe, and considered that he had “forced” an intolerable marriage upon her because of the Upjohn penury; in consequence, she regarded the young man with bitter repulsion. However, whenever she discovered him eyeing her with somber distrust and unfriendliness, she would feel a sad thrill of bewilderment.
Neither Phoebe nor John had, as yet, heard the local gossip about Melissa and Ravel Littlefield, and this was evidence of the delicacy of their friends. Arabella, who had made Phoebe comfortable, regarded her speculatively. She was a clever woman, and though she well knew Phoebe’s sentiments towards her sister, she suspected that there was a kind of clannishness among the Upjohns which outsiders would attack at their peril. There might come a day when that clannishness would disappear. But today was not the time. It was coining close, in Phoebe, but it was still not the time. So Arabella smiled fondly upon her young visitor, and complimented her upon her dress and her ability to remain fresh and bright on such a day. Phoebe responded to this with gratification, and artlessly informed Arabella of the price of the gown, the hat and the ribbons. She swung a rose-colored velvet reticule by its ribbons, and thought of the comfortable sum of money it contained and the lace-trimmed linen handkerchief delicately scented and her heavy bunch of household keys. The girl smiled happily; then, with a sudden frown, she glanced at the open terrace door.
“Where can Melly be?” she asked, pettishly.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” sighed Arabella patiently. “She knew the time of your arrival. I am certain her maid also kept her informed.”
It annoyed Phoebe that Melissa—horrid, silly old Melly—should have a personal maid. Moreover, it was incongruous. Stupid old Melly, who often forgot to wash her dirty, ink-stained hands, with a maid of her own to dress and furbish her and comb her hair! It was not easy for Phoebe to endure this. She, who was so very pretty, so conscious of the amenities and the elegances, so natural a mistress of all this grandeur, had not been considered a moment by Geoffrey Dunham. For some strange and still baffling reason, he had chosen Melissa, who would forever be a shame and a burden to him. The months of Melissa’s marriage had not improved her, given her gracefulness or presence, nor did she ever appear aware of the magnificence which surrounded her and the loftiness of her position. Phoebe could feel the symptoms of her old irritation arising in her, and it was really too warm a day to be imposed on in this manner. She repeated: “Where can she be? But Melly was always that way. Completely indifferent to the obligations she might have towards others. She was ever selfish, dear Arabella, and you must find her a trial.”
But Arabella was not to be inveigled into making any remark which might later be used against her. She had had one or two disconcerting experiences in the past, when, stimulated by some remark of a friend, she had expressed sympathy, later to find herself quoted viciously by the “friend” without the preliminary explanation of the confidences which had provoked her observations. Whatever she might say of Melissa now, would quite possibly be repeated by Phoebe as comment out of the blue and out of Arabella’s own odious nature. So Arabella merely smiled a long-suffering and eloquent smile and shrugged.
“I do not envy you, dear Arabella,” goaded Phoebe, irritated at the older woman’s silence, and dissatisfied by the smile that said everything but was yet unquotable. “I had twenty years of Melly, so you can imagine.”
Again Arabella smiled. She was beginning to enjoy herself, quite understanding Phoebe’s irritation. “It is not my place to comment on anything,” she said. But she waited expectantly.
Phoebe brooded on her sister. It was intolerable for one as stupid as Melissa to have been blessed in this fashion, to have been given all these rich opportunities. It was part of the cruel inconsistencies of fate, which always seemed to give the best fortune to the most unworthy, to heap honors on the doltish and witless and to deny them to the meritorious, to pour wealth into the hands of those who could not properly exploit it and to withhold it from the competent and shrewd.
It was wrong, wrong! It never occurred to Phoebe, as it never occurred to thousands like her commonplace self, that Melissa and her kind might have talents and characters which drew honors and fortune naturally, and that there is a wis
The dimity frock, the beribboned pretty hat, and the rose-velvet reticule no longer pleased Phoebe. She thought of her own home, and its tidy gardens, with discontent and envy. Why could Johnnie not have had the position, wealth and prestige of Geoffrey Dunham, Johnnie who was so much more deserving? Oh, it was intolerable! She loved Johnnie, and hated Geoffrey for the injustice of fate. What was the difference between Johnnie, wise, kind, sweet Johnnie, and that arrogant and gross-faced Geoffrey Dunham? None at all, except that Geoffrey had inherited an unearned fortune!