WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT A MOTHER-IN-LAW?
Home! We were back from the mountains, and our brief wedding-journey had
become a thing of the past. Mrs. Pinkerton’s iron-bound trunk had been
reluctantly deposited in her bed-chamber by a puffing and surly
hack-driver; and here was I, installed in the little cottage as head of
the household, for weal or for woe. It was Mrs. Pinkerton’s cottage, to
be sure, but I entered it with the determination not to live there as a
boarder or as a guest subject to the proprietor’s condescending
hospitality. I was able and not unwilling to establish a home of my own,
and inasmuch as I refrained from doing so because of Mrs. Pinkerton’s
desire to keep her daughter with her, I had the right to consider myself
under no obligation to my mother-in-law.
The cottage was far from being a disagreeable place in itself. It was
small, but extremely neat and pleasant. The rooms were furnished with a
degree of quiet taste that defied criticism. The hand of an accomplished
housekeeper was everywhere made manifest, and everything had an air of
refinement and comfort. There was no ostentatious furniture; the chairs
were made to sit in, but not to put one’s boots on. The cleanliness of
the house was terrible. One could see that no man had lived there since
the death of the late Pinkerton.
Our room was the same that had been occupied by Bessie since she was a
school-girl in short frocks. It was full of Bessie’s “things,” and it
was lucky that my effects occupied but very little space.
“This is jolly,” I said, as I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled
a cigar from my pocket. “How soon will supper be ready, I wonder?”
There was no response. Bessie was unpacking,—and such an unpacking!
I lighted my cigar and threw myself back on the bed, wondering how they
had got on without me at the bank. Presently in came mother-in-law to
lend a hand at the unpacking. She did not see me at first, but the
fragrance of my Manila soon reached her nostrils, and she turned.
Such a look as she cast upon me! It almost took my breath away. But she
did not say a word. “The subject is beyond her powers of speech,” I said
to myself. “Let us hope it will be so as a general thing.”
However, it made me feel uncomfortable, so by and by I got off the bed
and went down stairs.
At the supper-table I tried to make myself as agreeable as possible. I
talked over the trip, and spoke of the people we had met at the
mountains; but I had most of the conversation to myself. Bessie did not
seem to be in a mood to chat; Mrs. Pinkerton devoted herself to impaling
me with her eyes once in a while; in a word, the mental atmosphere was
muggy.
“Desmond has travelled a great deal,” I said. “I was speaking of French
politics the other day, and he gave me a long harangue on the situation.
He was in Paris several years, when he was a good deal younger than he
is now.”
“Mr. Desmond is not a very old man,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, “but he has
passed that age when men think they know all there is to be known.”
I accepted this shot good-naturedly, and laughed.
“His niece is a remarkably bright girl,” I continued. “Don’t you think
so?”
“I cannot say I think it either bright or proper for a young lady to go
off alone on mountain excursions for half a day, and return with her
dress torn and her hands all scratched.”
“Well, it was rather imprudent, but you know she said she had no
intention of going so far when she started, and she missed her way.”
“I did not hear her excuses. She appeared to be a spoiled child, and her
manners were insufferably offensive. I should have known she came from
New York, even if I had not been told.”
“Do you think all New-Yorkers are loud?”
“I said no such thing. There is a class of New York young people who are
so ‘loud’ that respectable people cannot have anything to do with them
without lowering themselves. Miss Van Duzen belongs to that class.”
“You are rough on her, upon my word. I don’t think she’s half so bad,
do you, Bessie?”
“I liked her very much,” said Bessie. “She may not be our style exactly,
but I think at heart she is a good, true girl.”
“I wonder if she will call,” I said. “By the way, Fred Marston is coming
out to see us as soon as he gets back to the city.”
“As to that young man,” Mrs. Pinkerton remarked, with some show of
vivacity, “he impressed me as being little less than disreputable.”
“Disreputable! I would have you understand that Fred Marston is one of
my friends,” I exclaimed, growing angry, “and he is as respectable as
the rector of St. Thomas’s Church!”
Phew! Now I had done it. Mrs. Pinkerton was thoroughly scandalized and
offended. She got up, and we left the table, Bessie looking troubled. I
went into the library, and after lighting a cigar, sat down to read the
papers. Bessie, who had followed me, brushed the journal out of my hand
and seated herself on my knee.
“Charlie,” she said, kissing me, and smoothing the hair away from my
brow, “can’t you and mamma ever get along any better than this?”
“A conundrum! I never guessed one, so I shall have to give this up. But
don’t you see how it is, dearest? I try to be good to her, and she won’t
meet me half-way. On the contrary, she tries to nag me, I think. It
wasn’t my fault to-night. What right has she to run down my friends? If
she don’t like them, she might leave them alone, and be precious sure
they’d leave her alone. She don’t like smoking; I tried to swear off,
tried mighty hard, but it was no use. You see—”
“It wasn’t quite necessary for you to make that remark about the Rev.
Dr. McCanon, was it, Charlie?”
“Well, no; I’m sorry, but she provoked me to it. I’ll apologize.”
“And then, Charlie, you will try to be a little more patient with mamma,
won’t you?”
“Yes, I do try, but the trouble is that she don’t like me. Must I keep
my mouth shut, throw away my cigars, bounce all my friends, and sit up
with my arms folded?”
“Oh, no, dear. Be good to her, and be patient; it will all come around
right in time.”
That was Bessie’s way of lightening present troubles,—“It will all come
around right in time.” Blessed hope! “Man never is, but always to be
blest.”
My duties now kept me at the bank nearly all day, and for a few weeks
affairs went on at home very smoothly. At table Mrs. Pinkerton
maintained a sphinx-like silence, and I directed my conversation to
Bessie. When the old lady opened her mouth, it was to snub me. The snub
direct, the snub indirect, the snub implied, and the snub
far-fetched,—I submitted to all with a cheerful spirit, and not a hasty
retort escaped me.
At Bessie’s request, I now smoked only in the library, or in our own
room. I bought a highly ornamental Japanese affair, of curious
workmanship, as a receptacle for cigar-ashes. Altogether, I behaved like
a good boy.
One evening Marston dropped in. When his card was brought up stairs, I
handed it over to Bessie, and hurried to the library.
“How are you, old man?” he said, or, rather, shouted. “How do you like
it, as far as you’ve got?”
“Tip-top. I’m glad to see you. When did you get back?”
“Last Saturday, and mighty glad to get back to a live place, too.
Smoke?”
“Thank you. Bessie will be down in a minute.”
“How’s old Pink?”
“S-s-h! She’s all right. Don’t speak so confoundedly loud.”
“Ha, ha! I see how it is. By and by you won’t dare say your soul’s your
own. I pity you, Charlie, upon my word I do. Ned Tupney was married a
few days ago, did you know it? and he’s got a devil of a mother-in-law
on his hands, a regular roarer—”
“Here comes my wife,” I broke in. “For Heaven’s sake, change the
subject. Talk about roses!”
Bessie entered and exchanged a friendly greeting with Fred.
“I was telling Charlie about some wonderful roses I saw at Primton’s
green-house,” said the unabashed visitor, and he forthwith laid aside
his cigar—on the tablecloth!—and launched into a glowing description
of the imaginary flowers.
Before he had finished, Mrs. Pinkerton entered much to my surprise. She
bowed in a stately manner, inquired formally as to the state of Fred’s
health, and as she took a seat I saw her glance take in that cigar.
Fred could talk exceedingly well when he was so disposed, and he
entertained us excellently, I thought. He had seen a good deal of the
world, was a close observer, and had the faculty of chatting in a
fascinating way about subjects that would usually be called commonplace.
He was pleased with the aspect of the cottage, and complimented it
gracefully.
“Love in a cottage,” he sighed, casting a quick glance around the
room,—“well, it isn’t so bad after all, with plenty of books, a
pleasant garden, sunny rooms, a pretty view, and a mother-in-law to look
after a fellow and keep him straight.” And the wretch looked at Mrs.
Pinkerton, and laughed in a sociable way.
I promptly called his attention to a beautiful edition of Thackeray’s
works in the bookcase, a recent purchase.
In the course of a half-hour’s call, Fred managed to introduce the
dangerous topic at least a half-dozen times, and each time I was
compelled to choke him off by ramming some other subject down his throat
willy-nilly.
Finally he rose to go. I accompanied him to the front door.
“Sociable creature, old Pink, eh?” he said. “Doesn’t love me too well.
Is she always as festive and amusing as to-night?”
“Hold on a minute,” was my reply. I ran back and got my hat and cane,
and accompanied him toward the railroad station.
“See here, Fred,” I said, “your intentions are good, but I wish you
would quit talking about Mrs. Pinkerton. I am doing my best to live
peaceably and comfortably in the same house with her, and you don’t help
me a bit with your gabble. She is a very worthy woman, and not half so
stupid as you imagine. I admit that we don’t get along together quite as
I could wish, but I’m trying to please my wife by being as good a son
as I can be to her mother. What’s the use of trying to rile up our
little puddle?”
“Oh, all right!” he rejoined. “If you prefer your puddle should be
stagnant—admirable metaphor, by the way—it shall be as you wish. Only
I hate to see the way things are going with you, and I’m bound to tell
you so. You are losing your spirit, tying your hands, and throwing all
your manly independence to the winds. If you live two years with that
irreproachable mummy, you won’t be worth knowing. Do you dare go into
town with me and have a game of billiards?”
I went. We had several games. I got home about midnight. The next
morning, at the breakfast-table, Mrs. Pinkerton said dryly,—
“Your friend Marston pities you, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know; if he does, he wastes his emotions,” I replied.
“I am glad you think so. He takes a good deal of interest in your
welfare, and I suppose he could be prevailed upon to give you wise
advice in case of need.”
“I dare say. Fred is a good fellow, and advice is as cheap as dirt.”
“And pity?”
“Pity! Why do you think Fred pities me? Why should he pity me?”
“Your question is hypocritical, because you know very well that he
thinks you are a victim,—a victim of a terrible mother-in-law.”
It was the first time she had ever spoken out so openly. I said,—
“We will leave it to Bessie. Bessie, do I look like a victim?”
“No,” said Bessie, “but you are both the queerest puzzles! Mamma is
always her dearest self when you are away, Charlie. You don’t know each
other at all yet. When you are together you are both horrid, and when
you are apart you are both lovely. And yet I don’t know why it should be
so; there is no quarrel between you—and—and—”
And Bessie began to cry. I got up.
“No, there’s no quarrel between us,” I said; “but perhaps a straight-out
row would be better than forever to be eating our own vitals with
suppressed rancor.”
Mrs. Pinkerton made as if she would go around to where Bessie sat, to
condole with her, without noticing my remark.
“No, don’t trouble yourself,” I cried. “It’s my place to comfort my
wife.” And I took Bessie in my arms tenderly, and kissed her
tear-stained cheek almost fiercely.
This theatrical demonstration caused my mother-in-law to sweep out of
the room promptly, with her temper as nearly ruffled as I had ever seen
it.
“O Charlie!” whimpered my poor little wife despairingly, “what shall I
do? It’s awful to have you and mamma this way!”
And now it was my turn to say, “Cheer up, my love! It will all come
around right in time.”
But my _arrière pensée_ was, “Would that that burglar had bagged the old
iceberg, and carried her off to her native Nova Zembla!”