“Yes, yes,” said Geoffrey impatiently. “How long will all that take?”
“If I begin at once, sir, I think I can have it ready for Mrs. Dunham by seven o’clock.”
She examined the other dresses, with increasing cheerfulness. “I can do something with these, one each day, perhaps,” she added. She looked over the silken underwear and nightgowns, the petticoats and the chemises, and her cheerfulness became somewhat less. “I can contrive,” she said doubtfully. She hesitated, and blushed. “Mrs. Dunham has no—no stays, sir. But she has such an excellent figure that it will not matter.”
“Well, get to work at once, child. I will remain with Mrs. Dunham. Also, please ask James to bring me a tray.”
Rachel gathered up the gleaming blue silk, one or two of the undergarments, and rustled out of the room. Geoffrey returned to Melissa. She still slept in the abandoned unconsciousness of exhaustion. He sat down beside her and looked long and intently at his wife as she slept. Rachel had loosened Melissa’s long pale hair. It lay like a shaft of winter sunlight on the white pillows and even fell over the edge of the bed. It caught shimmers and lights from the subdued sun that peered through the half-closed draperies, so that it appeared to have a restless life of its own strangely at variance with the complete immobility of the sleeping woman. Geoffrey gently lifted a strand; its weight and softness thrilled him with tenderness and admiration. It was not hair that curled, yet he imagined that it clung to his hand. He smoothed it over and over.
Melissa’s face was turned away from him, but he saw her flat white cheek, the strong angle of her chin, and her beautiful thin throat. What a fierce innocence lived in this young creature! It was not only an innocence of any of the grosser affairs of life but an innocence of humanity in all its teeming and variegated patterns. Geoffrey was suddenly appalled at her extreme lack of knowledge. She had lived a life more immured than any nun’s, for a nun has at least a previous awareness of the world, and some understanding. Yet Geoffrey did not doubt that Melissa had very positive convictions concerning life and human activity, and all of them wrong. There was a narrow arrogance in her learning, which was purely classical and smelled of the library. Her life had been spent among the ancient philosophers, whom she read and studied in their dead languages. Yet of the world in which shé lived she was as unaware as an infant and had not the faintest notion that she was so unaware. There was, he recalled, never any uncertainty in her voice when she expounded an absurd opinion, to which, in the company of Charles Upjohn, he had listened with gravity. She had discussed the war with authority, and was given to calling bewildered statesmen fools. There was no use in offering her. proofs. She had her fanaticisms, based on complete ignorance, and nothing could change them.
Geoffrey, though he was still throbbing with the after-effects of his battle with his sister, could not help smiling. He had married an abysmal child, with a brain packed with Chaldean, Phoenician, Greek and Roman philosophy and poetry. But if he smiled, he was also disturbed. The first doubt came to him as to whether he had done a sane and wise thing. What if he never succeeded in enlarging Melissa’s horizon? He knew of what granite she was made. She was twenty-five years old, and by nature repressed and illiberal, strongly intolerant of opinions differing from hers, or rather, her father’s. Any views she acquired were immediately cast in iron, to remain forever inflexible, practically indestructible.
Well, I can try to give her other opinions and other convictions, Geoffrey thought. If once I can get her to compromise, to doubt, to consider, the good work will be well on its way.
There was the softest knock on the door, and James entered with a tray. He whispered, as he put it down: “I am sorry, sir, but you were engaged before—”
And you know all about it, all of you, thought Geoffrey, grimly. But he smiled at James, and nodded. The man left the room and Geoffrey ate with good appetite, but with abstraction, his thoughts all with his young wife. From time to time he glanced at her as she lay flat upon the bed. He saw the firm small rise of her virginal breasts, the strong lines of her shoulders. He saw the maltreated hands, so lean and fine, so graceful in spite of their chapped skin and raw knuckles. She lay like a fallen statue, hardly a breath moved her body. Geoffrey became less doubtful as to the wisdom of his marriage. He remembered the women he had known, soft, corrupt, compliant and disingenuous, full of knowledge and sophistication. Even the young girls, for all their demureness and air of retreat before a masculine eye, were quite knowing, full of the decorous disillusion of old Mother Eve. Women were instinctive liars, they knew all about reality and were without true sentiment or shining romanticism. But they understood that men must keep their illusions if. women were to have power over them, and so they consistently fostered those illusions.
Here, however, was a young women without hypocrisy or guile, avarice or any of the common female corruptions. She had the mind and soul of a clean young man. Geoffrey knew now that he had been attracted to her from the very beginning by this quality of cleanness and pure virginity. It was good to have a wife without deception or slyness, incapable of falsehood, full of harsh integrity and instinctive honor.
He finished his meal with satisfaction. He drank the last of the tea. He looked up to see that Melissa was awake and that she was staring at him intently, though she had still not moved.
“I hope you slept well,” said Geoffrey, uncomfortably wondering how long she had been watching him and to what conclusions she had come. “You were very tired, my dear.” He got up and went to the chair by the bed, and sat down. Her wide light eyes followed his every movement, but her immobile expression did not change.
Geoffrey said, trying to keep his voice light: “You were more than tired, Melissa. You were shocked and stunned by everything that happened today. I want to tell you this: You must not think of your brother and sister with bitterness. You must try to relinquish some of your fixed convictions about them and ask yourself whether there is not some possibility that you were wrong all the time. Most of us are, about others, and the sooner we learn to doubt our own opinions the more civilized we become and the easier we find existence.”
Melissa’s dry lips opened, then closed. She dropped her eyelids, so that a circle of bronze lashes lay on her colorless cheek.
“I shan’t speak of all this again, but I want you to think about it,” Geoffrey continued. “I want you to reflect on whether you haven’t wronged both your sister and your brother, with your preconceived ideas about them and your determination to manage their lives. That is overbearing, Melissa, and unjust, and even impertinent. They have their lives. You have yours. Don’t try to manage others; you will have all you can do to supervise yourself. You must let them go to find their own happiness, and you have a duty to find yours.” He paused. He knew that most of Melissa’s mind was shut against his words, and that she found them incredible, if not stupid. But perhaps she had heard enough to start her thinking and considering.
“You have also a duty to me, Melissa,” he said gently.
Her eyelids flew open, and the girl regarded him unbelievingly, as if she had just heard an inconceivable statement.
“Yes, a duty to me,” repeated Geoffrey, with less gentleness and more firmness. “You made a bargain. I expect you to keep to it. Think of your father, Melissa. What if he knew that consciously or unconsciously you did not intend to fulfill your bargain?” He hesitated, then said guilefully: “Your father was an honorable man.”
A white spasm of pain tightened Melissa’s face.
Geoffrey went on with deliberate falsity: “Your father knew I wished to marry you, my dear.” He paused, surprised. (Yes, Charles, you knew I did, and that is why you concentrated upon corrupting Melissa’s mind and poisoning her against me!)
Melissa spoke for the first time, in a rusty voice full of disbelief: “My father—knew that?”
Geoffrey answered strongly: “He did.”
Melissa raised herself up on her elbow and her long hair fell over her sh
oulders and breast. She regarded Geoffrey with enormous concentration. And then, in her terrible naïveté, she said on a rush of words: “Then why did he often call you a devious man and infer that you were not to be trusted?”
I see, thought Geoffrey. He was silent for several long mo ments. Melissa waited stiffly, propped up on her elbow—waited for his reply.
“I think you wrong your father, or misinterpret what he meant,” he said coldly. “I was his friend for many years. By ‘devious’ he doubtless meant that I was a good business man. As for that ‘distrust’ business, did he ever assert that I had deceived him or given him a false impression?”
“No,” said Melissa, still staring at him.
“Then how do you know what he really meant?”
Melissa sat up in her bed and pushed back her hair. She murmured, falteringly: “I don’t know.”
Geoffrey heard her words with delight, for he knew that she had rarely, if ever, said that before in her life.
He continued: “Your father was, in his way, in a somewhat restricted circle, quite a famous man. If he had thought he could not trust me, he would have taken his books to another publisher, would he not?”
“Yes,” whispered Melissa. She bent her head, and her face was hidden by the straight curtain of her hair.
“So, your father trusted me. I ask that you also trust me, Melissa.”
She did not answer. He could not see her face.
“I ask that you remember that you have a duty to me, as your husband.”
Melissa lifted her head and looked at him bitterly. “What do you wish me to do, Mr. Dunham?”
He said, with firmness: “I never wish to hear you call me ‘Mr. Dunham’ again. That is my command, Melissa. My name is Geoffrey. Use it, hereafter. You will take your place as my wife, become a proper and competent mistress of this house, entertain my guests, and learn some of the social graces. You are a lady; these things will come naturally to you. I have a position to uphold. I expect you to help me uphold it to the best of your ability. I know that you are in a difficult position with regard to my sister. She did not wish me to marry you; she did not wish me to marry any woman, for she wanted to remain mistress of my house. Perhaps she will desire to leave, and will go to Philadelphia to set up her own establishment. I hope so, but I shall not urge it upon her. She is a widow, she has few real friends, and she was born in this house. Time will settle this. In the meantime, I hope you will try to maintain polite relations with her. It won’t be easy, I admit, for Arabella is a naturally resentful woman.”
He paused. Melissa tried to look away, but now he held her with his hard direct eyes. “Melissa, I want you to know that nothing will harm you in this house. You need not be afraid of me. I honor you because you are my wife, and I expect you to honor me as your husband. Try to think of me as your friend, even if you now doubt it. I have always been your friend; some day you will realize that. You are free, in this house, to do as you wish. Your father’s manuscripts are here. You may work on them, and, if you need my assistance, I shall be glad to give it. But you must not neglect your other duties. That is your bargain, and I shall insist that you keep it.”
Melissa had become even paler than before, and her eyes were stark and desperate. “Mr. Dun—Geoffrey, I shall do what I can to please you. But I don’t know whether I shall succeed. Our lives have been so different. I am not interested in people.” She caught her breath, then cried: “I hate people! I am afraid of them! I don’t know what to do! I want only a corner in your house, where I can work—”
Geoffrey stood up. He was very moved by her anguish, but he kept his voice firm and sharp: “You shall have time to ‘work.’ But I have told you of your duties, and I shall not let you neglect them. You say you ‘hate’ people, and are ‘afraid’ of them. That is sheer stupidity and ignorance. You are really a very stupid and ignorant girl, Melissa, and it is time that you tried to improve yourself.”
She flung up her head proudly, and her eyes flashed at him in anger. But she said, with quietness: “I will try. If I do not succeed, it will not be because I have not tried.”
“That is all I ask of you,” he said with more gentleness. “Dinner is at eight o’clock. This house is filled with my guests. You are to meet them. A gown is being prepared for you, and orders for a complete wardrobe are being listed. You will wear my mother’s jewels tonight, and you will, I know, conduct yourself as I expect my wife to conduct herself.”
He had a sudden vivid idea of what an ordeal Melissa was to be put through downstairs tonight, and he felt pity for this raw and inexperienced girl. She was regarding him with stern humility curiously mixed with hard pride. He had challenged her, and Melissa was accustomed to meeting challenges. He smiled at her.
“I am not afraid that you will disgrace me, Melissa,” he said. He paused, then added: “Or your father. These people know of your father, and honor him. I hope that you will not give them cause to think of him disrespectfully.”
Her chin rose and her mouth tightened. She repeated: “I shall try to do my best.”
He bent over her; she did not shrink away from him but looked at him steadily. He said softly: “Melissa, you asked me once why I wanted to marry you. I told you, and you did not believe it. But it was true. Think of that, sometimes.” She did not answer. But she watched him leave the room.
CHAPTER 27
Rachel and Ellis carried in a shining bath-tub and placed it on the hearth. Melissa, still sitting in her bed, watched with consternation. She was accustomed to taking her baths on a Sunday afternoon before the kitchen fire, with all doors shut and barred, and the act completed hurriedly. She watched while the smiling Rachel, and the sly-eyed Ellis, poured big copper kettles of hot water into the tub, and scented it with rose-water. She saw the finest of white linen towels laid out, a soap that smelled of spring, an incredible chemise heavily trimmed with silk lace, two taffeta petticoats, and a pair of silk stockings. Only when she saw these did she exclaim: “What is this?”
Rachel beamed at her, as Ellis, her reluctant duties completed, scuttled from the room. “It is time for your bath, Mrs. Dunham, and then I shall assist with your dressing.”
Melissa slipped from the bed. The draperies had been drawn back and the last ray of sunshine struck across the rich rugs and the crystal and the gilt. The air fumed with perfume and warm steam. Melissa’s mouth was set grimly as she looked down at the waiting tub and the waiting garments. She shook back her hair and looked slowly about the room, then back to the tub and the fripperies beside it. But she would not let herself think too deeply. She remembered Geoffrey’s insistence upon her “duties.” If this was part of her duties, then she would submit.
Rachel slipped behind her and began to unbutton her bodice. Melissa started like a wild mare, and Rachel, in her turn, fell back, her lips parted in perplexity. “I can undress myself, thank you,” said Melissa, with curtness. She had flushed a little, and her hand, reaching over her shoulder, held her bodice together. Rachel exuded cheerfulness. “I am your maid, Mrs. Dunham, and I am supposed to attend you and give you your bath.”
At this humiliating suggestion, Melissa’s slight color deepened to scarlet. She said, loudly: “I never heard of such a thing! And I shall certainly never permit it, Rachel! I have been bathing myself, alone, since I was five years old, and always in private, I assure you.”
The very thought of her nakedness revealed to another made her drop her eyes and a wave of scarlet ran over her neck and entire body.
“It is the customary thing, Madam,” murmured Rachel.
“I don’t believe it! What nonsense.” Melissa indicated the soap with loathing. “Haven’t you any good, yellow, homemade soap, Rachel, and some unbleached muslin towels?”
Rachel, baffled, thought this a humorous sally on the part of the utterly unhumorous Melissa, and let forth several bubbles of respectful mirth. But when she saw Melissa’s young and indignant face, she put her hand over her mouth very quickly.
&
nbsp; “But, Madam, that is kitchen soap, and this is soap for a lady.”
Melissa picked up the delicate articles in question, and sniffed at it with elaborate disdain. She dropped it as if it were hot. “Please go out, Rachel. I’ll only be a few minutes.” Rachel, after another baffled glance, left the room, closing the door after her with a subdued sound.
Melissa’s expression of supreme distaste became stronger. She stared down at the soap. She picked it up from its ignominious place on the floor. She turned its oily richness about in her hands. Then she put it to her nose again. A faint look of sheepish surprise brightened her face. Then, sternly, she laid the soap down, shook her head as if in austere denial of her own weakness. She undressed swiftly and furtively, with suspicious glances at the door. She slipped into the scented water, and again that childlike wonder shone in her eyes. Inch by inch, she relaxed against the high back of the tub, and loosened her limbs in the water. They lay, white and sculptured, in an opalescent bath. She saw them, for the first time, and a startled thought came to her that they were beautiful. Her white breasts were lifted by the water, and they were the breasts of a statue.
It was a shameful thought, and she hurriedly began to wash herself. The familiar motions brought her “back to my senses.” She was preparing for festivities in a strange and foolish room, when she should be working! She was idling like some soft parasite, even daring to admire herself like some empty-headed female fool, while her father’s manuscripts were shut away as if they were ugly objects. No matter. it was just for tonight. Tomorrow Mr. Dunham—Geoffrey—must be made to see that she was a serious and dedicated person, with no time for follies.
“Geoffrey.” The soap lay in her hands and she stared at the fire, which warmed her smooth shoulders. She closed her eyes tightly to shut out the face of her husband. It was impossible. She had no “husband.” She was Melissa Upjohn and this was an absurd dream, a grotesque nightmare. Husband! She opened her eyes involuntarily and saw her long body like a mermaid’s pale flesh beneath green sea water. Now her heart beat wildly, as if with terror. She stood up and began to dry herself with trembling hands. “Oh, no!” she whispered to herself. “No, no, never!” She stepped out of the tub and stood shaking and glancing about her in an attitude of impending flight. O Papa, you’d never ask that of me! Remember what you told me, many times, many years ago!
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