Melissa, Page 2

  “There is none so dangerous as the weak or the deliberately weak,” Geoffrey would think, “none so ruthless, so cannibalistic, so devouring.” And none, in the case of Charles and Phoebe, so guiltless, so innocent, so inculpable. Perhaps the strong, almost inevitably destroyed by the weak, brought their own victimization upon themselves, sublime fools seduced by their own strength, their own delusion of power. One could only laugh at them, not pity them.

  Geoffrey looked at Andrew Upjohn, who sat far to the right of his sister Phoebe, and the older man felt compassion for the younger. Andrew fitted nowhere in this family of cold passion and dainty and beguiling weakness. In fact, thought Geoffrey with pleased surprise, Andrew is just a normal fellow, the salt of the earth, a sound rock, as wholesome as a crisp apple, as mild and fresh as cider. Funny I never saw it before; the others obscured my perceptiveness, I am afraid.

  Big, sturdy, robust, Andrew sat awkwardly, as a farmer sits, and was all heavy and distressful gloom, in this atmosphere of women. Yes, women, even when old Charlie was alive, thought Geoffrey Dunham. Charlie was the biggest woman of them all, poor old devil. The air of this house had always been abnormal and grotesque, yet Andrew Upjohn, healthy, sane, rugged, had retained his earthy integrity. His massive shoulders were the shoulders of a man of the soil; his hands had been created for the care of crops and animals, and even though they were rarely concerned with either, the flesh had the brownness and darkness of a farmer’s, the knuckles were large and powerful, the nails broad and flat. His tight black broadcloth trousers strained over his big powerful muscles; the waistcoat appeared about to burst over his enormous chest. His elegant clothing almost concealed the might of his heroic body, the simple majesty of his arms and legs, and gave him a clownlike and ludicrous appearance, like a farmer sheepishly arrayed in his Sunday best.

  Andrew’s head was round, larger than the average man’s, and covered with a mass of auburn hair, which all the brushings and the macassar oil could not restrain to a gentlemanly sleekness. At the slightest provocation the ends rose up roughly and stiffly above a low wide forehead, as brown as a nut, though he was almost never exposed to the wild hot sun of midsummer. Below that forehead were a pair of small, dark-blue eyes, calmly passionate, yet shy and steady, the eyes of one too patient, too indestructible, too understanding to hurry and to fever after insignificant things. Their intelligence was not the intelligence of a townsman who makes epigrams and converses with shallow sophistication with his replicas; rather, it was an intelligence rooted in profound instinct and knowledge.

  Andrew had his father’s classic nose, but where Charles’ had been all attenuated delicacy, Andrew’s was big and jutting, the nose of puissant man. Below it were folded his big tranquil lips, wholesomely sensual but kind, and a rocklike chin.

  Acquaintances were apt to say that Andrew, for all that he was studying law at Harvard, was a mindless, slow dolt, an anachronism in this intellectual family, a misfit, a peasant. Apparently he was no scholar, for, at twenty-three, he was the oldest student in his class, and much derided by the elegant youths in the chairs about him. But Andrew studied law, and no one had ever heard him object. Not that it would do him much good, thought Geoffrey, when faced with Charles and Melissa, who had decided this career for him. No one had ever heard him express a desire for the life of a countryman, but all at once Geoffrey knew that this desire lived vividly in the young man. Why, then, with this strength of mind and body, had he surrendered to Melissa’s will? Why had he been persuaded that law was his forte?

  Melissa had usurped the power of her mother, had become the dominating tyrant of the household. But, thought Geoffrey with acute surprise, perhaps I am wrong. I have a suspicion, a very nasty suspicion, that it was Charles who was the power and the tyrant—gentle, smiling, philosophic Charles, with his wry and subtle humor, his immured and cloistered life, his bending before anything which might disturb his meditations, his pacific yielding to apparently stronger wills, his desire to be left alone in his study with Melissa his amanuensis and student and idolater. He had yielded, in order to get his inexorable way; he had surrendered, in order to become invincible. The image of Charles, in Geoffrey’s mind, suddenly became rearranged into other planes and expressions. The apparently weak and pliant had a secret terrible strength. They allowed the strong their delusion of power in order to get their own implacable will.

  Charles! Charles! thought Geoffrey, inwardly smiling. I am afraid you were considerable of a rascal, a lovable, compromising rascal.

  Geoffrey looked at the three woman and the young man. He looked at the sallow and shadowed lamplight, the fire which did not warm, the pieces of furniture which were the memories and the childhood of Amanda Goodbody. They were waiting for him to read Charles’ will, for Geoffrey was originally a man of law though he had long abandoned that profession. Moreover, he had been Charles’ one and only intimate; perhaps it was this, unsuspected until now by Geoffrey, which filled Melissa’s eyes with hatred when she looked at him.

  Amanda had momentarily done with expressions of sorrow. Geoffrey was certain she was no hypocrite, and that her tears had been genuine, but how much had been shed unconsciously for her own buried youth brought so clearly to memory this day, and how much for Charles, it was impossible to conjecture. Amanda was a New Englander. Everything in its time and season, and let any irrelevant emotion show itself at its peril! This was the time for the will; all else must wait. Then she would eat, in her stately fashion, for she had the Puritan’s innate good sense, and then she would retire to her cold and dismal room, which Charles had not shared for fifteen years. What her thoughts would be there, as she lay in her chill tester bed, would be her own, never to be revealed. Geoffrey studied her with admiration. He had the highest respect for Amanda Goodbody.

  Geoffrey had opened his leather brief case, and the will, a simple one of only two pages, was already in his hands. For some reason he was reluctant to begin. Amanda was waiting, composed and majestic. Melissa stared at a point near her crossed ankles, and enigmatic, almost expressionless though her face was, Geoffrey instinctively knew of the slow swell of agony which was rising in her. She, like her mother, would listen and, like her mother, would make little comment; and then, like Amanda, she would rise proudly and leave the room. To think I believed you a tyrant, my darling, he thought. You’ll never be one: you are too strong.

  Phoebe, docile and childish as always, had hushed her mewling, probably at a stern glance from her mother. She sniffled pathetically into her little white handkerchief, and her riot of bright ringlets fell over her forehead. The will meant nothing to her, but she knew she was expected to stay.

  Andrew sat impassive and serene as always. He had been twenty, and a lieutenant in the Pennsylvania Third Infantry, when the War had ended. He had been captured about six months before the end of hostilities, but he had remained in the prison camp in Virginia for two months longer. What had he thought, felt, conjectured, about this fratricidal war? Had some ideal sustained and invigorated him? He never spoke of his war experiences, yet he had been full of admiration for the way the beset Virginians had sedulously cultivated every available acre of ground. He could discourse with shy eagerness about this. Now he was twenty-three, and he still never spoke of the war. It was impossible to know if, or what, he thought about anything.

  The dismal wind groaned at the old tall windows, then furiously assaulted the ancient house. One felt the quivering of its long gray clapboards, the trembling of its sturdy oaken doors. The light outside had faded suddenly away and the elms had vanished in the darkness. The meager lamplight flickered.

  O God! thought Melissa, in anguish, why doesn’t the fool read the will and be done with it? But there he sits, venomously enjoying the dramatic and important moment, revelling in the whole sordid atmosphere of this hateful room. I shall rise in a moment and leave, if he does not speak. The white hands in her lap tightened with almost unbearable pain.

  Geoffrey cleared his throat, for Amand
a’s face had become forbidding. He ruffled the two sheets of foolscap. “It is very short,” he said, unnecessarily. Amanda inclined her head. Melissa stared before her.

  Geoffrey began to read. Charles had left to “my beloved wife, Amanda Goodbody Upjohn,” the farm of two hundred and ten acres, all the contents of the house, except those of his study, and “all present and future royalties accruing to me from books published prior to my death by the publishing house of George Dunham’s Son.” He politely urged his children to be in accord with this will. He then directed that all unfinished and finished manuscripts, unpublished at the date of his death, become the property of his dear daughter, Melissa Goodbody Upjohn, to dispose of in any manner she desired, any royalties accruing to her, “in part recompense for her devotion to my work, which has made all my writing possible.” Melissa was also to have all his books, the furniture in his study, and any “personal effects” not urgently desired by his wife. In particular, Melissa was to have his gold watch, inherited from his grandfather, which had been a present from General Washington himself. The will was dated two years before, January 15, 1866.

  No one spoke after the reading of the will, and there was only the sound of the wind and the rain, and the subdued clatter of china being laid on the table in the dining-room beyond the folded doors. Then Amanda uttered something which, for a moment, Geoffrey incredulously believed was a wry laugh. But Amanda’s white and withered face, though haggard and strained, was as composed as ever, and entirely mirthless.

  “It is an expected will,” she was saying, in her hard slow voice, which even yet had something of Melissa’s strong over tones. “But it means nothing to me unless I know all the facts. You have them, Geoffrey. I should prefer that you let us know, immediately, the worst and the best. You are my husband’s executor. You know what there is to know. Let me hear it.” Again Geoffrey admired that granite good sense, that realistic desire not to be deceived, which was Amanda’s racial heritage. But, out of his compassion, he hesitated. Amanda said again, inexorably: “I demand it, Geoffrey. You will be doing us no service if you refrain from revealing what must eventually be known.”

  “Yes. Of Course, Mrs. Upjohn,” said Geoffrey. (Oh, that despicable smooth voice, that polite and hypocritical deference! thought Melissa, in her twisting pain.)

  Geoffrey Dunham removed some papers from his brief case, and frowned over them, dreading the moment when he must speak again. Well, there was nothing else he could do.

  He said: “Your husband, Mrs. Upjohn, has, at the present time, some three hundred dollars in accrued royalties.” (Impossible! thought Melissa, with cold and protective rage. I never trusted you, though my poor father did. I would not put it past you to have stolen his rightful money. Why, my father had hundreds of letters about his books from the most distinguished men, and the critics unanimously praised them! I am certain you are a thief.)

  Geoffrey went on, cursing to himself: “As you know, Mrs. Upjohn, we intend to publish the sixth volume of Charles’ Phoenician Influence on Greek Philosophy next summer. I think—I hope—that this will receive—greater—recognition than did the other five volumes. Scholarship is not much admired in these parlous days,” he added, disingenuously. “From past sales, I should judge this will bring you at least two thousand dollars in royalties. As this book was contracted for before Charles’—death—the royalties belong to you.”

  Amanda’s hands gripped themselves together. “Are the other volumes still selling, Geoffrey?”

  This was the opportunity for which Geoffrey had been waiting. He said, with an uncandid smile: “I am glad to tell you, Mrs. Upjohn, that we expect to go into another edition next fall, and doubtless there will be considerable money accruing from that.” He thought to himself: Three thousand, four thousand dollars? It means nothing to me; it means everything to these poor creatures, and though I could never be accused of having a philanthropic nature, a slight juggling of the ledgers will do little violence to my instincts as a publisher! Amanda coughed; she touched her lips with her handker chief. Then she raised her head with her old pride. “This is good news, certainly, Geoffrey, and unexpected. But what of the farm, and Charles’ accounts in the bank?”

  Geoffrey removed other papers from the brief case. “Mrs. Upjohn, I am afraid the news is not so good about the farm and the banks. There is a mortgage of some three thousand dollars on the farm, a payment is due the first of December in the amount of six hundred forty-five dollars, including interest. Charles had two bank accounts. The deposits, as of today, total five hundred dollars and thirty cents.”

  Amanda gazed at him steadily, while she rapidly calculated. Then she said in her clear hard tones: “It seems, then, that we are beggars.”

  Geoffrey opened his mouth to speak, but Amanda went on, without emotion: “This comes of neglecting the farm over a period of many years, of allowing the stock to diminish, of hiring uncouth and incompetent hands, of ignoring the necessity for proper supervision.” She paused, then added, grimly: “But I shall keep the farm, come what may, say what anyone will. It was bought with the money my papa left me. It is morally, and legally, mine. I shall keep it. How, I do not know as yet, but keep it I shall.”

  For the first time, Melissa looked at her mother, and her pale-blue eyes blazed in contempt and scorn. But she said nothing. How she must have hated the farm, as Charles hated it, thought Geoffrey, having intercepted Melissa’s stabbing glance at Amanda.

  Geoffrey said: “I think it can be arranged that payment on the mortgage be deferred for another six months, Mrs. Upjohn. By that time there will be more royalties, though I am afraid you will have more interest to pay,” he continued, knowing his New Englander’s pride. As he expected, Amanda inclined her head proudly.

  “Certainly, Geoffrey. I can rely on you to arrange the deferment. Beggars cannot be choosers about the rate of interest. I shall make no objection to any terms you arrange.”

  “There will also be the crops next summer,” said Geoffrey, gently. “Let us hope we may have a good year.” He would juggle the ledgers in the amount of four thousand dollars, or deposit the money in Charles’ name, out of his own accounts. “I have a very optimistic feeling about your prospects, Mrs. Upjohn,” he added, “so I’d not worry too much.”

  Amanda smiled grimly. “I have never worried too much. Now, having the facts, I shall worry less. I am on firm ground at last.”

  Her pale and watery eyes moved away from him, and fixed themselves in bitter contemplation on the fire.

  “My papa left me twenty thousand dollars. He, like you, Geoffrey, was a publisher; he had eight children, and his estate was divided equally among us. The family lived in Boston, but Papa had his small residence in New York, and he returned home each month for a visit of several days. Sometimes a daughter accompanied him back to New York, for a short time, for shopping purposes.”

  Geoffrey listened with acute sympathy, for Amanda was speaking as if meditating. Poor old soul! She must indeed be stricken almost beyond endurance, to have lost so much of her natural reticence. Her children, even Melissa, were attracted by her new intensity of voice, her new, almost distraught, manner. Her tone, though quiet, had a quality of passion.

  “It was in Papa’s office that I first met Charles Upjohn. Papa had accepted a small manuscript. We were introduced, and, I believe—there was some attraction between us from the very beginning. I was considered a handsome young lady, Geoffrey,” and she smiled bitterly.

  “I can well believe that, Mrs. Upjohn,” he answered, with gentleness. Had Melissa moved ever so slightly, lifted her hand?

  Amanda went on as if she had not heard his remark: “Papa opposed the match. I was twenty-six years old, however, and Mama was considerably worried. However, I was exceedingly fond of Charles, and I would have my way. Papa told me he was not the man he would have chosen for me, but Papa had seven other daughters, and Mama was quite agreeable.

  “Charles was a New Yorker, born and bred. He was very poor, Geoff
rey, for he wrote books only a few scholars could understand. But he was a gentleman—even Papa admitted that —and his background and family were impeccable. He loved his native city. I despised it. When we married, and Papa died shortly thereafter, I convinced Charles that if he desired quiet and isolation in order to write, we must not live in the city. He had too many distracting friends. He agreed. We could not afford a stony New England farm, and the best land was already owned. I spent a few months exploring the country, and found this place. It is only ten miles from Philadelphia, so that Charles could have his urban atmosphere and refreshment whenever he desired. He had a number of friends in Philadelphia. They were near enough for occasional visiting, but far enough away so that they would not intrude upon him too often.

  “I paid twelve thousand dollars for this farm, and I was exceedingly happy. There were eight thousand dollars in the banks in Philadelphia. The future seemed very auspicious.” She smiled convulsively.

  “I have never believed that females should manage business matters, Geoffrey, and that is where I made the gravest error. Charles admitted that the farm was conducive to study and reflection, and he began to write steadily. But I can see now that, for all the security it had given us, he truly detested the farm. I believed I was very shrewd, Geoffrey!

  “It was not until ten years ago that I discovered that the farm was not even paying for itself, that my remaining eight thousand dollars had been swallowed up in debts. It seemed very strange to me, for our crops were almost uniformly good. Of a certainty, however, I understood that the men we were hiring were dolts and incompetents, and not too honest. Still, I did not worry overmuch. Charles was writing, and his books were being published, and he always assured me that our affairs were in splendid condition. Charles himself was always serene, and I believed, in my folly, that if our affairs were in a desperate state he would reveal some perturbation. I see now that nothing ever perturbed Charles very much, provided he had his writing, his study, his walks, his occasional visits to Philadelphia, and his books. I ought to have known!”