Melissa

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Geoffrey was silent, his face still red and swollen. She could always outwit him, this stupid and malevolent woman. She had long ago guessed his weakness: he was too susceptible to reason. How a woman completely without intelligence could invent plausible excuses had always mystified him. He knew her well, yet he was constantly being put on the defensive by her, constantly being taken in by her lies, even when he knew they were lies.

  She was watching him acutely, her little eyes so narrowed that they were almost completely hidden in the folds of the flesh about them. Then, guessing the precise moment for emotion, she exclaimed: “Geoffrey, how can you be so cruel as to suggest I am without heart? I did not expect this tirade, from you, my brotherl” Now tears actually came to her eyes, and she let them slide pathetically down her cheeks.

  He knew that in less than a minute he would subside into a welter of impotent curses, and he hated her for his approaching loss of self-control, for the way she was diddling him. But before he could succumb, there was a discreet knock at the door and, furiously, Geoffrey pulled it open. James stood respectfully on the threshold. He stepped back a pace, then murmured: “There is a matter about which I must speak to you at once, sir.”

  Geoffrey wanted to slam the door shut in the little man’s face, but, as he was not quite a gentleman, he could not bring himself to do this in spite of his rage at the interruption. He went out into the hall and drew the door shut behind him. “Well?” he demanded roughly.

  James glanced at the shut door, and whispered: “There is a young lady down in the morning-room, wishing to see you, sir. Miss Melissa Upjohn.”

  Geoffrey stared. “Miss Upjohn? In the morning-room?” He stopped. “Take her into the library at once, and I’ll go down immediately.”

  James hesitated. “The young lady refused to go beyond the morning-room, sir, in spite of there not being a fire. She was quite adamant. She must see you without delay, but she would not take a step farther.” He coughed a little. “The young lady evidently walked all the way, sir. She is rather—damp. Shall I ask the stables to have a carriage in readiness to take her home?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Do so at once,” said Geoffrey. He went swiftly past James and ran down the stairway. Fires were burning in the library and in the opened drawing-rooms, and lamps had been lit. None of the guests had as yet come downstairs. All was lamplight and firelight and soft silence. Geof frey went through the library, hurried through the little hall beyond it, and reached the morning-room. The door had been shut, and when he opened it he saw Melissa standing in the middle of the cold room, tall, stiff, rigorous, with her shawl wrapped closely about her.

  “Melissa! What on earth?” exclaimed Geoffrey. He advanced towards her, then stopped suddenly. Between the folds of her shawl her face was white and very still, and her eyes were filled with motionless lamplight. They had the strangest expression, he saw, and they looked at him steadfastly and with courage.

  “My dear Melissa,” said Geoffrey, in a gentle voice. “What is the matter? You look very ill, my poor child. What can I do for you?”

  Her white lips parted, and she said quite clearly: “I just wanted to ask you a question, Mr. Dunham. Did you mean it when you made your—offer—to my mother, for me?”

  She spoke without shrinking or embarrassment and still gazed at him steadily with that constant light in her eyes. Geoffrey was dumfounded. He studied her for a long moment, seeing only how pathetic she was, and how close, in spite of her straightness and calm, she was to breaking.

  “Yes, Melissa, I meant it.” He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms, this poor girl, to hide that stark face against his shoulder. But he knew that he must not do this yet.

  She sighed. It was a loud sigh, almost like a dry sob. “I am glad you meant it,” she said, and her voice trembled just a trifle. “I am ready to marry you, Mr. Dunham. I should like to marry you tomorrow. I have thought it all out. Judge Farrell can marry us tomorrow morning, in Midfield.”

  Geoffrey was silent. He continued to regard her piercingly, and she looked back at him without faltering or glancing away. But her mouth had set itself in straight, intense lines.

  Then Geoffrey said, “Please sit down, Melissa. It is very cold in here. I will light a fire.”

  “No, please!” Her voice was sharp and quick. “I must go at once. I only wanted to know whether you will marry me tomorrow morning.”

  Geoffrey walked close to her, but she did not retreat. Now he saw fear in her eyes, but still she did not drop them.

  “Tell me all about it, Melissa,” he said.

  White lines sprang out about her mouth. Then, in her terrible innocence, she said: “There is Phoebe, and Andrew. Phoebe says she will marry John Barrett, that farmer. Andrew says be will not sell the farm, that he will work it. He says they can do nothing else. Because we have no money. They are sacrificing themselves—because we have no money. If you marry me, I know you will help me to help them. Phoebe writes such beautiful poetry. I want her to be—here—with me, after I marry you, so she can write in peace. I have a whole sheaf of her poems, and you will want to publish them when you read them. Andrew will go back to Harvard.”

  Geoffrey could not speak, for he was utterly astounded. And then he could not speak for fear of bursting out into laughter.

  Melissa went on, incredibly: “I thought of asking you to lend us a lot of money. But we could never pay you back, and it would be dishonest. And then I remembered that you had asked Mama for me, and I thought this would be the best way.”

  Geoffrey drew a deep breath. He said: “Have you discussed this—this—proposition with Phoebe and Andrew? Do they know why you have come here?”

  Her calm broke, and she cried: “Oh, nol They wouldn’t have permitted me to come! You must never tell them, never! They wouldn’t allow me to make this sacrifice—”

  Geoffrey was freshly stricken dumb. He could only look, In stupefaction, at those wide, strained eyes with the impossible childish artlessness shining so brightly in them. He turned away from her, and walked slowly up and down the room. It was unbelievable. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that she was watching him with heroic fear. Yes, it was unbelievable, and again he wanted to laugh. She was twenty-five years old—and it was incredible.

  But he also understood. He knew very well that Phoebe was quite determined to marry the very worthy young John Barrett, money or no money. He knew that Andrew was probably gulping in long breaths of relief that he need not return to Harvard. In some manner, this poor courageous creature, possibly assisted by her brother and sister in an as yet unknown way, had utterly deceived herself. No, Phoebe might deceive Melissa, but not Andrew.

  To marry her would be only to play up to her self-deception, her blind and foolish dreams. He, Geoffrey, wanted her, and never so much as now. Had he not been planning to “get her into a bedroom”? If he enlightened her, there would be no bedroom, not for years, if ever. The first thing was the bedroom, and then her slow salvation.

  He stopped abruptly in front of her. He wanted to say, naïvely: “Am I so repulsive to you, Melissa, that you will only marry me for my money?” But, of course, he did not say this childish thing. He said, instead, “Tomorrow, Melissa? But aren’t there some conventions to be observed after-death?”

  She replied quietly: “I never cared for conventions. They mean nothing to me. And there is desperate need for the marriage to take place at once, so I can save Phoebe and Andrew.”

  Yes, he had heard what she said, but again he was stunned. He stood and looked at her, and she returned his look with strong and pathetic fortitude.

  “It’s all wrong,” he said, “but if that is how you want it, then so it shall be. I’ll call for you tomorrow, Melissa.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, hastily. “I don’t want Phoebe and Andrew to know anything, until afterwards. We have a buggy, you know. I’ll meet you at ten o’clock in the judge’s chambers, in Midfield.” She began to twist the fringe of her shawl in her tremulous
hands.

  Geoffrey sighed. “As you say, Melissa.” He tried to smile. “It will create quite a scandal, you know, my dear.”

  But she walked away from him to the door. He watched her go. Then, as she was about to open it, she turned, very slowly. Her face had changed.

  “I almost forgot,” she said. “There was just one thing more I wanted to know. Why do you want to marry me, Mr. Dunham?”

  He stared, speechlessly, while she waited in artless patience for his reply. He tried to speak, and then had a fit of coughing to hide the laughter that threatened to engulf him again.

  In a strangled voice he finally said: “Because I love you, Melissa. Does that astonish you?”

  “Love me?” she whispered, as if in wonder. “Love me?” she stopped,and for the first time her eyes wavered, and she looked aside. Then her pale cheeks turned to fire. She flung open the door, and ran out.

  CHAPTER 22

  Wesley Farrell was Judge of the County Court presiding at Midfield, the County seat. He owned a very large fat farm adjoining the Upjohn land and consisting of some three hundred acres. A very popular and jovial and educated gentleman, it was his shrewd affectation, in pursuit of popularity, to pretend to a rough and ready manner of speech pleasing to the ears of the local farming citizenry. He had considerable wealth, and the complete confidence of the electorate and his neighbors. His farm, excellently managed, produced the herds of cattle which invariably received prizes at the annual County Fair.

  Though some seventy years old, he was so ruddy, so virile, so active and vigorous, that he appeared much younger, for he had a strong zest for life and an endless curiosity about everything. He was a kind man, though avaricious. His avarice did not inspire suspicion and dislike among people, however. They admired it, for, to them, it demonstrated complete good sense, thrift and conservatism, all traits they admired. They recounted his sharp dealings with the “city” purchasers of his cattle and even with local storekeepers, and their voices would be full of laughter and approbation. No one could best the Judge, God bless him. He was a match for any man, and even in his shrewdest manipulations always revealed his fundamental honesty. He was “agin” charity of any kind, which again did not earn him dislike, for he had always lifted his loud hoarse voice in denunciation of any proposed increase in taxes. He had hated the War between the States, and had been very eloquent upon the subject, even in the darkest days of the Union. Again, this inspired the affection of the local farmers, for like farmers all over the world they detested war and anything else which threatened to disrupt the calm and productive days of the land. He had the farmer’s soul: he abhorred waste of any kind and, to him, war was the most unpardonable and barbarous waste of all.

  Never reticent on the subject of “shiftlessness,” he refused to dispense generosity upon the incompetent. He was also loud in his dislike for the casual and the irresponsible. He had particularly despised Charles Upjohn, while admiring Amanda and pitying her children. He had made it a point to be rude to Charles on every occasion of their rare meetings. Charles had called him a “country bumpkin,” an epithet which had highly amused the competent and acquisitive Judge. He had been pleased to learn that the pretty little Phoebe was about to marry Johnnie Barrett, whom he highly respected and for whom he had a deep affection. This showed the Judge’s sense of justice, for he had marked John for his own young widowed granddaughter. He had once told Geoffrey Dunham that it was a “damned shame” that such obviously good farm-material was being wasted in Andrew Upjohn, who was “no more a lawyer than I am a Chinaman.” For Andrew, he had nothing but kindliness and affection whenever that young man could slip away from his own home during the holidays and visit the Judge’s farm. But when he saw Melissa, during the few times he had encountered her near the border of his own land, or in Midfield, he had stared at her with his hard, shrewd, reflective eyes, and had shaken his head with some gravity.

  The Judge had been seen in town this morning, and had been noted going into his offices. This was odd, for the New Year had not arrived as yet, and the Judge liked his Christmas holidays. But passersby saw that a fire had been lit within the outer office, and that a lamp was burning against the gray light of the winter day. By peering, one could see the Judge at his desk, sorting over his mail. It was evident that he was waiting for somebody, and an idler or two loitered about curiously. Then Geoffrey Dunham’s polished black carriage, with the two black horses, and a coachman, had arrived, and Geoffrey, his fur-collared great-coat swinging from his shoulders, had hurried into the offices. Before an hour had passed, the whole town knew of the visit, and conjectures flew about avidly. By nightfall, a final rumor, incredible and astounding, had made the town a babble of tongues.

  The Judge roared when he saw Geoffrey. “Well, now! What the devil do you want? Got your message late last night, and though I ought to have better sense I drove into town and almost broke my neck, just to satisfy you. What the hell’s wrong? Got yourself in a fix, Geoff?” He stood up ponderously, grinning, and shook Geoffrey’s hand, staring up at his friend keenly and having to tilt back his great head as he did so. His bulging broadcloth coat and pantaloons were dusty and ash-strewn, his cravat sliding to one side, and crumpled, his linen none too fresh. He held his pipe in his hand, and it had a very strong odor. The edges of his mighty white mustache were stained yellow, and his teeth also were yellow, though very sound.

  “Have a snort,” he invited, pointing to a whiskey bottle on his desk and two smeared glasses. When Geoffrey assented, with pleasure, the Judge poured out a generous three fingers in one of the glasses, and did the same with the other. The two friends sat down in the littered and untidy little office, which stank of spirits and tobacco, and looked amiably at the fire. The Judge began to talk of local gossip, and chuckled. But he watched Geoffrey closely and shrewdly, for Geoffrey kept taking out his elaborate gold watch and glancing at it.

  “Waitin’ for someone?” asked the Judge, after this had happened for the third time.

  “Yes, Melissa Upjohn,” said Geoffrey, smiling.

  The Judge stared. “Melissa Upjohn? My God! What for? Somethin’ about her Ma’s will? Poor Amanda. Married all those years to that elegant skunk. Well, well, Melissa Upjohn. What’s the poor crazy girl want now?”

  Geoffrey frowned, then smiled. “Judge, you are speaking of my future wife. I want you to marry us this morning.”

  “Marry you—to Melissa Upjohn?” repeated the Judge slowly. Then he blinked, and put down his glass with the utmost delicacy, as if afraid it might slip from his stained hand. He went into a sudden fit of violent and gasping coughs, and his face turned crimson and became wet. He wheezed and panted. Then he looked at Geoffrey, and his little black eyes were a mere jet glint under his bushy eyebrows. “Holy, suffering God!” he whispered. “You, and Melly Upjohn! I don’t believe it.” And again he went into a spasm of loud and rasping coughs.

  Geoffrey waited with casual patience. “When you get through choking, Judge, I’ll tell you more about it,” he remarked. He glanced at his watch again. “She ought to be here now.”

  The Judge subsided. He threw himself back in his chair, which groaned. He sat and stared at Geoffrey for a long time, he seemed distressed and very grave. He finally said, in an unusually quiet voice: “Geoffrey, I can’t believe it. That girl. What’s the matter, boy? Got to make an honest woman of her, or somethin’?”

  “You can always be depended upon to add the nice coarse touch,” answered Geoffrey, with a smile that indicated his natural annoyance. “Can’t you ever think of anything but your damned barnyard? It happens that I’ve wanted to marry Melissa for a long time, but she wouldn’t consent, until yesterday.”

  The Judge was increasingly distressed. He continued to stare, with mounting anxiety. He rubbed his thatch of white hair until it stood about his head like a ragged halo. Then he suddenly reached for his bottle and poured himself another large “snort.” He gulped it down loudly. He put down the glass and shook his head.r />
  “I wouldn’t be a friend of yours, Geoff, if I didn’t say somethin’. God help us—I never thought you’d think of marryin’ that girl! Never thought you even looked at the bag—the girl—or she at you. I’ve known about you and her pa, of course. He was always writin’ books, and I suppose you had business with the family. Geoff,” and he leaned forward and earnestly put his dirty hand on the younger man’s knee, “you aren’t out of your mind, are you? Nothin’ wrong, is there, that I can’t straighten out?”

  “Don’t be an infernal fool, Judge,” said Geoffrey. “Everything is quite all right. I told you: I’ve always wanted to marry Melissa.”

  The Judge got to his feet. He put his hands under his coattails and began to walk heavily up and down the floor, which complained under his weighty step. He stopped to kick off a lump of mud from his boots, but he did this abstractedly. All the good humor and benevolence had vanished from his face, which had fallen into thick red lines and puckers. Then he stopped before Geoffrey, and looked down at him with great somberness.

  “Geoffrey, I can’t refuse to marry you. I wish to God I could. I’m your friend, aren’t I, damn it! I’ve nothing against the girl, believe me. But I’ve watched her since she was a child. She don’t know she’s alive, my boy. That confounded old devil, her Pa, kept her bewitched, or hexed, as they say in these parts. She acts like she doesn’t see anythin’, nothin’ at all, whether it’s man or dog. There’s some that says she’s tetched in the head. I don’t think that. But I think you’re gettin’ yourself into a mess of misery, and I don’t like it. No sir, I don’t like it at all. Think about it, boy. Here’s a girl that’s never seen anythin’ or been nowhere and walks around in a dream. Can’t recall she ever spoke to anybody in town. There’s all kinds of stories about her queerness. And you want to marry her, and take her up to that fine house of yours, and introduce her to your New York and Philadelphia friends, and make a lady of her.”