Geoffrey Dunham was in a bad humor. He disliked long holidays, and he disliked some of his guests. His nature was inclined to irascibility, and the necessity to be polite for long periods, without intermissions, was very wearing to him. More than once he had found himself on the verge of a quarrel with one or two gentlemen who had been drinking too much, and some of the women, were so vapid as to be unendurable for more than an hour or two. He loved and admired his home, but he agreed with Benjamin Franklin that guests, like fish, stank after three days. These people had been cluttering up his household for nearly seven days now, and would not be gone until January the second. Before their departure, there would be the New Year’s Eve ball, which he contemplated with temper.
He loved the country. It would have given him delight to have spent these days alone in his house, to have gone for long walks over the crisp and sparkling snow, to have visited one or two neighbors whom he liked. There were books to read in the library, and some interesting manuscripts which had come into his offices. He could conceive of nothing more pleasant than to spend the days in the snowy quiet of his land, in the warm silence of his library.
But how was he spending the days now, days which should be given over to quiet work, contemplation, fires, walks with the dogs, and visits with his friends? He was spending them entertaining fools and bores. Only the Eld-ridges made the days bearable, and he saw them only occasionally, Mr. Eldridge being quite delicate of digestion, and needing the services of his wife with various palliatives. So, he must entertain his guests, contrive amusements for them in the silence of the snowy countryside. Backgammon, whist, port, whiskey, anecdotes, charades: all the stupid, time-devouring devices to keep the mind in a soporific condition, and coax the hours to hurry by. Dances in the evening, with the hired musicians finally staggering off at dawn to their quarters on the third floor. He despised it all. Each year he had determined that these festivities should be the last, and each year he succumbed to his pity for Arabella, who spent so many long dull days alone in this house.
As always at this time of the year, he was in a bad humor, but now his temper was a fuming rage against his sister. This was enhanced by his sadness over Amanda Upjohn’s death. James, his man, hovered near him, very quiet and subdued, for he felt Geoffrey’s smoldering anger by the way he thrust the black pearl into his cravat and twitched himself into the coat James held for him. If the master were a gentleman, now, reflected James, he would shout my ears flat, curse me vigorously, and put all his ill humor on my back. But Geoffrey, who was not a gentleman, could never bring himself to discharge his venom upon those who worked for him and who were innocent of any wrong-doing. So he thanked James in a pent voice for his services, and told him to take the evening off. It was really excellent not to work for a gentleman, thought James happily, as he softly closed the door behind him.
Geoffrey pulled at his chin. James had given him a bad shave that morning, probably because the little man had been doing some celebrating on his own. No matter. But the bristles that cropped out here and there did not increase Geoffrey’s good temper. He went out into the long warm hall, where the candles were burning in their sconces, and knocked loudly on his sister’s door. She called to him to enter. She was putting the last touches to her ringlets and was holding a perfume bottle in her jeweled hand.
Arabella was quite resplendent in rose velvet and lace, with an enormous bustle and much drapery. Velvet roses rested among the puffs of hair on the top of her head. Diamonds glittered at her ears. Her full but raddled cheeks were suspiciously pink, and stiff with powder. The folds of her short neck almost concealed the diamond necklace about it, and her fat wrists sparkled. She flashed her tiny sharp gray eyes at her brother, and smiled a little. “I am almost ready for dinner, dear Geoffrey,” she said. “You have never seen this gown before. Do you like it?”
The gaudy bepuffed bedroom was inundated with scent, and very hot. All the crystal lamps had been lit, and they flooded the room with cruel light. Never had Arabella resembled a stout and bedecked harridan so much as she did tonight, thought her brother with aversion. Then the full force of his anger rushed to his head and his face became crimson.
“Why did you refuse, at the last moment, to attend Amanda’s funeral?” he asked, in a dangerous voice. “I thought it was understood that you were to go with me. After all, to quote yourself, she was one of your best friends. I demand an explanation.”
Arabella stared at him, and shrank a little. “But Geoffrey, I thought I explained. I had one of my headaches. All that death in that terrible house! I have some sensibilities, and I could not endure it, I really could not. Besides, there were our guests. I could not leave them alone with morbid thoughts.” She put her lace handkerchief to her lips and blinked her eyes as if to keep back the tears. “Yes, Geoffrey, Amanda was my dear friend, so dear, indeed, that I preferred not to see her—dead—but to remember her living. Is that so hard for you to understand?”
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.