Melissa by Taylor Caldwell
Arabella saw the pettish frown on Phoebe’s pretty face, and guessed at much of her thoughts. So she said: “Have you seen the lovely rope of pearls which Geoffrey recently gave your sister? They belonged to my mother. And there is a diamond necklace, too, with diamond bangles to match, and a magnificent diamond ring. Melissa has not yet worn them, but then, we have not had a grand party this year. She will probably wear them in October.”
Phoebe listened with angry awe. She pressed her pink lips together so tightly that the color disappeared. She said, ill-naturedly: “I am sure Melissa will not appreciate these things. She never cared for the gowns and jewels which other females find delightful. Her whole world was Papa, and books, and musty dead languages,” Suddenly, she giggled. “It was such a waste, too. Papa always made the most subtle fun of Melly, right in front of her, so that even a zany would have seen. But she never saw in the least. She has no humor, no sense of proportion.”
Arabella, though soothed by these confidences, glanced cautiously at the door. “I think I hear Melissa,” she warned.
“I hope she heard me,” replied Phoebe, sullenly, but she dropped her voice. She listened to the slow and dragging footsteps crossing the flagged sun-room inside. Then Melissa appeared on the threshold, and Phoebe, arranging her lips in a tight little smile of sisterly superiority, turned towards her. Her glance was immediately caught by the handsome new gown and the jewels, and her own dimity frock became the cheap gingham of a farm-wife. But, a moment later, the envious glance fixed itself in surprise on Melissa’s face, and even Phoebe’s small hard heart was struck by Melissa’s ghastly pallor and by the still anguish in the dazed eyes. A suppressed concern rose in her, and her own rich color faded in a new anxiety.
She stood up quickly and went towards Melissa. “Melly!” she exclaimed. “Are you ill?”
Melissa stopped, and looked down at her little sister. The expression of sightless fixity did not fade for several moments, and she did not speak. Phoebe took her hand; it was heavy and ice-cold, and she dropped it hastily. Arabella, also caught by the strangeness about Melissa, ceased farming her plump countenance, and sat very straight in her chair, her fan suspended in the air.
Melissa just stood there, tall and thin and silent, with the face and eyes of a stricken and speechless ghost. A hot breeze stirred the black lace on her gown, and ruffled the lace on her breast. But she did not appear to be breathing. There was something corpse-like about her which affrighted Phoebe and made her step back a pace or two.
“What is wrong, Melly dear?” she faltered. She repeated: “Are you ill?”
For the first time, Melissa seemed to be aware of her sister. She glanced about her dazedly, and even started a little. Her white lips moved in the faint parody of a smile. Her hands lifted slightly, then dropped.
She said, in an unnaturally loud slow voice, as if she were deaf: “No, I am not ill. It was the heat. I think it was the heat.”
Now her eyes focussed upon Phoebe. The younger girl could not understand their expression, for it was urgent and piercing and desperate. Moreover, they did not see Arabella, who was listening intently.
“Phoebe,” said Melissa, “did Papa once think of sending you away to school, when you were a little girl? Please think, Phoebe, think very clearly, and try to remember.”
Phoebe was struck dumb by this extraordinary question. Bewildered, she looked at Arabella. Her rosy lips parted in astonishment.
She stammered: “Why, Melly, whatever do you mean? And what does it matter if he did or did not? What a queer question!”
Melissa’s hand darted out and caught Phoebe’s plump, warm white arm in a strong grip. “You must answer me, Phoebe,” she said. “You don’t know what it means to me.”
Phoebe could not believe her own ears, nor the evidence of her astounded eyes. But something warned her that she must not pull away nor answer Melissa lightly. There was some terribleness here, some agony, some horror, which all her instincts recognized, even if her mind could not encompass them and their meaning.
She said, soothingly: “Why, Melissa. I don’t know why you should ask this, or why it should seem important to you.” Her pretty brows drew together in an earnest desire to concentrate. Then she smiled, and dimpled. “I think I do remember something about it. Yes, I was very young, but I remember. Mama wanted me to go away to school, I believe, and she and Papa discussed it, and then there was no money.” Her own face cleared, and she laughed softly. “I did so want to go. But Mama said there was no money for clothes and books, even if there had been enough for the board and tuition. So nothing more was said or done about it.”
Arabella thought: Is the fool mad? Why does it appear a matter of life-and-death to her? Why does she stare at Phoebe like that, as if she were trying to probe the girl’s brain? And what a ridiculous scene! She has no self-control, no manners, and all my work, as I long suspected, has been a waste of time. How often I have taught her how to greet a guest, how to suppress vulgar emotion, and what to say! Yet she just stands there like a great gaunt dolt fresh from the plow and the fields.
Melissa dropped her hand from Phoebe’s arm. Some of the rigidity left her face and body. She sagged a little, as if intolerably exhausted. The gray of shock began to recede from her mouth and the shadow of shock lessened in her eyes.
She murmured: “Poor little Phoebe.”
No one answered her or spoke. In spite of the hot sunlight and the flowers and the distant splash of the fountain, the terrace held something pent and ominous.
Then Phoebe said: “Oh, it doesn’t matter in the least, Melly. But what made you ask this?”
Melissa drew a deep breath, like a heavy sigh. “There was a letter Papa had written to someone— I found it today.” Again, Phoebe frowned in perplexity. “But what does it matter? And why should it concern you so?”
“I think,” said Melissa, as if she had not heard the questions, “that some way should have been found to send you. It was very wrong. Yes, it was very wrong.”
Phoebe, in spite of her envy and her chronic detestation of Melissa, was touched. She sighed sweetly. “Please do not think so. It does not matter now. I am sure it is all for the best, though at the time it was a great disappointment. But, Melly, do sit down. You look so tired. The heat has given you the vapors.” She scrutinized her sister anxiously. She had always thought Melissa quite insane, but she had thought it maliciously. Now she considered the possibility with real alarm and sympathy.
She took Melissa’s arm, and Melissa let herself be led to a chair like an obedient and stupefied child. She sat down, but her eyes did not leave Phoebe’s face. They had a dull, drowned look about them, though now the expression of shock was completely gone from them. Arabella watched curiously.
She said: “Dear Melissa, how extraordinary you are! And how seriously you take everything! It is not that important, as Phoebe has told you.”
Melissa suddenly clasped her hands tightly together. She turned to Arabella and gazed at her like one in a painful trance. She said: “Oh yes, it is important! You don’t know how important! No one knows. You see, when I read that letter,” she added simply, “I thought I was going to die.”
Arabella stared, and Phoebe also. They were both speechless with astonishment. Phoebe flashed Arabella a glance of fear, and Arabella pursed her lips.
Arabella finally said: “You do take things to heart in the most amazing way, Melissa, things which are of no consequence to others who are less—emotional.”
Melissa was silent. She looked down at her twisted hands.
After a long time, she murmured: “I thought I was going to die.”
“How extravagant!” cried Arabella, with a light, contemptuous laugh. “I did not know you were so attached to your sister, Melissa.”
Phoebe moved a step closer to Melissa, as if to protect her against Arabella’s scorn. Phoebe was only an ordinary girl, and could not understand or know unusual things. But she felt, again, that something terrible had stri
She put her hand gently on Melissa’s shoulder, greatly moved by what she believed her sister’s concern for her. She actually knew a pang of remorse for her own malevolences to Melissa in the past. She said, tenderly: “But, darling Melissa, it does not matter, believe me. You should not be so upset. I came to see you today, and now you have alarmed me.”
Arabella, remembering that a hostess should be tactful, rang the silver bell near her hand on an iron table. “Let us have tea,” she said. “Tea will refresh us all, I hope. I am sure that Melissa’s-singular-conduct can be explained by the heat”
A part of Melissa’s mind recalled the many long lessons it had learned. She said mechanically: “Yes, let us have our tea.” She regarded her sister confusedly. “I was late. I am very sorry. How are you, Phoebe?”
“It is of no consequence.” said Phoebe. She had sat down now, perched on the edge of her chair. She studied Melissa acutely. This was all very queer. Of course, poor old Melly always had the strangest ideas, and became agitated over the most outlandish things. Phoebe remembered that her sister, in reading over a newly published book of her father’s, had come upon a slight error in the translation of a poem. The error, of course, had been the printer’s. Not one scholar in ten thousand would have observed it, and not one in twenty thousand, unless he was a confirmed pedant, would have cared. But Melissa had been thrown into a veritable frenzy over the error. She had raved and stamped, and had breathed fire. Even Charles had been amazed at her passion. She had insisted upon writing Geoffrey, demanding not only the dismissal of the blasphemous printer but a long and detailed apology and correction to be printed in a separate pamphlet and sent to the few hundred purchasers of the book. Whatever Geoffrey, full of amusement, had written in reply, Phoebe had never known, but apparently it was a facetious answer, belittling the importance of the error, for Melissa had displayed fresh frenzy and rage and had denounced Geoffrey as a “gross and incompetent publisher, a buffoon, a despoiler of scholarship, a Jape who had no regard for learning.” Geoffrey, declared Melissa bitterly, was in a universal conspiracy to destroy the sanctity of scholarly learning in America and to reduce the American people to a state little above complete illiteracy. She had not calmed down for many weeks, and she had written Geoffrey again, three times, in the most virulent terms.
Thinking of this, Phoebe was again irritated by the silliness of her sister. Her novel concern for Melissa died away. There she sat, as always, with that blankness on her haggard face, a face which expressed nothing at all, except, perhaps, the blankness of the mind behind it. Phoebe again scanned the lovely Worth creation. How magnificent suoh a gown would be on her own dainty figure! Green was her favorite color, and those cascades of fragile black lace set it off deliciously.
Those turquoises, too, on the golden chain set with tiny pearls, hung about Melissa’s neck incongruously. That long, thin white neck, like the neck of a goose! Nothing could arouse any life in the pale, lightless hair, either. Phoebe caressed one of her own vivid, bright ringlets, and her envy filled her with resentment. She had only one consolation: Melissa was growing more ugly every day.
It was just like stupid old Melly to be thrown into a tizzy because, long ago, one of the family had been denied an education she had not in the least wanted. It was all settled neatly now, in Phoebe’s thoughts, and the nagging irritation could increase, unimpeded.
Melissa sat, her emaciated fingers locked together, and stared at the floor of the flagged terrace. The tea arrived. Arabella suggested that Melissa pour. She did so, mechanically. This time she did not drop a single spoon, though she spilled sugar. Arabella sighed, with resignation, after a telling glance at Phoebe.
Melissa, because of her mutenesses, her lack of interest in the company, had an oppressive effect on any conversation anywhere. She had this effect now. It was no use. trying to ignore her Gothic presence, though Phoebe and Arabella tried valorously. It was like attempting to conduct conversation in a light vein in the company of an embarrassing corpse.
“Have you seen the last issue of Godey’s?” asked Arabella. She had looked at Melissa significantly, calling attention to the little cakes on the silver salver, which ought to be offered Phoebe. But Melissa had not noticed, though she was now staring directly at the salver. So Arabella did the honors. She went on: “There is a velvet mantle, called The Metternich. It can be of any color, though bottle-green and crimson are much favored. It is trimmed around with a wide guipure lace, criss-crossed up the back, and carried down the front of the wrap. Jet and crochet ornaments are arranged in with the lace. I understand it is very soignée, and very new. I think I shall order it, in bottle-green.”
“Yes,” said Phoebe, momentarily forgetting the depressing figure of her sister. “I saw that issue. But I preferred the gray cloth paletot, slit on each side and at the back. The openings, if you remember, dear Arabella, are caught together with bands of bead trimming. Then there are epaulets and a very full trimming formed of crochet and bugles. The entire wrap is bound with black velvet. Worth suggests a violet poplin dress and violet velvet bonnet, trimmed with black lace and pink roses, to set off the wrap.”
“I liked that exceedingly, too!” cried Arabella, enthusiastically. “Do order it, darling Phoebe! It should be very fetching, with your figure. Do you know that we have much the same proportions? There are times when it is very pleasing to be petite.”
Phoebe surveyed Arabella’s plump and tightly-laced figure and was annoyed at the comparison with her own dainty form. How stupid of Arabella to find the slightest resemblance. But she answered amiably: “Yes, it is so unfashionable, and so without style, to be tall. Amazonian, and unfeminine!”
They both glanced at Melissa’s long body sitting so rigidly in the chair. They hoped she had caught the allusion. They were, however, disappointed. Melissa was not aware of them, or of their conversation. A vast and glaring emptiness filled her head. That emptiness shimmered, and darts of pain ran through her eyes and through all her body. A sense of swimming giddiness pervaded her. Sometimes the chair swayed under her and she had to grip the arms to keep from falling forward. A lump, like a stone, was in her throat. It shut off her breath and paralyzed her chest. There was a dry sick taste of metal in her mouth. Through it all pounded the deep and speechless old anguish, but stronger now, and more threatening. All at once, she was overpowered with her illness, and once again her face was bathed in a cold dampness.
But she could not think. She had not a single thought. She tried to grasp floating impressions that fluttered through her brain. But they were fog and mist.
“Tell me, dear Melissa,” said Phoebe, in a voice like a kittenish purr, “what have you ordered from New York for the autumn?”
Melissa did not answer. She had not heard. Then she picked up the untouched tea and held the tepid liquid against her lips. She put it down abruptly. She became conscious of the silence about her, which was suddenly ripped open by the raucous scream of a chorus of locusts. She blinked as the hot sunlight stung her eyes. Then she saw Arabella and Phoebe looking at her, and she started, as if surprised to find them about her, and herself on the terrace.
Phoebe smirked. She repeated her question in a rallying tone meant to amuse Arabella. Melissa listened with piteous attention. She said, slowly: “I haven’t ordered anything. Ought I to?”
“It is customary,” said Arabella, lightly. “However, my dear, if you wish, I shall order for you, as usual. If you would only indicate a preference.”
“I think, a brown cloak, of wool,” said poor Melissa, trying to smile and to be part of the conversation. If only that strange agony would lift and let her breathe! If only these two would not look at her, or, if looking at her, their eyes would be less piercing and hostile. She wanted to placate them, to urge them to accept her. She suddenly caught up the salver of cakes and thrust them quickly at Phoebe. Phoebe shook her head, smiling. “I have had too many as it is,?
“A brown wool cloak!” exclaimed Arabella, lifting her hands in a gesture of horror. “My dear girl, how horrid! A cloak for a servant girl. Or are you trying to economize? So unnecessary. I am sure that Geoffrey would be much pleased if you displayed better taste, and less thrift.”
Geoffrey. The agony suddenly ran over Melissa like a drowning wave. Again, her face changed, became desperate and very still. She swallowed with visible effort, while the two other women, caught by her expression, gazed at her with fresh astonishment.
“Geoffrey does not care,” said Melissa, hoarsely. “It does not matter to him whether I wear a brown shawl or a velvet wrap. I rarely see him. I wore the yellow dress, with the violet ribbons. Rachel said it was pretty. But he did not notice it. Rachel arranged my hair quite becomingly too. It took a long while. There was a rose in it, over the ear. He never saw it.”
She turned her eyes from one woman to the other, as if supplicating them. But they were honestly speechless. She stood up, and the tea-cup before her, shaken from the table, fell with a crash to the floor.
“I think,” she said, rather wildly, “that I must lie down. It is the heat. I cannot bear it.”
And she swung about, upsetting her chair with another loud crash, and ran away into the house.
For a long time there was silence on the terrace. Phoebe had turned quite pale. Her fingers plucked at the clasp of her reticule. She had caught her under lip between her little white teeth. Then she looked at Arabella directly.