MOUNTAINS AND MORE MOTHER-IN-LAW.
So the bells were rung, metaphorically speaking, and we were wed. I had
a long leave of absence from the banking-house in which I held a
responsible and confidential position, and we started for the mountains,
leaving mamma Pinkerton to put things to rights and follow us in a
fortnight, when we had decided to settle down for a month’s quiet stay
in a picturesque town of the mountain region. Oh, the unrestrained joy
of that fortnight! Everybody at the hotels seemed to know by instinct
that we were a newly-married pair, and knowing glances passed between
them. But what did we care? With pride and a conscious embarrassment
that made my hand tremble, I wrote on the registers in a bold hand
“Charles Travers and wife.” I asked for the best room with a pleasant
out-look. The smiling clerk, trained to dissimulation, would appear as
unconscious as the blank safe behind him, but he knew all the while, the
sly rascal, that we were on a wedding trip, and he paid special
attention to our comfort. We saw the glories and wonders of the
mountains, and shared their inspiration as with a single heart. We rose
early to drink the clear air and greet the rising sun together. We
strolled out in the evening to romantic spots, and there, with arms
around each other, as we walked or stood gazing on the scene and
listening to the rustling breeze, we were happy. For two weeks our lives
blended with each other and with nature, and it was with a sigh that we
mounted the lumbering stage to take up our sojourn in the retired town
on the hills. We came to the little hotel just at night, and were stared
at and commented upon by those who had been there three days and assumed
the air of having had possession for years. We were tired, and kept
aloof that evening, and the next day mother-in-law arrived.
As she dismounted from the coach, she gave the driver a severe warning
to be careful of her trunk, an iron-bound treasure that would have
defied the efforts of the most determined baggage-smasher. Bessie had
flown to meet her, and their greeting was affectionate; but to me the
old lady presented a hand encased in a mitt, or sort of glove with
amputated fingers, and gave me a stately, “I hope you are well, sir,”
that rather made me feel sick. She looked full at me in her steady and
commanding way, as much as to say, “Well, you have committed no
atrocious crime yet, I suppose; but I am rather surprised at it.”
If there is anything I pride myself on, it is self-possession and a
willingness to face anybody and give as good as I get, but that
magnificently imperious way of looking with those large eyes always
disconcerted me. I could not brace myself enough to meet them with any
show of impudence, though the old lady had not ceased to regard that as
the chief trait of my character. As Mrs. Pinkerton trod with stately
step the rude piazza of that summer hotel, she put her eye-glasses on
and surveyed its occupants with a look that made them shrink into
themselves and feel ashamed to be sitting about in that idle way. I
believe the old lady’s eyesight was good enough, and that she used her
glasses, with their gold bows and the slender chain with which they were
suspended about her neck, for effect. I noticed that if they were not on
she always put them on to look at anything, and if they happened to be
on she took them off for the same purpose.
“Well,” she said, going into the little parlor, and looking from the
windows, “this really seems to be a fine situation. The view of the
mountains is quite grand.”
“Very kind of you to approve of the mountains, but you could give them
points on grandeur,” I thought; but I merely remarked, “We find it quite
pleasant here.”
She turned and glanced at me without reply, as much as to say, “Who
addressed you, sir? You would do well to speak when you are spoken to.”
I was abashed, but was determined to do the agreeable so far as I could,
in spite of the rebuke of those eyes.
“The house doesn’t seem to me to be very attractive,” she continued,
glancing around with a gaze that took in everything through all the
partition walls, and assuming a tone that meant, “I am speaking to you,
Bessie, and no one else.” “What sort of people are there here?”
“Oh, some very pleasant people, I should judge,” said Bessie, “but we
have been here only one day, you know, and have made no acquaintances to
speak of. Charlie’s friend, Fred Marston, from the city, is here with
his wife; and I met a young lady to whom I took quite a fancy this
morning, a Miss Van Duzen. She is quite wealthy, and an orphan, and is
here with her uncle, a fine-looking gentleman, who is president of a
bank, or an insurance company, or some thing of the sort. You saw him, I
think, on the piazza,—the large man, with gray side-whiskers, white
vest, and heavy gold chain.”
“Yes, I noticed him. A pompous-looking old gentleman, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he is dignified in his manner, but not at all pompous,” was the
reply.
“Well, I call him pompous, if looks mean anything,” said the mother,
with the air of one to whom looks were quite sufficient. “I think I will
go to my room,” she added, and turned a glance on me, as much as to say,
“You needn’t come, sir.” I had no intention of going, and wandered out
on the piazza, feeling as though Bessie had almost been taken away from
me again.
When she rejoined me, leaving her mother above stairs, I asked, “What
does she think of her room?”
“Well, it doesn’t quite suit her. She thinks the furniture scanty and
shabby, water scarce, towels rather coarse, and she can’t endure the
sight of a kerosene lamp; but she will make herself quite comfortable, I
dare say.”
“And everybody else uncomfortable,” I felt like adding, but restrained
myself.
She came down to tea, and being offered a seat on the other side of me
from Bessie, firmly declined it, and took the one on the other side of
her daughter from me. As she unfolded her napkin she took in the whole
table with a searching glance, and had formed a quick estimate of
everybody sitting around it. Miss Clara Van Duzen and Mr. Desmond, her
uncle, sat opposite, and an introduction across the table took place.
The young lady was vivacious and talkative, and tried to make herself
agreeable, but my mother-in-law did not like what she afterwards called
her “chatter,” and set her down as a frivolous young person. “Miss Van,”
as everybody called her, with her own approval,—for, as she said, she
detested the Duzen which her Dutch ancestors had bequeathed her with
their other property,—was of New York Knickerbocker origin, now living
with her uncle in Boston, and was by no means frivolous, though
uncommonly lively. She had fine, brown eyes, beautiful hair, and a
complexion that defied sun and wind. It had the rosy glow of health, and
indicated a good digestion and high spirits. Mr. Desmond seemed to be
mostly white vest, immaculate shirt-front, and gold chain, the
last-named article being very heavy and meandering through the
button-holes of his vest and up around his invisible neck. He said
little, and was evidently not much given to light conversation. He was
very gracious in his attentions to the ladies, however, and seemed to
pay special deference to Mrs. Pinkerton. I afterwards learned that he
was a widower of long standing, without chick or child, and the guardian
of his niece, whom he regarded with great admiration.
Down at the other end of the table was Marston, evidently giving vent
to his impatience about something, and his wife, with fierce eyes,
telling him, in manner if not in words, not to make a fool of himself.
The rest of the company was made up either of transient visitors or of
persons with whom this story has nothing in particular to do.
As we emerged on the piazza after tea, Fred, who had impolitely gone out
in advance, called out, “Charlie, old boy, come over here and have a
smoke!”
I must confess that these long sittings on the piazzas of summer hotels
had lured me back to my old habits, which I had forsworn in my efforts
to conciliate Bessie’s mother. Bessie had encouraged me in it, for to
tell the truth she rather liked the fragrance of a good cigar, and
dearly loved to see me enjoying it. It was my nature to defy the whole
world and be master of my own habits, but I had felt a mean inclination,
after mother-in-law joined the party, to slink away and smoke on the
sly. There was nothing for it now, however, but to put on a bold face,
or play the hypocrite and pretend I didn’t smoke. The latter I would
not do, and if I had attempted it, it wouldn’t go down with Fred, and I
should have been in a worse predicament than ever. I went boldly across
the piazza and took the proffered cigar. Glancing out at the corner of
my eye as I was lighting it, I saw my mother-in-law regarding me through
her glasses with increased disfavor. She did not, however, seem to be
surprised, and doubtless believed me capable of any perfidy.
“I say, Charlie, old boy, let’s have a game of billiards,” said Fred,
after a few puffs. “I’ll give you twenty points and beat you out of your
boots.” Now I was very fond of billiards, and usually didn’t care who
knew it, but Mrs. Pinkerton did not approve of the game, and had no
knowledge that I indulged in it. But Fred would speak in that absurd
shouting way of his, and all the ladies heard him. Again I mustered up
resolution and went into the billiard room, but I played very
indifferently, and was thinking all the time of my mother-in-law and her
opinion of me. I really wanted to get into her good graces, but it
required the sacrifice of all my own inclinations, and I despised a man
who deliberately played the hypocrite to win anybody’s favor.
After two or three listless games I said to Fred, “I guess I will join
the ladies.” I was feeling some qualms of conscience for staying away
from Bessie a whole hour at once.
“Oh, hang the ladies!” was Fred’s graceless response; “they can take
care of themselves. My wife gets along well enough without me, I know,
and yours will soon learn to be quite comfortable without your guardian
presence; besides she’s got her mother now. By the way, what a mighty
grand old dowager Mrs. Pink is!”
“Pinkerton is her name,” I said, a little haughtily, as if resenting the
liberty he took with my mother-in-law’s cognomen.
“Oh, yes, I know, but the name is too long; and besides, she reminds one
of a full-blown pink, a little on the fade, perhaps, but still with a
good deal of bloom about her. Is she going to live with you? Precious
fine time you will have!” he added, having received his answer by a nod.
“She’ll boss the shebang, you bet!”
“Oh, I guess not,” I answered, not liking his slangy way of talking
about my affairs, and resolving in my own mind that I would be master in
my own house.
“Well, then there’ll be a fine old tussle for supremacy, and don’t you
forget it!”
With this remark Fred wandered off down the dusty road, humming Madame
Angot, and I drew up a chair by Bessie’s side. She had evidently been
wishing I would come. Mr. Desmond was sitting a little apart from the
rest, twisting his fingers in his watch-chain and looking intently at
the mountain-top opposite, as if expecting somebody to come over with a
dispatch for him. Mrs. Pinkerton sat by her daughter’s side in calm
grandeur, her gray puffs—that fine silver-gray that comes prematurely
on aristocratic brows—seeming like appendages of a queenly diadem. Miss
Van had been diverting the company with a lively account of her day’s
adventures. She was always having adventures, and had a faculty of
relating them that was little short of genius.
“Well, my dear, are you having a good time?” I murmured in Bessie’s ear.
“Oh, yes; but I was feeling a little lonesome without you.”
The conversation degenerated into commonplace about the scenery and
points of interest in the neighborhood, and after a while the company
dispersed with polite good-evenings.
When we reached our room, I remarked to Bessie, who seemed more quiet
than usual, “I hope your mother will like it here.”
“Oh, yes, I guess she will like it when she has been here a little
while,” was the answer. “You know she has not been away from home much,
of late years, except to the seaside with the Watsons and other of her
old friends, and she does not adapt herself readily to strange company.”
I said nothing more, but was absorbed in thought about my mother-in-law.
It is evident by this time that she was no ordinary woman, no coarse or
waspish mother-in-law, but a woman of good breeding and the highest
character. She was intelligent and well-informed, a consistent member of
the Episcopal Church, with the highest views of propriety and a
reverential regard for the rules of conduct laid down by good society.
This made her all the harder to deal with. If she were a common or
vulgar sort of mother-in-law, I could assert my prerogatives without
compunction; and I was forced to admit that she was a very worthy woman,
and not given to petty meddling, but I felt that her presence was an
awful restraint. Without her we could have such good times, going and
coming as we pleased, and acting with entire freedom; but she must be
counted in, and was a factor that materially affected the result. She
could not be ignored; her opinions could not be disregarded. That would
be rude, and besides, their influence would make itself felt. Strange,
the irresistible effect of a presence upon one! She might not openly
interfere or directly oppose, but there she was, and she didn’t approve
of me or like my friends, could not fall in with my ways or my wishes,
and make one of any company in which I should feel at ease, and I knew
that her presence would be depressing, and spoil our summer’s pleasure;
and after that was over and we were at home, what? Well, sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof. We slept the sound sleep that mountain and
country quiet brings, and took the chances of the future.