Ainslee's Magazine/The Matchmakers

by Ethel Watts Mumford

 

THE MATCHMAKERS

 

By ETHEL WATTS MUMFORD

 

“RENEE would be much happier if she were married,” declared Mrs. Trevoor in the tone that demands.

“I quite agree with you,” Mrs. Valaine hastily replied; “but—does she fancy any one in particular—or have you planned that she shall?”

Mrs. Trevoor looked wise. “Unless I take her in hand, there is no telling what she might do—these very young girls are so unworldly wise; which is, of course, as it should be,” she added, upon second thought. “Renée is impetuous. I wish to anchor her drifting affections in a proper harbor.”

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Valaine, rising, “I hope you will succeed; but after my experience chaperoning Bella last season, I advise you not to set your heart on anything. The ingénue of to-day is not exactly what she was when we were débutantes.”

Illustration: “Three minutes later, they had abandoned the tea table and were deep in a tete-a-tete in another corner of the room.”

“Human nature,” announced the oracle, “is the same the world over, and since the world began, it is simple human nature. That is the only real point to consider and to work upon. I shall open the campaign by strongly advising my young lady to avoid the society of the man I have in view. It is an old device, but invariably successful. The maneuvers will begin in a few moments—I expect her in for tea. Won't you stay? No? Well, dear, remember what I have said is quite entre nous, and do be in to-morrow to go over the Charity League papers with me. Good-by.”

Mrs. Valaine took her departure, and Mrs. Trevoor settled herself comfortably before the dainty tea table. She was handsome, vivacious, self-satisfied. A widow of high and long standing, with a penchant for matchmaking amounting to mania.

A few moments later Renée, her niece and latest intended victim, entered the room—a slender girl, with wide-open, innocent gray eyes, and a small red mouth that drooped at the corners with a dainty suggestion of pathos. She was smartly gowned, and carried herself with an elegance at once girlish and worldly. Her aunt kissed her effusively.

“Tea, Rée? Well, my dear, how did the performance go off last night? I was so sorry to absent myself; but I had one of my neuralgias. Tell me, who was there?”

Renée smiled. “Let's see—Mr. and Mrs. Crompton, and Harry Kayne, Maude van Corden, and Buddy Baker, my humble self, and a Mr. Colman—De Brette Colman; you must know him, for he told me that his father used to be, or still is, quite a heeler of yours.”

“A what, did you say?” gasped the lady. “A healer—dear me, you must rid your tongue of these slang expressions—and—while I am scolding, I want to put in a little word. The Colmans are charming people, delightful people—but Brette, I regret to say, has reverted to a type some three generations removed. He takes after his three bottle ancestors, and is—I must warn you—well—fast. I should not advise you to make a companion of him. Be polite when you meet, of course, but don't invite him to call—don't be too cordial, you know.”

“Yes, aunt,” said Renée, over her tea. But her expression was not reassuring. There was a moment's pause, during which Mrs. Trevoor regarded Renée with benign approval.

Then arrived an interruption of Fate in the shape of the Colmans, father and son.

“Speaking of angels,” exclaimed the hostess, cordially. “This girl of mine has just been telling me of last night's theatre party.”

The elder gentleman bowed, and Brette colored slightly. The girl smiled softly to herself, and turned a persuasive eye upon her partner of the previous evening.

“Oh, do finish that story you began last night and reconsidered finishing. I have been dying of curiosity ever since,” she said.

Young Colman was more than willing to be monopolized, but even had he struggled for freedom, his fate would have been sealed. The young lady wrapped him in her innocent pink and white toils, and, three minutes later, they had abandoned the tea table, and were deep in a tête-à-tête in another corner of the room.

Mrs. Trevoor would have winked, had such a vulgar contraction of the eyelids been possible to her, but, failing that relief, she turned her attention to Colman, the father.

“How these children do grow up,” she said. “Why, you and I, Jay, are fast being pushed on the very edge of existence. To think Renée is marriageable!—little Renée, the daughter of my youngest sister—the family baby! She will have a very nice little fortune, by the way. It is tied up till she reaches five-and-twenty, but it is well invested. Pretty, isn't she?”

Mr. Colman eyed the young couple chattering gayly on the divan. “Pretty and smart-looking, both. But could any human creature be as guileless as she looks?”

“Why, of course. She's only nineteen. What do you expect, pray!—hard-earned lines of worldliness like mine, for instance?”

'You haven't a line in your face, Sue,” he said, gallantly. “And as for your worldliness—it's only a beautiful tactfulness.”

“Oh have some tea and don't flatter. Let us remember our age and be wise.”

He smiled and submitted to a second filling of his cup. Mrs. Trevoor exerted every nerve to be charming. She shrewdly calculated that her recent admonitions would have taken effect, and that her preternaturally guileless niece would be enjoying the sensation of flirting with the fast young man under the very nose of a disapproving relative. Consequently, the longer she was able to retain the aforesaid objectionable young man's father, chatting and drinking orange peko, the better chance for the secure driving of the opening wedge.

At last, and most vexatiously, the big hall clock boomed six, and played all manner of irritating frills about it. Colman, the father, rose hastily.

“This has been a delightful call,” he said, buttoning his frock coat. “Indeed, I had no idea it was so late. Come, Brette, I'm sorry to spoil your enjoyment, but we have to dress for dinner. Can't we see you to your door, Miss Renée?”

She blushed and hesitated. “If you will be so kind,” she acquiesced. “It won't take you far afield, I'm staying with Ella Morgan this week, she is in mourning, you. know. It's only a step or so out of your way. Good-by, Aunt Sue.”

“My dear,” whispered Mrs. Trevoor, as they kissed, “remember, don't ask him to call.”

There was no response, and that dignified lady laughed aloud as she heard the slam of the hall door.

“So, that wretched little niece of mine thinks she will outwit her old auntie, does she?” she murmured. Then she went up to dress for dinner.

 

A day or so later Mrs. Trevoor received a charmingly worded little note in an undecipherable spiked hand, which proved to be an invitation to chaperone a Sunday luncheon at Sherry's. There was also an innocent little footnote:

“I've asked Mr. Colman, senior, so you can have some one you like to talk to, and need not bother with the foolish rest of us.”

“Dear, sweet, thoughtful child!” Mrs. Trevoor exclaimed, aloud. “Not a word about Brette, of course; she is just inviting Jay for my benefit. It is too good to keep. I wonder how many times that boy has called during the last week.”

Down she sat at her Louis Seize writing desk and penned an answer to the effect that auntie would be delighted to shelve all other engagements and help out dear Renée, with her luncheon party. Then came a postscript: “It's awfully kind of you to ask Mr. Colman for my benefit. Don't you think we two old people shall feel rather lost among all you young chatterboxes? But how did you manage, dear, to ask Mr. Colman without asking Brette?”

Mrs. Trevoor chuckled and dispatched a messenger with her missive.

Renée dropped in for tea at five. “I simply had to ask Brette Colman,” she said, as she seated herself. “I couldn't leave him out, you know, and ask his father.”

Illustration: “'They make a very handsome pair, do they not?' she whispered”

“No-o,” said Mrs. Trevoor, “I suppose not.”

The Sunday luncheon at Sherry's proved an innovation and a great success. But, somehow, in the planning of neighbors, Brette and his pretty hostess found themselves side by side. Mrs. Trevoor looked at her niece with an almost imperceptible frown, and was met by an almost imperceptible look that semaphored, “What could I do? You saw it was a mistake.”

So pleased was Aunt Sue that when her partner called her attention by a glance to the animated young couple across the flowers, she returned his look with one of meaning.

“Suppose?” said Colman, senior, meditatively.

“What do you think?' Mrs. Trevoor queried, softly, with a little lift of her eyebrows.

“It's a go,” said he.

“They make a very handsome pair, do they not?” she whispered.

“Nothing could please me more,” said he, attacking his canapé Lorenzo.

“Now, don't accuse me of having my finger in this pie,” said Mrs. Trevoor.

“Who said you had? And, besides, what of it? It seems to me that a more suitable match all around couldn't possibly be arranged. Only I'm surprised that Renée, who is really very difficult to please, should be so taken with Brette. He is a nice-looking boy, and he's bright, but he's not the sort of a chap the girls struggle for at first sight.”

His companion laughed a wise little laugh, flattered as she was by this most subtle tribute. “I'll tell you the secret, if you promise you will never reveal it. I told Renée to avoid Brette, as he was considered more than a trifle rapid——”

“Ha, ha!” shouted Mr. Colman, “ho, ho, ho!”

Across the way Brette and Renée looked up from their chatter.

“The governor is having no end of a good time—just look at him,” said his dutiful son.

Mr. Colman recovered himself, but burst out with renewed chuckles, as he turned on Mrs. Trevoor. “I thought I understood you to say, Sue, that this particular pie was not of your cooking. Oh, dear, oh, dear—you women are certainly the most amusing things on earth,” and his mirth broke forth afresh.

Mrs. Trevoor positively blushed. “Dear me!” she said, almost angrily. “That was a very small spoke I put in. It doesn't——”

“Since when do you put spokes in pies?” he interrupted, gayly. “Positively, you are what Brette calls rattled, I've caught you this time.”

“If you talk so loud,” observed Mrs. Trevoor, with dignity, “you will let the cat out of the bag and spoil everything. You have conversed so much as it is, that you quite missed the flavor of that ruddy duck.”

Nevertheless, Mrs. Trevoor was delighted to have Mr. Colman fall in so completely with her plans. She now had some one in whom to confide the amusing details of the little comedy, and she improved the opportunity at once. Then they fell to conspiring and scheming for future entertainments so the young people might have plenty of opportunity for tête-à-têtes. All about them at the well-appointed table their charges flirted and gossiped to their heart's content, and voted Mrs. Trevoor and Mr. Colman to be the best brought-up chaperones the world had ever produced.

“What do you suppose the governor is giving your aunt, Miss Lee?” wondered Brette, disrespectfully. “The old boy certainly is stringing her about something—there, she's almost angry with him—did you see that?”

Renée nodded. “Yes, he certainly has her at a disadvantage.”

“What do you suppose elderly people like that find to talk about?” queried Brette, with the implied idea that fifty-three was high time for any man to retire from active interest in everything save ailments.

“Why,” said Renée, loftily, “your father is a very nice age—the nicest sort of an age. I'm thinking of marrying him!”

“Oh!” exclaimed the possible stepson. “Miss Lee, you gave me an awful jolt—won't I do?”

“You're altogether too young for my purpose,” replied the young lady, enigmatically. “Don't you think Midge is touching up her hair? It seems to me I never saw it that shade before.”

When the gathering dispersed, after what was unanimously pronounced the most enjoyable luncheon of the year, it happened that Colman and son escorted the hostess and chaperone to the residence of the latter, and were persuaded then to stay to tea.

Indeed, it was singular that during the whole season, and even far into the Lenten bridge-whist period, the services of Mrs. Trevoor were constantly called into play by her niece, and on each occasion it was deemed wise by that young woman to provide entertainment for the chaperone in the shape of her old friend. Somehow, Brette's name was never mentioned. His appearance was always accounted for at the last moment in some casual way, and Renée affected a tone of complete indifference when her aunt admonished her, and even went so far as to assert that “people were talking.” At this point the devotions of young Colman became more marked, and his idol seemed at no pains to conceal them. Many were the long chats the fond aunt and proud father indulged ïn, apropos of the coming event. By this time they had planned the wedding tour, calculated the approximate value of the presents, and made a list of the guests. Mrs. Trevoor had selected eight of Renée's prettiest girl friends to be bridesmaids, and had planned her own gown—a mauve velvet, with which she would don her famous Venetian point, and the historic Carroll pearls inherited from her mother.

Consequently, when the prospective bride one day threw a small bombshell on the tea table, it shook Mrs. Trevoor's world to its foundations.

The explosive in question was a note, which Renée laid down before her aunt with, “Read that, and tell me what you think.”

It was in her own remarkable hieroglyphics, and Aunt Sue was for some moments held at bay. Then, word by word, she deciphered it. Heavens! In the most polite and sisterly language it dismissed Colman, junior, to the outer darkness of unrequited love, and deplored the fact that he should have deluded himself with the hope of anything more than deep and lasting friendship.

Illustration: “Snatching up her letter, she turned and fled.”

“Is it all right?” asked the innocent iconoclast. “Will it do to send? He'll show it all over town, you know, so I want it to be nicely worded and correctly spelled.”

There was an awful pause.

“My dear child,” Mrs. Trevoor gasped, at last recovering her breath, “you are not refusing him, are you? The catch of the season! Why?”

Renée's wide, gray eyes opened wider. “But, Aunt Sue, if he is so rapid that I really ought not to be seen about with him—as you know you warned me—certainly he must be too swift to marry. I don't understand——”

Mrs. Trevor raised her eyes to heaven. “But, my dear,” she wailed, “the bluest blood, the very best family, and twenty thousand a year!”

“You would have me sell myself for that price—to a man whom it 'isn't advisable to make one's companion'? I'm so surprised—and, aunt, I did think you cared for me more than to jeopardize my future.”

Mrs. Trevoor was at bay. But at all costs Renée must be made to reconsider. She nerved herself.

“My child, it was a ruse—just a little ruse to make you take an interest in Brette. He's really as good a boy as ever lived. I was so anxious for this marriage. You really must not send that letter.”

Renée gave a little gasp. “It isn't true? Oh, Aunt Sue! how could you malign a perfectly innocent person to further your own schemes!” The tears gathered in her eyes. “I shall never be able to trust you again, never!”

Snatching up her letter, she turned and fled.

Mrs. Trevoor could not recover. She merely stared at her colonial fire-dogs in dismay. What had gone wrong? What fault in her well-laid plans had brought about this unexpected dénouement? Was the cause lost? She must talk it over with Jay. She rose quickly, fairly flew to the pantry, and seized upon the telephone.

“Give me 4808 Cortlandt. Yes. Is Mr. Colman there? Oh, is that you, Jay? Just fancy, Renée has just refused Brette!! Yes, I do mean it. No, I don't understand it at all. It's dreadful! Can't you come up this afternoon and talk the matter over? Yes? Then I'll expect you. Good-by.”

She hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief. Surely the impending disaster would be averted when two such able-minded generals met in council of war.

“I'm in to no one except Mr. Colman,” she informed her maid. Then she sought her room and made a careful toilet.

With laudable punctuality her visitor arrived, and Mrs. Trevoor hastened down to share her annoyance and indignation with her fellow conspirator. She found him nervous and excited.

“It's some lover's quarrel,” he suggested, at once. “It must be, I'm sure. We had every reason to believe the whole thing was as good as settled.”

“Of course we had,” she agreed; “and, at any rate, we've gained time, for she won't send that letter at once after what I've said. It couldn't have been a quarrel—her note read like an answer to a written formal request.”

“The very idea of writing!” fumed Colman, senior. “Confound the boy! Hasn't he spunk enough to speak out for himself? What woman ever wanted to be wooed by pen and ink! It's his own fault if he has been turned down.”

“And after all our planning,” she mourned.

“Well, Sue,” he said, coming closer and standing before her with an eager flush on each cheek, “don't let's be out a wedding because of those foolish children. Marry me, and we'll let them drop.”

If Mrs. Trevoor had suddenly caught sight of her rector in pink tights and tarlatan, she could not have been more speechlessly amazed.

“Why—why——” she stammered, to gain time.

“Why?” he answered, smiling. “Because I'm in love with you, Sue, just as I have always been. Let's steal a march on those wretched infants and announce our engagement.”

A sudden flush suffused her cheeks, a sudden tear swam in her eyes, and, before she quite knew what she was saying, she heard herself speak.

“I suppose—we—might.”

 

A week or so later I met Renée on the avenue. She was beaming.

“I suppose you know the news?” she said, as she joined me.

“I've pulled off my match—you know Aunt Sue is engaged to Jay Colman—there!”

“Really!” I exclaimed, surprised.

Renée nodded. “Yes, I did it. I knew they were head over heels in love with each other; but I seemed to be the only one aware of it. So, when Aunt Sue began matchmaking with me, I thought I'd take a hand in the game—and I played it beautifully, too.”

“You dreadful infant” I gasped. “By the time you're fifty you'll be a matrimonial bureau.”

Renée smiled. “No, I'll be what I am—a philanthropist.”

I groaned. “I suppose you will be disposing of me next. No one is safe now!”

Renée giggled delightedly. “The best joke of all,” she went on, “the really beautiful part, was my note to Brette.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It's all over town that you refused him.”

“That's just it,” she interrupted, with a crow of glee. “I knew that if Aunt Sue and Mr. Colman thought we were properly disposed of as per programme, they never would make up to their own affairs. So, I—— Oh, don't you see——”

“You imp!” I exclaimed.

“Now, don't say a word,” commanded Renée, “for I don't intend to announce it for at least two seasons.”