It was a long time after Melissa had left him before Geoffrey could resume his work. A dozen times or more he stood up, with an impulse to go to her. But then he would sit down. He could not forget her white smile, strange and distraught, as she had stood on the threshold and thanked him. Thanked him for what? Yet there had been a kind of strong passion in her voice, a wildness. He thought about this, drumming his fingers on the desk. There was something here which was escaping him but which it was most necessary for him to remember and to understand. He had spoken to her of Europe, and she had promised to consider it. She had not refused, hastily and completely, as he had expected her to do. This had surprised and delighted him. Yet he was not delighted now. There was something wrong. Something was out of key, and its import was ominous.
He shook his head. There was no fathoming Melissa. But he could not rid himself of the vague and disturbing suspicion that something was being held before him which he ought to be able to see. Over and over, he forced himself to remember that she had not refused him, that she had given him her promise. But why did she fear him so? For the first time it came to him that perhaps it was not fear he had seen in her eyes, but something else.
“Nonsense,” he said aloud. “The girl has always been afraid of practically everything. Yet she said she would think about going to Europe, and she knew I must have her decision soon.”
He became impatient with himself and picked up the bundle of newspapers he had been reviewing. His eye touched Charles’ manuscript. He looked at it with somber bitterness. Then he pushed it aside with a gesture of loathing and contempt. You haven’t won yet, you old devil, he thought. There was a look about Melissa today which makes me think you have lost.
He worked for at least two hours, making notes and comments, and writing out a memorandum for his editor. The latter, especially when he was suffering an acute attack of “art,” held Mr. Dickens in high disfavor and disdain. Geoffrey found it easier not to argue but to write out memoranda and his decision.
James tiptoed into the library with a message, a telegram from the station. It was from Philadelphia, from Geoffrey’s editor, and it informed him that the editor had knowledge that Mr. Dickens himself would be in the city for a few hours early the next day, for a speaking engagement, on the way to New York. If Geoffrey was serious about publishing Mr. Dickens’ next book, despite the contemptible things the author had said about America after his last visit, then it might be well for Geoffrey to see the gentleman personally.
“James, I have to leave on the six o’clock train,” said Geoffrey, folding up the newspapers. “What time is it? Five? Order the carriage for me and get my bag ready. Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. Dunham are in the house, I presume.”
“Mrs. Shaw is on the terrace, I believe,” said James uneasily. “But I thought I saw Mrs. Dunham leave the house about half an hour ago.”
“Oh, one of her walks!” said Geoffrey with annoyance. “Well, when does she usually return?”
“Sometimes it is seven o’clock or later,” replied James, dubiously. He stared at Geoffrey, and hesitated. “Mrs. Dunham is a great walker, sir.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Geoffrey. “I’ve got to leave, and it’s damnable if I must go without seeing her. She wouldn’t have gone to church, eh?”
James tried to smile humorously. “Oh no, sir, definitely not. Mrs. Dunham has expressed herself frequently to Rachel on the subject of church. Rachel gathered Mrs. Dunham does not approve of it.”
Geoffrey had a quick vision of Melissa arrogantly enlarging on the subject of religion. He could see all her gestures, hear her clear and fanatical voice. He laughed. What a child it was. Then, a moment later, he was angry with her.
He went in search of his sister. Arabella was gravely reading what Geoffrey saw was some edifying tome suitable for the Sabbath. She had, also, dressed herself in a thin black silk, to match her reading matter. Her eyes were red, he saw, when she self-consciously removed her spectacles. Had he felt less annoyed just now he would have asked why she had been crying, but the necessity not to ask made him irritable. With hardly forty-five minutes in which to drive to Midfield and catch his train, he had no time for women’s tears. So he said abruptly:
“I’ve got to leave, and at once, Bella. A matter of importance. No, I really must go. There was a telegram. Where is Melissa?”
“Melissa?” asked Arabella, in a tone of wonderment. She searched his face sharply. She could read in it nothing but irritation. But for some reason her despondent spirits rose, and she smiled eagerly. “I thought Melissa was with you.”
“I haven’t seen her for hours,” replied Geoffrey impatiently. “Does she often go off like this, without a word to anyone?”
Arabella closed her book with hands unaccountably trembling. She did not remove her fixed gaze from Geoffrey. But her voice was very casual and indulgent: “Oh, yes, quite often. There are times when I suspect that Melissa does not know it is polite to leave word. She is so—engrossed.” She paused. Geoffrey did not seem happy, or content, or triumphant. He was only a large, hurried and irate man. “Ravel’s poem has, I hear, reached a significant state, very acute. At least, that is what Melissa tells me.” Her smile became maternal, but she watched him.
“Damn Ravel!” said Geoffrey. Then he was silent. He looked at his sister. She smiled serenely at him, and her reddened eyes glinted with sly malice. There was an utter quiet, now, on the terrace.
Then, very slowly, an ugliness crept into Geoffrey’s expression as he looked at his sister with a rising hatred. He said, almost softly: “Don’t be malicious, Bella, and childish. I don’t know what you are trying to say, but you know it is a lie. You know that as well as I do.”
Arabella stood up, her book falling to the floor. Tears rushed to her eyes. “Geoffrey! I do not understand you! What do you mean, speaking to me so? What have I done? Is there to be no peace between us, undisturbed by suspicions and cruelty? I have said nothing! I have done nothing, except to be kind to the miserable girl you in your folly have married, except to be her friend, and to display a sisterly affection for her.” She pressed her kerchief to her eyes, and turned away from him with a very loud and dramatic sob. “It is no use!” she exclaimed. “I am continually misunderstood and abused, and the vilest motives are attributed to me! It is more than I can bear.”
Fuming, Geoffrey stood and listened to her. He felt a fool. He had no time to be sorry for his sister, though he had the impulse and was angrily ashamed of himself. He said: “Bella, don’t be ridiculous. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” He waited. But Arabella’s sobs racked her with increasing vehemence. Geoffrey pulled out his watch, and groaned. He put it back. What had Arabella said, in truth? Nothing. Nothing more than she had said this morning. He had imagined a viciousness in her smile.
He said, with more impatience: “Do stop caterwauling a moment, please. I’ve said I am sorry. I haven’t the time for. lavish apologies. You must accept this or not, as you wish.”
Arabella’s sobs slowly lessened. She wiped her eyes. She said, her back to him. “I accept your apology, Geoffrey. After all, I have accepted so many, haven’t I? One more is of no moment.”
“You make me sound like an execrable brute,” remarked Geoffrey. “You aren’t much of a martyr, really, Bella. You can be quick with your own abuse. Well, never mind. I must go at once. But I shall return the middle of the week. Please tell Melissa that I must have her answer then.”
Arabella caught her breath. She stood in silence, still turned from him. But her eyes stared before her with a sudden intense glow. Then it was not too late! Everything was not yet lost; she still had time. The gardens swam before her in a dazzle of light and brilliance. Slowly she turned about and faced Geoffrey, and her face was illuminated. She stretched out her hands to him in a wide gesture.
“Dear Geoffrey! Are we not very foolish, brother and sister, quarrelling so absurdly! We shall forget it, shall we not?”
He took her hands. They were damp and hot. She beamed at him with an expression he could not read. But the minutes were running out very fast, so he kissed her, patted her shoulder, called her a fool, and himself a bigger one. She passionately denied that he was guilty of any folly, and accused herself of being a silly and sensitive female. He must forgive her, he truly must.
On this fond note, she went with him to the doorway where the carriage waited. She waved to him as long as she could see him. There was no one about, when the carriage was out of sight, and Arabella executed a few capers which could have been called nothing but a frenzied dance of joy.
Then she ran into the house, calling for Ellis, and her voice was shrill with excitement and glee.