Geoffrey was annoyed to discover, when awakening after a very short sleep, that he had overslept. He had wanted to see Melissa at breakfast time. But now James brought him a tray, and found his master in a very bad mood indeed. During the night James had decided that he must speak, even at the risk of losing his post, but one look at Geoffrey’s dark sullen face made his courage run away like a mouse. He served Geoffrey in silence, helped him to dress.
Geoffrey went downstairs and found his sister in the morning-room, arranging flowers. Her rouge was harsh in the early light, and her morning-robe of green tissue faille, floating with panels, was entirely too young for her, and enhanced the false brassiness of her hair. Her sharp eyes took in Geoffrey’s mood, and she said cheerily: “Good morning, dear Geoffrey. Is it not pleasant today? I do believe the hot weather has abated a little.”
She fluttered up to him archly, and pinned a rose-bud to his coat. The tendrils of her hair tickled his chin, and he lifted his head, trying not to be freshly irritated.
“Where is Melissa?” he asked abruptly. “I especially want to see her this morning and to have a talk with her.”
Arabella concentrated upon the delicate matter of adjusting the rosebud. Then she stood off and surveyed her handiwork with pride. But her heart began to beat unevenly. She smiled at the flower, put her head to one side, and said absently: “She often walks in the morning, after breakfast, and sometimes meets Ravel for one of their everlasting talks about the most absurd things.”
She went back to her vases and to the heaps of flowers on the table. Her hands shook. Geoffrey knew that Ravel was a new, if temporary, neighbor. He had often, on his visits home, invited the younger man to this house. He had, in a way, even begun to like him, or at least to be amused by him, for Ravel had lately lost his facetious mannerisms and poses. But this was the first he had heard of Melissa showing any interest in him. He was surprised, and he smiled a little, which was not exactly the reaction Arabella had expected. After a few moments, she glanced up, and when she saw that smile she could have struck him with the bouquet she held.
“Well, well,” he said jocularly, trying to readjust himself to the vision of Melissa actually talking to someone, actually walking with a stranger. “What can she find in that jackanapes to interest her? You mean, Arabella, that she sees him often and alone? How did he manage that?”
Arabella sat down abruptly, full of rage. She smiled sweetly. She said; “Oh, yes indeed, she often sees him alone.” The time for complete caution was gone. She looked at Geoffrey’s amused face, and hated him. Yet she did not dare go too far. “I believe he is writing a poem on which he consults her frequently.”
Geoffrey burst out laughing, and with the laughter his black mood disappeared. “How typical of Melissa!” he exclaimed. (The fool! The dear fool!) “No doubt she gives him the benefit of her classical education, with her usual severity and insistence on perfection.”
“I believe,” said Arabella, in a stifled voice, “that he is writing a poem which he is to dedicate to her. Melissa told me that.”
Geoffrey considered this, and was more and more amused. “He told me about the poem, and I generously offered to read it when he had finished it. So he is dedicating it to Melissa! This is very interesting, indeed, very rich. And it is also good news, for it shows that Melissa is slowly coming out of her shell, poor girl.” He bent to sniff at a flower-filled vase. “When does she return from these edifying walks?”
“There is no particular time,” said Arabella, heavy with her defeat and fury. She tried once more: “We both know dear Melissa, of course. But I have heard whispers from others; there is some thought that Melissa is a trifle indiscreet in being seen so regularly with Ravel along the river.”
“What nonsense!” said Geoffrey, still pleased at the thought of Melissa emerging from her solitariness. “Let the old women wag their heads. Can you imagine Melissa, dear Arabella, having an intrigue with anyone? If she wanders around with that popinjay, and listens to his poems, she has no more intention of being improper than has a young child.”
“Oh, of course, dear Geoffrey!” cried Arabella. She waited, still hoping that she had planted an ugly idea in her brother’s mind. But he only mused on what he had heard, then laughed again, his hateful, boisterous laugh. She said: “I do think, though, that you might suggest to Melissa that she see Ravel less often. It does no good to inspire gossip.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind! Ravel is evidently good for Melissa; though, knowing Ravel, I wonder how he came to find her interesting. She is definitely not the type for him. But he is probably bored to death in Midfield. Bella, can you imagine anyone who knew Melissa even slightly, believing in any such gossip about her?”
“Certainly not!” said Arabella, her voice shaking with her emotions. “It is all very silly.”
Geoffrey strolled towards the door. His sister watched him go. He whistled softly, and glanced through the windows at the warm, bright sun. “Not going to church, eh?” he said.
“No, dear Geoffrey. If you remember, I never go on the Sundays you are home. We see you so seldom as it is.”
He was in a mood to be touched by this. “Well, I am afraid that you wont see much of me today, however. I am going to work in the library. When Melissa returns, will you send her in to me? We are going to discuss the European matter.” Arabella waited until he had left the room, then she flung the scissors violently from her and began to cry. She had tried, and it had been useless. She had lost everything. She had not the faintest doubt but that he would succeed with Melissa, and that her own life was over. Perhaps, though, Geoffrey would give her an allowance and let her go away to Philadelphia to live, among her friends, or perhaps he would buy her a small house in Midfield. She wiped her wet eyes and looked at the sunshine streaming through the windows. The great house was fragrant and silent about her. Her home! This was the house in which she had been born, which she loved and cherished, which was part of herself! How could she bear to leave it, to give it up to a slut and a drab, a fool and a dolt?
Her tears came faster, and she wept as she had never wept before.