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.