On Thursday she thought, “How could I possibly go to Westcote Manor? Father and I have been poor as long as I remember, and have been proud to be so. I could not bear to live for a whole fortnight in idleness and luxury, with people who have never thought of anything but their own comfort.”
On Friday she thought, “How dares Aunt Eulalia invite me? I should betray Father if I accepted her invitation. Her family had no other merit than their wealth, but all the same they despised and rejected him. Should I now accept the belated charity of such hard and heartless people?”
On Saturday she reread the letter, and then slowly put it back in her drawer. For a third question had presented itself to her.
“Why,” she asked herself, “does Aunt Eulalia invite me? Can it have anything to do with that young man who picked up my portfolio and offered me his umbrella? I have met him three times since that day, and each time his face has stuck in my mind for a very curious reason: because it was exactly like my own.”
She got up and gravely faced the glass. She saw a pale, freckled face with a broad forehead and dark blue eyes, surrounded by glorious red hair.
“His hair,” she thought, “was more fair than red, and freckles do look different in a sunburnt face. But his eyes, his nose, and his mouth were precisely like mine. If I were as beautifully dressed as he, I should look as handsome. Can it be that I have a cousin like that? I have heard of my wicked aunt almost every day of my life, but I have never heard of him.”
On Sunday morning she felt guilty because she had not carried out her first intention. She brought her father Aunt Eulalia’s letter with his breakfast in bed.
Felix Mulock read the letter and turned pale; he read it again and turned dark red. He held it out at arm’s length.
“So it is time, she thinks,” he said with bitter scorn, “that dear Florence’s child and her old aunt get to know each other! When I am ill and betrayed by the world, it is time to lure away my child with promises of worldly splendor.”
“I shall never leave you, Father,” said Melpomene, “and I am not accepting her invitation.”
Her father was silent for a moment. “Time!” he repeated slowly. “To this scheming woman’s eyes it was time once before. Six years ago, when your mother died, she wrote and claimed that I should hand over my daughter to her. She would give you a home and an education. Imagine what you would have been like today, if for six years you had been petted and coddled, if you had never heard the name of our divine William Shakespeare nor of his humble interpreter, your father!”
Melpomene smiled proudly.
Her father again was silent for a moment, then he put down the letter and looked at her. “Go!” he said. “Accept this invitation, and come back to tell me how you have made them feel that we despise their riches and prefer to starve in our own world of great ideals. Yes,” he finished in a mighty outburst, “go, and come back to tell me that you have scorned and humiliated them!”
When Melpomene arrived at the country station, on a deadly still December evening, she was met by a fine carriage and pair. At the big house with the tall, lighted windows a dignified butler took her small box from her.
Aunt Eulalia got up from her chair in front of the sitting-room fire to welcome her niece. She had on a rustling black frock, and she had the very same face, although faded and a little flabby, as the young man with the umbrella, and as the girl herself. She stared at Melpomene, then flung her arms around her and burst into tears.
“My lost Florence,” she cried, “have I got you back?”
The room was warm, gently lit, and filled with the scent of hothouse plants. Its deep carpets, silk curtains, and large paintings in heavy gilt frames evidently formed a magic circle round an existence of perfect security, difficult for Melpomene to imagine. Into this room no worry or care, no dunning letters or angry landlord would ever have been admitted. What did the people who lived in it find to think about? Did they think at all?
Melpomene at this moment felt proud of her patched shoes and her old frock. They were her credentials. Here it was she who crossed the doorstep as the stern collector, with all the claims of a higher, wronged world in her hand.
Aunt Eulalia’s son, Albert, joined them by the fireside, and the girl saw that he was her old acquaintance of the wind and the rain. He was in perfect harmony with the room, and looked so pleasant in his evening clothes that under other circumstances she would have been happy to know that she resembled him. He shook hands with her in a friendly manner, and blushed a little as he acknowledged their previous meetings.
Melpomene at once felt sure that she owed Albert her invitation. But why had he asked his mother to invite her? He had seen her lonely and tired, in wet clothes. He must have been as amazed at the likeness between them as she had been. He must have followed her and inquired about her. Now he treated her, she thought, as if she were some precious and fragile object which he must be careful not to break.
He made her feel embarrassed, for when she looked at him, it was like looking into a mirror, and when she looked away, she felt his eyes on her face.
Just before dinner an elderly, well-dressed gentleman was introduced to her. They called him Uncle Seneca.
In the evening, before the fire, Aunt Eulalia talked about her dear sister, ten years younger than herself. She had tried to soften the hearts of their angry father and mother when Melpomene’s mother had eloped with the actor. When Florence’s baby was born, she had wanted to hurry to her bedside, but her husband had forbidden it. Now she did not even remember the exact date of the event.
“I was born,” said Melpomene, “on the seventh of August, 1888.”
At this, Uncle Seneca turned his bright birdlike eyes at her in a sudden, keen glance.
Melpomene woke up next morning, quite late, under a silk quilt and in a big four-poster, to a day as gray and silent as the last. A maid brought in her dainty breakfast on a silver tray. She had never in her life had breakfast in bed. Now, as she poured out her tea and buttered her hot muffins, she thought of her father, alone in his cold flat, and of the mission on which he had sent her. It might prove more difficult than he had suspected to shock an upholstered and silk-covered world.
During the following week Melpomene often felt as if she had been ordered to strike with a hammer at a featherbed. The whole house folded her in a warm and soft embrace. The old servants did their best to make her as comfortable as possible. And Aunt Eulalia was ever about the rooms, doing her flowers or her needlework, and gazing tenderly at the niece who was so like her dear Florence. Her small flow of chatter ran through all the hours of the day, as if to wash away, quite pleasantly, Melpomene’s former existence. She did not question the girl about her father or her home. She dwelt in the past, and described the happy childhood and girlhood which she and her sister had passed in this same house. Or she talked about Albert. No mother had ever had such a good and kind son! Her own sole object in life was to see her dear boy happy.
Albert took his cousin out for drives, to point out views. He told her the names of his horses, and he showed her his dogs, and, to amuse her, every day made them go through the tricks he had taught them.
She smiled ironically at the efforts of her aunt and her cousin. But she began to find it difficult to believe that they were really the schemers and seducers described by her father.
In all the rooms of the house there were portraits of grandparents and great-aunts, and she knew that she had their blood in her veins. She had been amazed to see how much Aunt Eulalia and Albert were like her; now she was panic-stricken to think that she might be like them. She fought down the thought, but it came back. She could not get away from the fact that she had enjoyed flowers in her room and breakfast in bed. She liked Albert’s dogs—in particular a little black spaniel.
To strengthen and brace herself she began to talk to her rich relations of her home. She depicted the cold of the rooms, the darkness of the stairs and her late hours of work. She went on in a kin
d of ecstasy, in the manner of her father himself, as she proudly proclaimed her perfect content in the middle of it all.
Aunt Eulalia listened, her mouth open, and then, all in tears, begged her pardon because she had not come to her rescue before. Albert listened, his lips pressed together, and the next day suggested that she take the black spaniel back with her to London.
Under the circumstances, Melpomene sought refuge with Uncle Seneca. The old gentleman at first had been a little shy with her. Now, whenever she happened to be alone, he peeped out from his own room for a friendly talk. And if he did not speak much, he was a perfect listener.
Melpomene was happier with him than with the others. For he did not feel sorry for her; at times she even thought that he envied her her experiences. He asked her how it felt to be hungry—might the feeling be called a pain? He wanted details of narrow back yards and steep dark stairs, and he took a great interest in rats. He must at some time have bought and studied a map of the poorest quarters of London, for he knew the names of many streets and squares there. Melpomene reflected with dismay that to a rich old bachelor all these things were as fascinating and fantastic as toys in a shop window to a little poor boy in the street.
But she could not be angry with Uncle Seneca himself, for he questioned her and listened to her in the manner of a child. Perhaps, she thought, his eagerness did indeed rise from a nobler motive than curiosity. Sometimes, when she told him about very poor and wretched people, he became restless and his hands trembled a little. “There ought not to be such people,” he said.
From Aunt Eulalia, she learned that Uncle Seneca was no blood relation of hers. An old aunt’s widower had married again and in his second marriage had had this only son. The boy had been a pretty and talented child, and as a young man had surprised the family by taking up the study of medicine and wanting to become a doctor. But he was a delicate youth, and in the end his family had persuaded him to give up the hard work.
The old man now lived in Aunt Eulalia’s house and seldom left it. He did not seem to Melpomene to pay much attention to Albert, but he treated Aunt Eulalia with great respect and consideration. He was, the girl thought, one of those truly chivalrous men with a high ideal of women. “I have had the privilege,” he once said, “to be born and brought up, and to have lived my best years, in an epoch when England was ruled by a lady.”
He had various small hobbies with which he passed his time: he collected butterflies and was clever at stuffing birds. He also did needlework and would bring his cross-stitch to the fireside. He had a queer little habit of gazing attentively at his own hands. He had inherited a large fortune, which was now increasing year by year, and it was understood that Albert was to be his heir.
But even with Uncle Seneca to support her self-confidence, Melpomene was aware of her false position in the family circle. Within three days she was to return to London. Before that time she must make it clear that she was still a stranger in the house, and still their enemy and their judge.
Two or three times she prepared her speech of denouncement, failed to get it out, and called herself a coward. At last, on Sunday evening, she did her duty.
Aunt Eulalia had dwelt with sadness on the prospect of her departure, and with delight on the prospect of her early return.
“No,” said Melpomene suddenly, “no, Aunt Eulalia, I am not coming back. Everything here is sweet and perfect, too sweet and perfect for me. I could not bear to live for my own comfort only.”
“Sweet child,” said Aunt Eulalia, “you want to live for your father’s comfort.”
“For his comfort!” Melpomene exclaimed. “Oh, how mistaken you are! It is for his immortality that I want to live!” She was silent for a moment. “I have been suffocating in this house,” she went on with heightened color. “To me, it is unnatural and insane to live for the moment, with no thought of futurity.”
“Darling Melly,” said Aunt Eulalia, “we all have the hope of a better, an everlasting future. And here on earth we wish to live on in our dear children and grandchildren.”
“Oh, yes!” Melpomene cried. “You all imagine that better, everlasting future to be exactly like your life here—an easy, carefree existence, one day just like the other, little pleasant talks about nothing, a walk with the dogs. And as to your futurity on earth, I call that a cheap kind of immortality. I myself claim for my father an undying fame! How could I resign myself to the thought that his great creations, as great as any painter’s and sculptor’s, should all vanish with him?”
“Oh, but we must all,” said Aunt Eulalia, “resign ourselves to the idea of mortality.”
“No!” cried Melpomene. “No, not at all!” She grew very pale and drew in her breath deeply. “My father,” she said very slowly, “has an old friend in London, an Italian and a great sculptor. He has seen father in all his roles, and thinks as highly of them as father himself. They have inspired him with the idea of a memorial which is to preserve father’s name for centuries. It is a glorious work of art. On the plinth you see all the figures which father has created, from King Oedipus to the Master Builder. And high above them all stands father himself, in his big cloak, with his splendid hair, and his arm outstretched.” There was a long pause. “That,” said Melpomene, “is what I live for.”
“My poor, precious child,” said Aunt Eulalia, “you do not know what you speak about! It is a dream of a person entirely without practical experience! You will never, even if you starve yourself to death, save up enough money for such a thing! Preserve me, the memorial on our family tomb cost three thousand pounds!”
“And what if it cost three thousand pounds?” she cried. “What if it cost six thousand? I am not a person entirely without practical sense, Aunt Eulalia. Father and Signor Benatti have made up a small book with plans and descriptions of the monument; I myself am only to save up the money to get it published. As soon as it is out, everybody in England who has ever seen father on the stage will be happy and proud to contribute. And it is the happiness and pride of my life to work for his undying name.”
Again there was a pause.
Melpomene had spoken with her eyes above the heads of her audience; now she looked at them. They all three sat quite still. The faces of Aunt Eulalia and Albert, as often before, expressed mild bewilderment and compassion. But Uncle Seneca listened with profound attention. He looked at his hands.
“A name,” he said slowly, “an undying name.”
“Uncle Seneca,” Melpomene thought, “is the only person here who understands me.”
She held her head high as she went up to bed, but she did not sleep well. The sad, concerned faces of Aunt Eulalia and Albert were still before her eyes. She had not succeeded in altering their expression.
Late the next morning when she came down into the hall, she found Albert there.
“Look here,” he said, “you talked last night of a memorial for your father. If you had three thousand pounds today, would you spend them on it? And would it make you happy?”
Melpomene looked at him gravely. “Do you mean,” she said, “that you would give me three thousand pounds to wipe out your people’s guilt toward my father?”
Albert thought her words over. “No,” he said, “I cannot honestly say that. I cannot honestly say that I feel called upon to put up a monument for Uncle Felix. But I was wondering whether it would make you happy.”
“Make me happy?” said Melpomene slowly. She could not remember that anybody had ever passionately wanted to make her happy.
“Look here,” said Albert; “I have wished I could make you happy from that first moment when I met you in the rain. It is a very strange thing. One reads in books about love at first sight, but one never believes that it happens to people in real life. And then it was love at first sight with me myself.”
Melpomene felt a great movement of triumph run through her. Albert, young, rich, and handsome, was laying his heart and all his worldly goods at her feet, and within a moment she was going to ref
use it all. That would be a finer trophy to carry back to her father than he could ever have dreamed of. The idea stirred her so deeply that she could not find a word to say.
“Look here,” said Albert, “I felt at once that you were what people call one’s better self. The other girls have all been strangers, somehow, but you were like me. I have had everything and I knew, the instant I saw you, that I should like to give all I have to you, and that only then it might at last be some use to me and give me some fun in life. I should like to see you in pretty clothes, and in a nice room of your own. I should like to see you with a dog of your own. And then I should like you to have your father’s monument as well.”
As still she did not speak, but only looked at him with clear, bright eyes, he went on.
“As to myself,” he said, “I have always been lonely in a way. I have never had a real friend. Now I have got you. I have never believed that I should ever want to marry, and when I told mother that I wanted to marry you, she was so pleased that she wept with joy. I have never believed that I was going to be really happy. It is a very strange thing. Now I should be wonderfully happy if I could make you happy at all.”
Melpomene did not speak at once. “No, Albert,” she said, “you cannot make me happy. I do not want your pretty clothes; I do not want a room of my own. I am going back to my father tomorrow.”
Albert grew very pale; he went to the window and came back again. “I believe,” he said, “that you are wrong in going back to your father. I do not believe that you will be happy in London. Look here, Melpomene. I believe that you might come to love me. It is a very strange thing to say—I should never have thought that I would say it to a girl—but I believe that you might come to love me.”
Melpomene till now had spoken with self-possession, remembering her program. But when Albert said that she might come to love him, she wavered on her feet, and her throat contracted so that she could not get a word out. To steady herself, in a great effort she called up her father’s face. It helped her; after a moment she could speak.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 31