Arabella went on, sighing gustily: “It does appear to me, Melissa, that you deliberately resist all my efforts to teach you. But perhaps I am unkind. It is possible that you simply cannot learn, and for that you cannot be blamed, I suppose.” She waited a moment for Melissa to comment, but Melissa was silent. Arabella said, with soft insinuation: “But doubtless Mr. Littlefield does not find you gauche. He probably respects your mind. Tell me: What did you two converse about this morning, when you two walked through our woods?”
Ellis sat upright, and fixed her stealthy eyes on Melissa. Melissa swung the book listlessly at her side, but she was grateful for Arabella’s interest, and for the ceasing of the depressing comments on her social stupidity. “We were discussing the play, Hippolytus, by Euripides,” she said, with her usual simplicity. “There was that diatribe against women, spoken by Hippolytus, in which he says:
“‘He smarts the less
In whose high seat is set a Nothingness,
A woman naught availing. Worst of all
The wise deep-thoughted! Never in my hall
May she sit throned who thinks and waits and sighs!’”
Ellis put her hand to her mouth to suppress a titter. But Melissa did not hear her. She was regarding Arabella almost eagerly. “Mr. Littlefield thought Hippolytus very shallow and foolish,” she said. “But, of course, he had been disillusioned. No man would really prefer a fool of a woman. A man of mind prefers a woman of mind.”
“Does Ravel consider you a woman of mind, dear Melissa?” asked Arabella with gentle slyness.
Melissa stared at her with a return of her old haughty outrage. “I consider that a very silly question, Arabella! Mr. Littlefield is a great genius, a magnificent and original poet. He would not waste his time with a woman he thought a dolt and an idiot. I have never been considered either,” she added proudly, and for a moment the old arrogance lifted her chin. “Mr. Littlefield is dedicating his poetic saga to me. It is the story of Eurydice, the wife of Orpheus, who returned from the dead.”
Arabella turned scarlet under her paint with suppressed mirth. “Does Ravel consider that you have returned from the dead, Melissa?” she said, when she could speak without laughing.
Melissa was puzzled. She said, slowly: “I don’t know what you mean, Arabella. But,” she added, after thoughtfully considering Arabella’s words, “I am afraid you are too literal.” However, something that dully ached in her was stung, and now it smarted like a touch of poison. She had to remind herself that Arabella was a frivolous and trivial woman, of no mind at all, even if she so pathetically considered herself an artist She had probably not heard of Euripides, and Melissa reproached herself that she had debased the noble Greek tragedian by speaking his name to Arabella. It was sacrilege. “Mr. Littlefield is not using me as a model for Eurydice, Arabella. I am afraid you do not understand. He is merely dedicating his great work to me, because of what little inspiration I have been able to give him.” Melissa’s voice was stiff and cold.
“How nice that you have inspired him!” exclaimed Arabella, with enthusiasm.
“Oh, I have contributed nothing, nothing,” protested the ingenuous Melissa. But she looked at Arabella with youthful kindness, and blushed faintly. “But it is so helpful to an artist to discuss his work with a sympathetic mind. It helps him to view his work objectively, and stimulates his thoughts. There was a certain passage with which Mr. Littlefield has been struggling, and which has caused him much suffering.
The thought was there, but the meaning remained obscure and unresolved. We discussed it yesterday, and this morning he told me that my suggestions had helped him to clarify the meaning without interfering with the metre. For a time, the two had remained incompatible.”
The two women before her, one reclining, the other sitting, gazed at her with ophidian intentness. Their eyes glimmered in the dusk, but did not move away from the girl.
“Papa often had the same difficulty,” Melissa went on. “There was a certain passage from The Furies, the play by Aeschylus, which Papa understood instinctively had another meaning from the one accepted by the vulgar. The meaning was very clear in the original Greek, but when it was translated into English it had an entirely different significance from the one popularly accepted. Papa and I discussed it for hours and days. We came to the conclusion that it was best not to translate it literally, and we worked on an original translation which did not disturb the metre. Papa was criticized rather sternly for this by a certain critic, but the others declared that Papa’s translation was far superior, if not literal.” She went on eagerly: “I understand that several scholars now use Papa’s translation of that particular passage, and they always add a foot-note giving him the credit. I do not remember anything that ever gave Papa such pleasure.”
Her whole face glowed, became almost supernaturally beautiful in its clear emaciation and earnestness. She pushed back her damp hair, and smiled at Arabella. “Would you like to hear both translations, Arabella?” she asked. “Then you could compare them.”
Arabella hastily snatched at the handkerchief which Ellis extended to her. She tapped it over her eyes, and sighed. “Not just now, dear Melissa,” she pleaded, with a wan glance at the girl. “Besides, we must go on with the lesson. But it is so nice to hear that you and Ravel are such friends. It might be very lonely for him in Midfield without you.”
“Yes, he admitted that,” said Melissa, seriously. “And I consider it my duty to help him as much as possible. In many ways, he replaces Papa, for me. I am sure I should die of loneliness and strangeness were it not for Mr. Littlefield.” And now her face clouded and darkened, and became haggard with her secret pain. “Geoffrey comes home so seldom. He is always gone to New York or Boston.”
Arabella abruptly pushed aside Ellis’ farming hand, and sat upright on her sofa. She regarded Melissa with unusual and unblinking fixity. Fear, amazement and horror turned her so white that her rouge became islands of brick-pink on a skin the color of a fish’s belly. She saw Melissa in a kind of fierce illumination, every feature distinct, every expression exaggerated. She said to herself: My brother! Why, the drab loves him! She dares to love him!
Arabella’s nails lacerated her palms as this terrifying truth struck her. Did Geoffrey know? Did Melissa know? If they did, then everything was lost, and she, Arabella, must pack her bags and go at once. The hope of sending Melissa away, of driving her away, of thrusting her out in disgrace and ruin, had been Arabella’s only hope and sustenance these past months. During all this time she had, with more force than subtlety (but then, one did not need to use subtlety with the ingenuous Melissa), been impressing upon the girl that she, Melissa, was hopelessly stupid in social manners, completely devoid of elegance and breeding, and an embarrassment to her husband, his house, and his guests. Many times, quite crudely, Arabella had hinted that the marriage had been most unwise, and was a burden to her brother which gallantry and honor forbade him to discard. She had made considerable of his frequent absences, and his infrequent returns home. The fact that he had been much worried by the post-war threat of economic collapse in the nation generally and in the publishing business in particular, and that he was personally searching for new and inspiring authors in many cities, had been carefully hidden by Arabella from the young wife.
Arabella had been quite clever in keeping Geoffrey and Melissa from any tête-à-têtes. If any threatened, she had always managed interruptions. Whenever Geoffrey was at home, there was always a guest or two for dinner. She had been much cheered by the fact that Geoffrey had shown no particular desire to be alone with his wife, that he had manifested a very hopeful indifference to her. He was invariably kind, but absent-minded, and displayed towards her an attitude reminiscent of that of an adult in the presence of a child. And Ellis had reported to her mistress that there was no exchange of confidence or conversation between the two after they had retired. In fact, Geoffrey seemed to have forgotten Melissa, and when she spoke to him, which was seldom voluntarily,
he would glance at her with a startled, if patient, air. In consequence, the girl’s remarks became less and less, and a whole dinner would pass without any comment from her. Arabella indeed had had reason to hope.
But now she remembered other things which she had sensed subconsciously and which only now came clearly and horrifyingly to her memory. She remembered that during entire dinners Melissa would sit and look only at Geoffrey, that in spite of guests, even in spite of Ravel Littlefield, who sedulously tried to engage her in small intimate talk, she seemed only to see Geoffrey. Arabella remembered that Melissa had become more and more silent as the months passed, and that, when Geoffrey left the room for any reason, the pale tired eyes would follow him and would glance repeatedly at the door, as if watching for his return. And when he did return, a pallid animation would pass over her face, and she would move slightly to the edge of the chair, a tenseness in her body and her hands clenched together, as if she were about to speak. But Geoffrey invariably ignored her, and finally she would sink back and the dull apathy would envelop her again.
Arabella, who was a very clever woman, understood quite well that Melissa would never be guilty of any intrigue even with so handsome a rogue as Ravel Littlefield. It would not be honor or virtue which would restrain her. It was simply that she was incapable of such a thing, and this Arabella understood completely. In truth, only Arabella had known anything of real value about Melissa, and now her knowledge was complete, if terrible.
In order to compromise Melissa, she had, during Geoffrey’s absences, thrown Ravel and Melissa together constantly. The appearance of evil, Arabella understood, was quite sufficient The upper classes of Midfield knew Ravel well by acquaintance and by reputation. It was necessary only to arrange things which seemingly threw guilt on Melissa. No one, later, would ever believe any of her protests; it was enough that she was seen with Ravel under compromising circumstances. As for Ravel, he cooperated ardently enough in the scheme, and though never a word on the subject passed between him and Arabella, they understood each other perfectly.
Thus far, Arabella had moved with perspicacity and astuteness. Never did she mention Ravel and Melissa to her friends and guests. But her insinuations, her sad expressions, her gestures of futility and anxiety, had been enough. She gained quite a reputation among her friends for loyalty and devotion, for keeping the scandalous tales from her brother. For, this time, Arabella had resolved, the tales should not come from her, but from others, and Geoffrey would have no accusations to throw furiously in her face, nor would he be able to call her a liar. On the contrary, when he demanded whether these things he had finally heard were true, and she admitted them, she would plead her loyalty to him and to his wife, her first utter disbelief in the stories, and her resolve to keep silent “for your sake, my love and in the hope that matters would adjust themselves and that Melissa would come to her senses and spare you pain and disgrace.” If he should accuse her of anything at all, it would be of for-bearance and long-suffering, and a too-tender regard for him.
Arabella, knowing Geoffrey’s long love for Melissa, had been puzzled at first by his apparent indifference, in spite of his chronic worry over the state of the country, and the publishing business. (She knew, too, that many of his investments in the South had been utterly lost.) She was not to blame for finally reaching the conclusion that Geoffrey’s incredible infatuation for the girl had finally subsided. And she had believed that Melissa, herself, had no desire for Geoffrey, and that the marriage had, in a way, been an enforced one.
Everything had gone entirely to her satisfaction. She had decided that some way of precipitating a climax must be brought about soon. Ravel was showing signs of ardent impatience and, knowing him, she knew that he would not wait much longer, in spite of Melissa’s inability to see him as a lover. But whether he succeeded or not, Arabella’s work was done. Again, the appearance of evil was enough.
And now, on the very verge of victory, this dreadful creature, by expression, word, intonation and gesture, had shown that she unconsciously loved her husband. Melissa, herself, apparently, did not know this for she had had no experience of love except for her father. She did not, herself, recognize what she felt. At all costs, it must remain hidden from her, and from Geoffrey.
Paralyzed, Arabella could only stare at Melissa, seeing everything clearly and fully for the first time, and feeling a rising frenzy of terror gathering in herself.
She said, hoarsely but with weight: “Gentlemen do not remain away from their homes for so long without due cause, Melissa.”
Melissa opened her mouth to answer, and then she saw Arabella’s tiny gray eyes fixed upon her meaningly. Slowly, a miserable color ran over her stark cheekbones. She said, however: “What would be the cause of Geoffrey’s frequent absences, Arabella?” And her own eyes returned Arabella’s regard with fortitude.
Arabella sighed, indicated to Ellis that she might resume her farming. “My dear Melissa,” she said wearily, “how can
I answer that? If you do not know, who else can know? Am I Geoffrey’s wife? Am I his hostess, who should make his home pleasant with friends and companionship? Does he expect agreeable and witty conversation from me, the art of entertainment, feminine laughter and gaiety, elegant deportment and social graces? No, he does not expect these things from me.”
Melissa said slowly: “He does not expect them from me, either. He knew I was not like that. Yet he married me.” She paused, and rubbed the back of her hand against her damp forehead. “There have been times when I truly believe he married me out of pity and loyalty to my father, and when I think this, I feel that I must leave when I have completed Papa’s work and have some money of my own.”
Arabella’s heart beat high with renewed hope, and she smiled. “Dear Melissa, that is a decision you must reach, yourself.” Then, remembering what Melissa had just said, her reaction became stronger and more exultant. “You are a woman of pride, Melissa, and I admire you for it. There are times when females are placed in a most untenable position from which pride alone can rescue them. Feebler creatures remain supine, and in a state of constant humiliation. Worse, they make miserable those who, by reason of generosity or sentimentality, have become their victims.”
Melissa said straightly: “You think, then, that I should go, Arabella? You think it would be best for Geoffrey?”
At this, a sudden fierce and almost delirious force of will pushed the words to Arabella’s very lips: “Yes, go, go at once, and never return!” But while her tongue was in the act of forming them, she caught them back. She trembled with the struggle. She had only to speak, to urge, and the house would be rid of this slut in an hour, and forever. But in the very midst of her furious desire to accomplish this at once, caution again held Arabella back. Geoffrey would search for the creature, if only for the sake of his own curiosity or pride. And then her own share in the flight would be revealed; it would be the end of her. No, as always, she must be cautious, even if it took time, the most precious time of all.
She said, in a shaking voice, while her eyes glittered in the duskiness of the library: “I know nothing, Melissa, as I have told you before. I know only what you yourself have said. What little I know has been communicated to me by you. And it is too little. You, yourself, must judge what is best for Geoffrey, and whether you should go or not.”
Melissa felt slightly dazed. She wondered, vaguely, what she had told Arabella; she was certain she had told her nothing. Yet she was confronted, by Arabella’s own words, with the evidence. She remembered that for a long time her mind had felt heavily confused and numbed. Doubtless, she had communicated to Arabella, in a desperate effort to name them and discover their source, something of her constant sickness of anguish and anonymous longing. Had she mentioned this burning hunger that was always with her, and which had taken the meaning and purpose out of life? Arabella was staring at her now with a kind of accusation and affront.
“You look doubtful, Melissa,” she said, aggrieved and indignant. �
�Yet you, yourself, have told me what I know, which, though small, is very significant. If you have forgotten then I, in charity, will forget also.”
“I think,” said Melissa, bluntly, “that I have said only that I am very wretched, and very sad and hopeless, and that I do not know why.”
Arabella was silent for a few moments. She pressed her scented kerchief to her lips, and then said from behind it: “It is strange, but I observed that in my brother, also, though a sister’s sensibilities may be too exaggerated.”
“You think he is miserable?”
Arabella shrugged, with an air of exasperation. “Melissa,” she said, with heavy patience, “I think nothing. I do not even reflect on what you often tell me. The relationships between a man and his wife are too delicate for an outsider. I want you to remember this clearly, Melissa,” and again her eyes fixed themselves strongly on the girl, “that I have never discussed Geoffrey with you voluntarily, that I have never passed an opinion on the subject of your relationship with him even though you have repeatedly urged me to, that I have refused to be embroiled in your conjectures, and that everything you have said about Geoffrey and your own feelings have come from you without promptings from me. I demand that you remember all this.”
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