Chapter XXIII

If this modest chronicle appears to dwell over long and over fondly upon Melissa’s masculine acquaintance, her relation to certain young men, her reactions to them--their reactions to her ... the results of her emotional experimenting, and the deductions to be drawn therefrom ... we offer in extenuation the incontrovertible if regrettable fact that such experiments and such reactions, such relations and such deductions, still make up (if truth were more often told) the larger part of any unemployed young woman’s existence. Before Matrimony.

Note that qualifying word--unemployed.

Even your expert stenographer, your librarian, your teacher, your saleswoman, manages to bestow a certain amount of time upon the business of selecting and running down a mate ... how much more concentrated, how infinitely more elaborate the maneuvers of a woman who has nothing to do but get herself married. She may not admit it to her dearest friend--she may not admit it on her knees, in the dark--she may, at the moment of consummation droop helplessly into the chosen one’s arms murmuring--“When did you first begin--to care?” Quite sincerely murmuring. The fact remains that he _was_ chosen--nine times out of ten--before his caring began. And, really, when you take the thing to pieces, it’s exactly as it should be. Men mostly marry on impulse. If there weren’t some one ready to give that impulse a lead ... muddles, too many to contemplate!

Muddles enough as it is--with the gentler sex constantly expending a large part of its time, energy and attention upon the matter.

Marriage unstudied would be cataclysmic. Any woman knows that. In Melissa’s especial case she had deliberately selected marriage as a means of escape from an environment which was essentially distasteful to her.

In which she was within her rights. Choice of a profession is any one’s right. Marriage may be the noblest of professions, though the poorest of trades--if one allow a fine distinction.

And Melissa honestly intended to make a good wife--when the time came. Merely she hadn’t yet decided for whom. And how, most advantageously. Murdock would have decided for her in no time.

Melissa’s love of the country, prettily set forth by Granny, her fondness for children (same source of information), her exquisite domesticity, her gentleness, her home-loving heart ... really, Granny had quite outdone herself in the Portrait of a Lady to which she appended Melissa’s name! ... and when Murdock’s own senses told him that the cloudy dark hair, the wistful eyes, the soft sweet mouth were what he sought....

Melissa might--if something had not drawn back reluctant within her, when Murdock came too near--have ended her quest with the year still a bit to go. Ended it in Murdock’s willing arms. Only that wasn’t--something told her--where she wanted to be. So she kept Murdock dangling and continued her search.

With the Marchesa’s expert assistance.

Very much occupied, the Marchesa, with having a finger in Melissa’s every pie! More blissfully occupied than she had ever hoped to be again.

She descended upon Melissa, morning, noon and night--with and without warning ... with and without reason ... but never without acute scintillant enjoyment of the whole theatric situation.

There were of course times when romance came perilously near being farce--the Marchesa handled either, adroitly--as on the afternoon of Murdock’s narrowest escape from disillusionment.

That, Melissa felt, was something she would not willingly go through, twice.

The Marchesa had been having tea with Melissa--a function chiefly comparable to the dining out of Royalty.

Anna telephoned, on such occasions to ask if Miss Wayne were going to be at home--the merest formality. Miss Wayne was expected to be at home and so understood the message.

At half after four the Marchesa arrived, always--groomed to a hair (curled to a hair, more accurately speaking), with the bloom of youth indelibly fixed upon her withered cheeks; the bow of Cupid artistically limned upon her faded mouth; a black velvet band about her shriveled neck; the most recent thing in hats and gowns clothing her, however startlingly ... and Melissa, knowing what was expected of her, ordered beforehand a lavish tea. Always. The Marchesa had taught her that.

Upon this one afternoon, the Marchesa had condescended to teach her various other things.

Poising a brioche in one tiny claw, glittering with diamonds, pink-nailed and heavy-veined, the Marchesa expounded her philosophy of life. “You were right,” she admitted grandly, to begin with, “as to what you could do with yourself, in the proper setting. Each time I see you I find you improved. Upon my word, Melissa--I believe you could marry almost anybody.”

Melissa said something about praise from Sir Hubert.

“Nonsense!” said the Marchesa rudely--“Praise from one woman to another is a good deal rarer and more valuable. If you appear desirable to me--who being another woman have every reason to regard you with a critical eye and deny you the benefit of any possible doubt--it stands to reason that to a man whose mind is usually incapable of functioning at the same time as his emotions--you must seem simply ravissante! Do I make myself clear?”

Melissa said she did.

The Marchesa took another cup of tea. She said as she stirred and sipped it: “My nephew sent me some last week--from Japan--in an enameled caddy. Dear boy! I wish he had sent me a kimono instead. I do loathe having to thank people for something I don’t want.”

“He’s very thoughtful, isn’t he?” asked Melissa languidly. Very thoughtful--Mister Roderick! The adorable unappreciated thoughtfulness of him--sending tea in an enameled caddy to that greedy old harpy, who sat there dear-boying and belittling him, while she talked of it. Melissa was poignantly jealous for Mister Roderick ... she could see him in some dark, wonderful shop in, say, Kobe--buying the tea, selecting the enameled caddy--(his would be perfect taste--witness the room his ungrateful aunt sat in!) later, taking it with his own hands to the postoffice--writing a charming bit of greeting on his card--mailing the thing--turning away, swinging his stick, a panama hat on his gallant head--whistling to a rickshaw man ... did one whistle--to a rickshaw man? Whistle--or shout? In any case surely the rickshaw man didn’t live who wouldn’t come trotting at Mister Roderick’s lightest note....

“What in the world are you sitting there smirking about?” demanded the Marchesa, and brought Melissa back from Kobe to Central Park West with sickening abruptness.

Melissa said she hadn’t intended to smirk.

Upon which the Marchesa obliged with a horrible reproduction of Melissa’s expression and added, to give point to the moment--“I’ve noticed you looking like that before when I mentioned Roderick ... don’t tell me you’re waiting for him to come back....”

“Please!” said Melissa, furiously ashamed.

She was passionately grateful for a knock which came at that moment on her silk-curtained door. She was not so grateful, when upon her opening the door, in walked Murdock, fresh as the west wind, beaming with pleasure, appallingly innocent of any revelations awaiting him.