Melissa pushed her loosened hair from her wet face, and Geoffrey saw that face, haggard, torn with anguished emotion, wet with tears. There was a shrunken gauntness about it which alarmed him. But cheerfully, and quietly, he pushed aside Charles’ pipe and papers and put down the steaming tray.
Melissa struggled to her feet. “Go away. Oh, go away!” she said, hoarsely, her voice hardly above a whisper.
But he was arranging the dishes, while she stood there, shaking, futilely pushing at her hair, regarding him with detestation and hatred, with mortification that he should have found her so abandoned. Never had he appeared so despicable and loathsome to her, so repellent. She was seized with a rage against him. All his faults of feature, figure and manner seemed to her grotesquely enlarged, so that she shut her eyes in order not to see him. Desperately, with all her will, she attempted to thrust him from this room, which he “desecrated” with his very presence. She had a wild impulse to run out and leave him. But it was as if she would then have left her father to the attack of this hateful man, and Charles must be protected from such as he.
She had always despised Geoffrey Dunham, even when she had been a young girl of fourteen and he a man of thirty just inheriting his lately deceased father’s publishing business. She had never seen Geoffrey before that time, for he had been in charge of the firm’s London establishment. Now he had come back home, and he had called upon Charles to renew an old acquaintance. Charles had expressed soft, unfeigned pleasure, had forgotten his daughter, had clasped the young man’s hands with affection.
It was a summer day, and she and Charles had been together in the gardens hidden from the house by a clump of old plum trees. She had just recited her Latin to him, and he was going over her papers. How serene was the sunshine then, warm and mellowed, with butterflies falling and rising in the soft air and the bees busy over the tangled roses! Then there had been the barking of old Chief, the collie, and Geoffrey Dunham had come, like the devil himself, into that garden.
She could never tell why she so hated him on sight. Perhaps it was because he was so urbane, so polished, so patronizingly at ease, for all his friendly and pleasant greeting. He had worn strange London clothing, with light gray pantaloons strapped under his gleaming boots, and a flowered waistcoat, a darker gray coat with long tails, and a brilliantly white stock with a pearl pin. He held his tall gray hat in his left hand while Charles shook his right, and he had laughed genially, all his big white teeth flashing in the sunlight.
He had looked down at Melissa, and had said, pleasantly: “This is your daughter, I presume, Charles. A pretty little minx.” And then he had lifted a lock of her straight pale hair, which hung far below her waist like a shawl, and had tweaked it. Yes, she had hated him then. That was the beginning, dismissing her as though she were of no consequence, only a tiresome child! He had gazed at her, smilihg in amusement, for she had jerked her head away and had glared at him in her cold and almost malefic fashion.
She would never forget how he looked then, tall, very broad of shoulder, debonair and sleek in his disgusting London finery, with the heavy gold chain across his lean middle, and his shining hat in his hand. He had a large and shapely head, with the dark crisp hair cut affectedly long, and a face astonishingly brown from Riviera sunshine. He had somewhat small gray eyes, penetrating and satirical, and without any softness or kindness. His nose was Roman, and, to Melissa, gross, with its flaring nostrils and blunt tip. He had a big and heavy mouth, and the most enormous white teeth, and his smile, though now so agreeable, was hard of outline. There was something about him too assured, too shrewd, too competent; it emphasized all of Charles’ unworldly gentleness and made her father appear old and defenseless in the warm summer sunlight. He had thrown into contrast Charles’ shabbiness and vulnerability, made him appear unshielded and unarmed, prey for any expedient and ruthless man. And, indeed, Geoffrey Dunham was everything that was expedient and ruthless, and he made no attempt to conceal the fact, not even from competitors, not even from valued authors.
The Upjohns.sometimes did not see Geoffrey Dunham for months, and then again he would return weekly from his city lodgings in Philadelphia. He preferred the country, he would say, and now that his newly widowed sister had come to manage his house for him, he “had a home.” Melissa was seventeen when the weeping Arabella had arrived from Boston, and now Melissa had another object to hate almost as much as she already hated Geoffrey. A few times, upon her father’s pleas, she had accompanied him to the great house half-way up the hillside, but she had gone with shrinking and disgust to endure Geoffrey’s amused banter and Arabella’s maudlin ministrations and hospitality.
The years had passed, and she never saw that repellent man without a shiver of abhorrence. Worse than anything else was Charles’ obdurate and insistent affection for him and trust in him. She saw the meager royalty reports, and was positive that her father was being cheated. But Charles only laughed at her gently. She never guessed that he derived a secret and malicious satisfaction from the sight of her young and ingenuous jealousy, for there was something in Melissa which blinded her to anything ignoble or devious. Nor did she even know that she was jealous. She knew only that Charles was excessively affectionate when Geoffrey appeared; she did not know that the display was deliberate, though it was not long before Geoffrey realized it, and with contempt.
Geoffrey had seen too much of the world not to recognize what was revealed to him, and he was alarmed for Melissa. This, then, was what had compelled him to suggest to Amanda that Melissa be sent away to school. Amanda had inspired him with admiration and liking for her integrity and her common sense. He also shrewdly suspected that Amanda was well aware of what she saw, for she had insight and a wide clarity of vision. She had listened to Geoffrey’s quiet suggestion, and then she had said, without apparent emotion: “I have already spoken of it to Charles, Geoffrey. He will not have it.”
Things had not adjusted themselves, and when Melissa was twenty years old he suddenly, and with consternation, understood that he was in love with her. He forced himself to remain away from the Upjohns for a whole year. But it was no use. Now he began to feel, and to know, acutely, the morbidity and unhealthy atmosphere in that old tall house. He must rescue Melissa before it was too late. After five years, he was still trying to rescue her.
Though he was now forty, the years had not changed Geoffrey much. The crisp dark hair had grayed at the temples, the dark face was a little fuller, the upright figure not quite so svelte and suave as it once had been. But his urbanity and polish had become more mellow with time, and his innate ruthlessness had carved thicker lines about his level mouth and his small shrewd eyes, giving him a strong and invincible look.
He had always appeared gross and insensitive to Melissa, and now, as her aching and tormented eyes regarded him with such abomination, she felt a sharp nausea and loathing for him, which, for a moment, even made her forget her grief.
“I will not eat,” she said, her voice coming painfully from her tight throat, “and I ask you to leave me alone in this room, Mr. Dunham.”
Geoffrey lifted a silver lid from the top of a small bowl. “Ah, our Hulda makes the best broth in the township!” he exclaimed. “Delicate, yet rich, with those tiny dumplings of hers. A breast of chicken here, too, I see, and hot bread and good butter. What is this? Ah, yes, a slice of Arabella’s own fruit-cake, and our own China tea. It smells like all the gardens in Pekin.”
He set the dishes on the table, after first smoothing out a fine white tray cloth on it. Melissa watched him with redeyed scorn and comprehension. He was such a powerful and cunning wretch. He knew, from her father’s will, that Charles had left several unfinished manuscripts, and he was already plotting to seize and publish them for a pitiful royalty. So it was necessary for him to pretend to be placating and thoughtful of her. Only she could complete the manuscripts, from her father’s copious notes. Without her, the two next volumes would never be completed. And then Melissa had another thought. She glanced down at Phoebe’s sheet of poems, and a quick flash passed over her sunken eyes.
She tried to make her voice more courteous: “Truly, Mr. Dunham, I want nothing to eat. The thought sickens me. I think I should prefer to go to bed.” She took a tentative step towards the door. Geoffrey sat down, but not in Charles’ chair. He sat down nearer the fire and lit a cheroot, all his movements thoughtful and precise. He actually had the ill-breeding, the monster, to sit while she stood! That betrayed the full measure of contempt he had for the Upjohns, revealed the low esteem in which he held Charles’ daughter!
“I said, Mr. Dunham, that I am going to bed,” she repeated sternly.
“Good. Probably an excellent idea.” He glanced at her kindly. “In the meantime, I think I shall eat this delightful collation myself. It is a wicked thing to allow good food to go to waste. Good night, Melissa.”
She could not leave him here, desecrating her father’s study, enjoying himself in the very room where Charles had died. Yet she did not know what to do. She was exhausted, and now she knew that she was famished. Her common sense told her that if she allowed her strength to deteriorate, she would betray Charles. The smell of the broth and the tea did strange things to her. Besides, she thought, the more rapidly she ate, the sooner she would be rid of this man.
It was an effort to speak out of the depths of her sinking weariness. “I suppose I must thank you, Mr. Dunham, for this kindness of yours. It would be rude of me to refuse, would it not?”
“It would indeed,” he assured her, examining the glowing tip of his cheroot.
“But it would also be rude if you remained away from the others, downstairs.”
“Your mother,” said Geoffrey, “has already retired, and your sister. Arabella and Hulda are ‘clearing up.’ Andrew, I think, has gone into the library, and shut himself up there. Evidently you do not know how late it is.”
Just then the clock below chimed ten, and Melissa started. “It is not in the best taste, I am afraid, for you to remain alone with me, Mr. Dunham.”
He took the cheroot from his mouth. “Best taste be damned, Melissa. Don’t be a fool. Sit down and eat, or I shall eat it myself. I am going back to Philadelphia tomorrow, and then I am going to New York for several weeks. Though I quite understand that your father is just lately dead and that this is a sad occasion for all of you, there are matters I must discuss before I leave. I shall have no other time after tonight.” Melissa sat down slowly before the food, and stared at it. “You have discussed them with my mother?”
“No. I am afraid she knows very little about your father’s affairs.”
New strength came to the girl. The battle for her father had begun. She must not betray him by the pampering of her own grief. Her hand shook as she lifted the spoon to her mouth. The hot soup filled her with warmth, and she ate quickly. Geoffrey did not watch her. He looked at the fire. He smelled the dankness and decay in the room, saw the dusty disorder. His nose wrinkled distastefully. He heard the subdued clatter of the china. The poor dear fool! Only once, after ten minutes had elapsed, did he glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She had cleared away all the food, down to the last morsel, and sat there, straight and stiff, sipping her tea. She seemed very pathetic and young to Geoffrey, in her austere and coldly defiant strength, too thin, and with such a chaste modelling of forehead and chin—a white-faced but dauntless and bewildered nymph, who fancied herself a Valkyrie, challenging a formidable world in the name of her father. My dear, he thought, today a special Emancipation Proclamation was delivered for you, and some day you will know it.
Melissa set down her teacup, then sat in her chair like a ramrod, her hands in her lap. Geoffrey knew that she was gazing at him commandingly. He said, reflectively:
“I understand that there are two more volumes, almost completed. Doubtless, you can complete them, Melissa.” “Yes,” she said quietly, “I can. But not for the old royalty, Mr. Dunham. I always thought that unjust and beggarly. Now that my father is—is—not here”—and for a moment her voice broke and her head bent—“I must protect the rights of the family.”
“What royalty would you suggest?” asked Geoffrey, frowning at his cheroot. He took his gold penknife from his waistcoat pocket and cut off one end of the cheroot, drew on it again, and murmured in satisfaction.
Melissa’s heart was beating too hard, but she said defiantly: “Twice the customary royalty, Mr. Dunham.”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed. But he said to himself: I should have thought of that before, then there would have been no twinges of my publisher’s conscience, no squirmy contrivings as to how to increase their bank account.
“Yes,” said Melissa, in a loud, hard voice.
He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder, he could hardly keep himself from smiling at the ridiculousness of the situation. There sat the poor girl, her face a pale flame, her chin resolute and lifted, her eyes fanatical. Let her fight a little. It would do her good.
“You are trying to take advantage of my friendship with Charles,” he said, striving to make his own voice bellicose, even blustering.
“I am trying to right an old wrong,” she said, with trembling courage.
She waited, but Geoffrey only sat and smoked. Her fingers wound themselves tensely about each other until the knuckles sprang out. Geoffrey let her wait. He appeared to be reflecting.
“You have never lost any money on my father’s books,” she said, when she could not endure the waiting any longer. “In fact, I am certain that you have made a fortune,” and her tone was bitter.
O my God, thought Geoffrey, recalling the Upjohn account. He scowled. “I am admitting nothing, Melissa. The publishing business is no esoteric venture. I, like all other publishers, am in business for a profit, and not for spiritual exaltation. I might be selling stoves, or brooms, or blankets. Books are a commodity. If they sell well, we all make a profit. Now, I am not saying that Charles’ books were a complete failure—“
“You dare not!” she cried.
Geoffrey waved his hand impatienly—“I am merely saying that they had a modest sale, for they did not appeal to the less cultivated taste.”
But Melissa had not heard him. She was considering what he had said just before his last words, and now she shook with outrage and anger. “‘A commodity’! You dare call my father’s lifework a ‘commodity,’ as if it were only a cake of soap, a washtub, a pot or pan! You dare—blaspheme—it like that!” She sprang to her feet and, even above the noise of the storm outside, her breath was fierce and loud.
Geoffrey rose slowly and looked at her, at her eyes which threw off pale blue lightnings of wrath and affront. Again, he had a difficult time to keep from smiling.
“Perhaps I was a trifle—coarse, shall we say, Melissa? I was oversimplifying the situation. But I was merely trying to say that the law of supply and demand extends even to the publishing field.”
“My father’s soul, his life, his learning, his studies, his reflections, his scholarship, were in his work!” she cried, almost beside herself. “You never knew that; you never realized it. To you, he was only a manufacturer of commodities from which you would take an unjustly large share of the profits!”
Rage had exhilarated her. Her color was less ghastly, there was even a hot coral in her lips, and her disordered hair was a bright flutter over her forehead and about her cheeks, as if a wind had touched it. Good, thought Geoffrey. There was no passion so devastating, so tremendous, as the passion of a repressed woman. He saw how her breasts seemed to pound against the black fabric that covered them, how a large violet vein throbbed in her long throat. The energy of fury poured out from her, the single-hearted, powerful fury of an innocent and aroused spirit.
“My dear Melissa,” he said, in a conciliatory tone, “I apologize again. I did not mean to offend you. I forgot that you are not an ignorant woman who must be presented with prosaic words in order to simplify a discussion. Let us say that Charles gave the world works of great scholarship which may gain greater appreciation over the coming years. After all, the war disrupted many minds, made reading and study and scholarship temporarily irrelevant things. The situation will improve, now that there is peace again.
“I am quite willing to discuss, amiably, the subject of your father’s future royalties, or, I should say, the family’s. I must study our books. But I can assure you that future royalties will be at a higher rate.”
His manner, his calmness, quieted Melissa to some extent. Now her whole face glowed with triumph. She had forced this robber, this despicable man, to consider her terms. She would compel him to accept them!
Geoffrey knew her thoughts, and smiled to himself. Now he knew fully, for the first time, that emotion was the secret force which would conquer this poor girl. He had always suspected it, but then, she had always been so controlled, so frigid, whenever he had seen her before.
He extended his hand with a frank air. “May I again express my sorrow over the death of a dear friend, Melissa? Though your own loss is so immeasurably greater, believe me when I say that Charles’—passing—has left a deep gap in my life.”
She was still aglow with her grim elation, and it was with absentmindedness that she gave him her hand. It was not until she felt his kiss upon it that she came to herself. With a faint cry she snatched her hand away, shivering. He pretended not to notice. He bowed deeply and went out of the room.
She watched him go, her left hand clasped convulsively over the back of the right. Her mouth had fallen open, and her eyes stared intently at the door even after it had closed behind Geoffrey. Then she looked down at her hand. The place touched by his lips burned and tingled unbearably. She rubbed it with fury and revulsion, as if in some way her flesh had been violated. He had dared to do this disgusting thing to her, right in this room where her father had died!
She started for the door, and her own room, where there was water and soap. Then, with her tingling hand on the knob, she stood still, blank and motionless. She stood like that for a long time, listening. Finally she heard the grating of the Dunham carriage on the gravel drive below. Hardly knowing what she did, she ran to the window, threw it open, tore frantically at the shutters.
The rain had stopped, but the wind still surged against the house like an unseen surf. It had torn the clouds into streamers of milky vapor which blew against the black sky. The moon rushed out from behind them, leaping like a silver ball through space, and its light poured down on a dark and somber earth.
The Dunham carriage lights blinked with a yellow blur on the road beyond the house. It’s polished top gleamed in the moonlight, dripped with silver drops. Leaning on the windowsill, the wind tearing at her hair until it streamed like a banner in the gale, Melissa watched the carriage until it was swallowed up in the night. Then she bent her head on her arms, and wept again, wildly, desolately, and did not know why she wept.