Chapter XVII

Eliminating Beall, then, as seemed necessary, or at least advisable after that much-revealing moment in the company of Messrs. Cabell and Zuloaga, Melissa centered her attention closely and with considerable result on Fleming, who, the Marchesa insisted, was in any case by far the most desirable young man on Melissa’s horizon.

“Artists--and poets and playwrights--all that tricky lot--” this was the Marchesa’s pronouncement, “make very fine suitors but doubtful providers ... of anything but excitement.” She added that she had loved more than one such in her time and was speaking not without notes. She said she had had poems written to her and pictures painted of her ... and all it ever procured her was a little unpleasant notoriety.

“One may love a stockbroker in comparative privacy,” concluded the Marchesa, not without reason--“but women who bestow their affections upon Genius have usually found themselves before the thing was over--fairly conspicuous.”

Melissa said merely that she hadn’t found Beall as interesting as she expected.

To which the Marchesa replied that in that case it might be well to expunge him and go on to the next.

“No good wasting time,” said the Marchesa, “on a man who can’t keep one amused before marriage.... It’s asking too much of oneself to take on such a handicap. I think you had better--yes--I think you had better bring this Fleming to see me....”

Melissa writhed but agreed.

“I shall be able to tell everything--the moment I look at him,” the Marchesa assured her.

Melissa mentioned the projected house-party. It might be rather nice she said.

Instantly the Marchesa became avid for detail.

“Where is the place--would you go by train--or by motor? There would be how many others? You must have an especial wardrobe ... these country-house parties ... I have been on many a one in England ... unlimited opportunity ... the most delightful intimacy, under the safest circumstances. Melissa--I have an inspiration--une idée lumineuse!”

“Yes?” said Melissa politely.

She was by no means enamored of the Marchesa’s inspirations. In fact she rather shrank from the crooked miles they might wander.

“You shall bring him to see me--and I shall be asked to go with you!”

Worse than Melissa had dreamed! She barely controlled her features.

“Of course--if he did--that would be charming.”

“If he did!” said the Marchesa and laughed like an aged imp, toying with the pitchfork of its betters. “--But he will! Do you suppose I cannot arrange a thing as simple as that? I have been the Egeria of more than one statesman, Melissa--(not Americans, I may add!) I was born with a flair for diplomacy.”

Melissa, finding herself up a blind alley said that she would be very happy to bring Murdock to call ... and did, some four days later.

He went, like a lamb to the slaughter, being distinctly flattered at Melissa’s suggesting the expedition, and only requesting certain necessary information before starting forth.

“Is she an aunt of yours, Melissa? Some sort of relation or other?”

“No, Murdock--she’s nothing to me at all. Except”--said Melissa, swallowing a slight obstruction in her conscience--“a _very_ dear old friend.”

“Oh--I see! Just wanted to know so as not to pull any boners. If she’s a very dear old friend we’ll have to be pretty nice to her--eh?”

“I wish you would!”

“I like old ladies,” said Murdock warmly. “Something sort of sweet about ’em. I like those kinds of cap-things they wear--mostly on the stage, of course. And I like to see ’em knit. This home-and-mother stuff gets me every time.”

Melissa thought of the Marchesa’s invincible gray curls, thought of her rouged and polished finger-nails (clutching a bit of knitting!)--of the unbending Cupid’s bow of her skillfully painted mouth ... and knew a moment’s wild despair.

“The Marchesa’s a trifle--foreign--she lived so long abroad, you know,” she offered, without much hope, however, of suggesting the surprise in store for him.

As a final attempt at sparing the young man’s filial illusions, she told the Marchesa on the day before the call:

“Murdock is rather a--conventional person. I’m afraid he expects you to--wear a lace cap ... and all that.”

“Indeed!” said the Marchesa snippily--“You must have given him a pretty notion of my age!”

Melissa looked--and felt--exceedingly unhappy.

“Does he also expect me to totter around with a stick and wear a cameo cart-wheel under my chin?” inquired the Marchesa acidly.

Melissa knowing that such was very likely Murdock’s friendly expectation, shut her lips tight and said no more on the subject.

When the day arrived, she rang the bell of the Marchesa’s apartment with a finger, icy in its glove, and turned to Murdock’s ardent murmur of “Gosh--you look beautiful, this afternoon!”--the vaguest nervous tremor of a smile.

“Now, do be nice, Murdock!” she implored him.

“I tell you I like ’em,” said Murdock soothingly.

Then the door opened, under Anna’s fingers, upon a new heaven, so to speak, and a new earth--striking Melissa speechless.

Not a picture on the walls, except for a print of Reynolds’ Innocence, all white muslin and blue ribbon, above the mantelshelf. Gone all the faded French naughtinesses in their faded gilt frames. Gone all the autographed and whiskered young men. Remained the Sèvres bowl--filled with violets--it is true--but set chastely in the middle of a little table. Remained the chaise longue piled with cushions; the piano, Spanish-shawled; the tea-table, Dresden-cupped and silver-laden ... but lacking the pageant of nineteenth century manhood which had formerly ambuscaded mantelshelf and wall, the place seemed now merely a calm and gracious interior, the retreat of an elderly gentlewoman....

Casting about in search of whom, Melissa’s incredulous eyes came to rest upon the Marchesa.

Such a Marchesa! It took two looks, and then two more, to be at all sure of her, who sat before them smiling gently, holding out a fragile, ringless hand in token of welcome.

The lace cap was there--on hair parted in the middle, brushed smooth, and silverly shining. The cameo brooch was there, fastening a fichu of exquisite yellowed lace, upon a passionless dove-gray breast ... the black velvet neckband was there, too ... imperishable, apparently ... but it, like the Spanish shawl and the violets, now took character from its surroundings, suggesting only delicate feminine vanity, pleasantly surviving the years.

“Ah, Melissa,” said the Marchesa--actually the note of a grandmother--“I am so glad to see you, dear. It’s very sweet of you to find time for an old woman like me ... and this is Mr. Fleming of whom I have heard so much?”

Melissa said it was. She found herself incapable of adding anything to the presentation.

She watched while Murdock, bending reverently over the Marchesa’s fingers, sat himself almost at once, figuratively speaking, at the Marchesa’s old-lady slippered feet.

“This is a great privilege,” said Murdock, with endearing simplicity.

“I do so like to have young people around me,” the Marchesa assured him. “Melissa, my dear, will you ring for tea?”

And at tea she completed an easy conquest. Such a Marchesa--and such a tea! Plum-cake ... out of an English novel. Half a dozen sorts of sandwich. Cream to be cut with a knife--very nearly....

Murdock ate enormously. The Marchesa served him like a mother.

“Ah--do let me give you some of this--it’s my own recipe!”

“I know you’re a wonderful housekeeper,” cried Murdock, his soul in his eyes--and in his mouth.

“I love my home,” said the Marchesa modestly.

Melissa dared not lift her glance. Hysteric laughter seethed within her.

The Marchesa continued with the softest of uncomplaining sighs: “It’s a little difficult sometimes--living in an apartment--to do as much about the place, myself, as I’d like. Nothing makes me happier--nothing--let me give you just a tiny bit of plum-cake....”

“It’s great!” said Murdock and accepted a second slice without question.

“Nothing,” said the Marchesa, “makes me happier than to put a big white apron over my gown, and go out in the kitchen and beat up a cake ... like this one.”

“Did you make this?” asked Murdock respectfully. “Best thing I ever ate!”

“It’s very simple--” said the Marchesa, smiling and patting his hand. “It’s all a matter of knowing how. I was taught as a girl that these things were a woman’s dearest province. That was a long time ago, you see.... I’m afraid the girls of to-day would find that rather laughable....” She looked at Murdock almost imploringly.

“They’d make a darned sight better wives and mothers if they’d had your training,” said Murdock warmly.

“After all,” pursued the Marchesa, “isn’t that what women were sent into the world for? That and nothing else--just to be good wives and mothers.” She lowered her eyelids and patted back a little cough with the tips of her fingers ... from the nails of which rouge and polish had chastely departed.

“That’s exactly what I feel about it,” Murdock hastened to assure her.... “I’ve got no time for professional women ... can’t stand ’em in an office. It takes the bloom off ... if you see what I mean.”

“I do, indeed,” said the Marchesa. “Let me ring for fresh tea!”

“No, thank you--not for me! I’ll take one more shot at that cake--if I may.”

The Marchesa said he might. She cut him a whopping slice with the purest maternal enthusiasm, then she laid her fingers on Melissa’s arm and drew her into the conversation sweetly.

“This dear girl,” said the Marchesa.... “I’m so glad she isn’t one of those terribly brainy creatures ... just a simple, sincere affectionate little woman!”

Murdock being for the moment submerged in plum-cake, Melissa flung her hostess a glacial and murderous look.

“Did you make the gown you have on, dear?” inquired the Marchesa, fingering the sleeve of Melissa’s smart black satin with loving interest. She added to her other guest: “You never saw such a child with her needle!”

Murdock fairly radiated honest satisfaction.

“Why hasn’t Melissa brought me to see you before?” he demanded. “This has been wonderful.”

“She must bring you again--very soon,” said the Marchesa. “I’m a lonely old woman and an afternoon like this makes me happy for days.”

“I’ll tell you what--” said Murdock suddenly. The Marchesa waited, smiling, all home-and-mother in her look. Melissa set her teeth and drew on her glove with a jerk.

“I’m having a little house-party,” said Murdock eagerly, “first part of next month ... on an old farm of mine, just outside of Baltimore. The party’s for Melissa. It would be great if you could come, too....” He looked from the Marchesa to Melissa and back to the Marchesa again. “Do come!” he begged, with increasing ardor. “Everybody’d love to have you ... and I’ve got a wonderful old kitchen down there ... big as a house ... you could put on your big white apron and beat up a cake to your heart’s content. Is that a date? Do say you’ll do it!”

“My dear, dear boy!” said the Marchesa, obviously touched to the heart. She put her handkerchief to her nose--to one eye--and allowed an April smile to waver out above it. April, no longer new--but authentic. “Shouldn’t I be in the way?--a tiresome old woman?”

“It would be like having Whistler’s Mother around,” said Murdock nicely sentimental and unexpectedly cultural. “Wouldn’t it, Melissa?”

“Exactly,” said Melissa. She jerked on the other glove in sequence and forced herself to smile.

“We-e-l-ll ... if you really want me so much....” said the Marchesa.

“We absolutely do,” insisted Murdock.

“Of course we do,” said Melissa, politely.

“Dear me!” said the Marchesa, “of all the unexpected and delightful things! I’ll do it. I’m a silly old creature--but I can’t resist. There’s just one ... drawback....”

“Now--now--no drawbacks allowed!” objected Murdock.

“If--” said the Marchesa timidly--“I might bring my maid ... she’s been with me for years ... and I’m so absurdly helpless....”

“Of course bring your maid,” said Murdock at once. “All the room in the world.”

“Then I shall begin right now to anticipate,” said the Marchesa. “You don’t know what pleasure you’ve given me.” As Murdock took her wrinkled little hand in his big brown one, she murmured with subtle pathos--“I never had a son!...”

* * * * *

“Gosh!” observed Murdock, waiting for the elevator.--“Isn’t she a wonder! She’s like an old lady out of a book.”

“You noticed that?” said Melissa.

Doubt stirred faintly in Murdock’s breast at the inexplicable aloofness of his companion’s reply. Had he been too hasty? Was the very dear old friend not unanimously desired on his house-party?

“You’ll be glad to have her--won’t you?” he inquired with a slight touch of uneasiness. “I thought of course....”

“Oh, yes--oh, yes, indeed!” said Melissa, pulling herself together, and smiling reassuringly.

Anna came out of the Marchesa’s apartment.

“Miss Wayne--if you could step back--just a moment. The Marchesa wishes to speak to you.”

“Sorry!” said Melissa, brushed Murdock’s sleeve with a consoling hand, and went back into the room of Reynolds’ Innocence.

The Marchesa was sitting very straight in the winged chair, a faint flush of excitement staining her otherwise guiltless cheeks. She put out an imperious hand; she drew Melissa down--and although the door was closed between her and that stalwart figure waiting at the elevator-shaft--she whispered in Melissa’s ear.

“I’m taking Anna along,” said the Marchesa sibilantly, “in case that cake should have to be beaten up ... it was hers!”

“I see,” said Melissa. She did.

It was undeniably as simple as that.