Chapter XVIII

So the Marchesa went to Four Oaks Farm, which was the unique name of Murdock’s little place near Baltimore. And Anna went, too, in the grimmest of tempers.

“She hates the country,” said the Marchesa to Melissa, as the train drew out of the Pennsylvania station--“but it will do her good--to see how the other half lives. Do you like my bonnet?”

Melissa replied that it was very sweet--as undoubtedly it was, erring a little, if anything, on the side of too much sweetness. Pansies--for thoughts (not itemized)--wreathing a simple black straw, draped with a black lace veil.

“I feel positively naked--with nothing but rice-powder on my face,” grumbled the Marchesa. “However--the effect is good--isn’t it?”

Melissa admitted that the effect was excellent.

A black silk gown with a bit of lace at the throat--a convincingly roomy black coat. Spectacles--in a case. A drop of lavender on a square of hemstitched linen, four times the size of the Marchesa’s usual handkerchief.

“I had Anna make me a dozen of these,” said the Marchesa thoughtfully, “and start a little pink sock....”

“For whom?” asked Melissa in horror.

“What does it matter?” returned the Marchesa pleasantly. She conceded however--“an afghan might be better--more impersonal.”

“I should think so!” said Melissa.

“Now--” said the Marchesa, “tell me again who these people are. Kenealy, of course, I know--but the rest....”

She and Melissa were secluded in a Pullman drawing-room with the reluctant Anna in attendance. It had seemed best at the last moment not to drive down; spring rains and unalluring roads. Murdock therefore had gone ahead by a day, to be sure of everything, and Luke Kenealy, Em’ly Armistead, Beall and a girl called Nelly Rivers were at the moment playing bridge in a car to the rear.

Melissa named and explained them as best she could.

“Austin Beall is going because Murdock was keen on having him and I hadn’t any reason I could offer....”

“Why should you? It will amuse me to meet him. I know his kind like a book. What does the Armistead girl do?”

“Nothing, I think. She would try to marry Luke ... if he were free.”

“Doesn’t speak well for her intelligence. And the other one?”

“Nelly Rivers is a singer. She has a very beautiful voice. She is studying for grand opera.”

“Ha!” said the Marchesa. “More people have studied for grand opera than ever got into the chorus. Is she pretty?”

“In a way,” said Melissa.

“Then you have a clear field--with Murdock?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Melissa stiff with distaste.

“Oh, yes, you do! The other two women are negligible; you’ll have only yourself to thank if he isn’t yours before you leave here. I’ll help you, my dear--all I know how--you may count on me!”

When Melissa looked out of the window without replying, the Marchesa adjusted her black lace and pansies, preened herself before a little mirror which she took from a motherly black silk bag, and hummed an old song--doubtless by way of rehearsal.

“I shall let him call me Granny,” she mused softly.

Life, for the Marchesa, was unquestionably assuming a livelier iris. She would thereafter extend an even readier helping hand to worthy young women. Her thoughts ran pleasantly among such possibilities while the train hurtled on through a spring-touched landscape.

Presently she fell asleep and thus off-guard, her mouth took on a tiredness, a drooping and a pallor infinitely pathetic. Like the mouth of an outworn Columbine, flung down by Some One tired of the toy.