MY MOTHER-IN-LAW SUBDUED.
As I was saying, I made up my mind that our happiness was marred by
habitual submission to mother-in-law, and I determined to shake off the
nightmare, to assert myself, and to reduce that stately crown of gray
puffs to a subordinate place. How was I to do it? There was nothing that
I could make the cause of direct complaint, and it was hard to get into
a downright conflict which would involve plain speaking. I consulted
with Bessie, and she agreed with me, and promised to assume the
direction of household affairs. She did not like to hurt her mother’s
feelings, but she admitted that it was best for her to be mistress. I
could but admire the matronly firmness and tact with which she played
her part. She gave her orders and told her mother what she proposed to
do, and then proceeded to execute it as if there was no room for
question. If opposition was made, she very quietly and firmly insisted.
Her mother was astonished and had some warm words, in which she accused
me of trying to set her daughter against her.
“Oh, no,” said Bessie, “Charlie does not wish to set me against you or
to have you made unhappy, but he thinks it better that I should be the
mistress here, and I quite agree with him, and propose henceforth to be
the mistress.”
The widow was not offended, but hurt. She had too much good sense not to
see the propriety of our decision, and she surrendered and tried not to
appear affected.
This was the first victory. Another time, at the table, she had
exercised her prescriptive right of extinguishing me for some remark of
which she did not approve. I fired up and remarked, “I have the right to
speak my own opinion in my own house, Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“Certainly you have a right to speak your own opinion in your own
house,” she replied, with the least little sarcastic emphasis on “your
own house,” which cut me to the quick.
“But you don’t seem to think so,” I said. “You have had a way of
snubbing me and putting me down which I don’t propose to tolerate any
longer. I am master of my own conduct and of my own household, and I
hope, in future, that my liberty may not be interfered with.”
The widow’s lip quivered, her great eyes moistened, and she left the
table, not because she was offended, but to hide her injured feelings. I
felt mean, and would have apologized, but that I felt that my cause was
at stake. There was no after-explanation. My mother-in-law came and went
about the house as usual, calm and polite. A silly woman would have
refused to speak to me for some weeks; but she was not a silly woman,
and took pains to speak with the most studied politeness, and to avoid
offence. Here, too, she had evidently surrendered.
This was victory number two. One more and the battle was won. It was a
Sunday in June. I had especially invited Mr. Desmond and his niece to
come out to dinner and to spend the afternoon, and had insisted to Fred
Marston that he should come with his wife. I wanted to vindicate my
right to have what friends I pleased, and then I didn’t care overmuch if
I never saw him again. Mrs. Pinkerton had gone to church alone as usual.
For some weeks Bessie had been unable to accompany her, and I preferred
the sanctuary at which the scholarly, but heterodox, Mr. Freeman
preached. When she returned, our guests had arrived. She put on her
eye-glasses as she entered the gate, and looked about with evident
disapproval, as we were scattered over the lawn. She did not believe in
Sunday visits. She was even stiff and distant to Mr. Desmond, and
refused to see the Marstons at all, though they were directly before her
eyes. She walked straight into the house.
“By Jove,” said George to me in an undertone, “that isn’t right! I shall
speak to mother about cutting your guests in that way.”
“Never mind,” I replied, “don’t you say a word; I want an opportunity.”
He saw it in a minute, and acquiesced with a queer smile. He fully
sympathized with me, and had even encouraged me in the work of
emancipation. He had the utmost respect and affection for his mother,
but he said it was not right for her to make my home unpleasant.
That Sunday Mrs. Pinkerton joined us at the dinner-table. I knew she
would not be guilty of the incivility of staying away.
“You remember my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Marston?” I said, by way of
introduction, as she came in.
“I remember them very well,” was the reply; “too well,” the tone
implied. I made a special effort to be talkative, and to keep others
talking during the dinner. It was very hard work, and I met with
indifferent success. It was not a pleasant dinner. Mr. Desmond alone
appeared not to mind the restraint, and he alone ventured to address the
widow. She was polite, but far from sociable. We contrived to pass the
afternoon tolerably, but not at all in the spirit which I wished to have
prevail when I had friends to visit me, and all because of that
presence.
After they were gone, I took occasion to introduce the subject, for I
had learned that Mrs. Pinkerton’s skill in expressing her disapproval in
her manner was so great that she relied on it almost altogether, and
rarely resorted to words for the purpose.
“I am afraid you did not enjoy the company very much to-day,” I said, as
we were sitting in the little parlor, overlooking an exquisite flower
garden.
“No, sir,” she answered, with the old emphasis on the “sir.” “I do not
approve of company on the Sabbath, and I had hoped you would never again
bring those Marstons into my presence at any time.”
“Excuse me, madam; but I propose to be my own judge of whom I shall
invite to visit me, and of the time and occasion. I presume you admit my
right to do so.”
“Certainly, sir. I never disputed it, and had no intention of saying
anything if you had not introduced the subject.”
“I introduced the subject for the very purpose; in fact, I brought out
the company for the very purpose of vindicating my right, and it would
be very gratifying to me if you would concede it cheerfully, and not, by
your manner and way of treating my friends, interfere with it
hereafter.”
I was almost astonished at my own courage and spirit, and still more so
at Mrs. Pinkerton’s reply. It was dusky and I could not see her face,
but her voice trembled and choked as she answered,—
“God knows I do not wish to interfere with your happiness. Bessie’s
happiness has been my one thought for years, and now it is bound up with
yours. I have my own notions, which I cannot easily discard, but I would
not do or say anything that would mar your enjoyment for the world. I
have long felt that I did do so, and have made up my mind to make any
sacrifice of pride and inclination to avoid it.”
Here she actually broke down and sobbed, and I was very near joining
her. “Never mind,” I said at length, quite softened; “I guess we shall
get along pleasantly together in the future, now that we have an
understanding.”
“I hope so,” she said, recovering her serenity, and we relapsed into a
painful silence.
This was the third and final victory, but I felt no elation over it. My
mother-in-law receded somewhat into the background, but it was so much
in sorrow, rather than anger, that I felt her new mood almost as
depressing as the old. I didn’t want her to feel injured or subdued, but
evidently she couldn’t help it, and the mother-in-law, though conquered,
was herself still, and that congeniality that would make our life
together wholly pleasant was impossible. Her existence was still a
shadow, less chilling and more pensive, but a shadow in our home, and it
seemed destined to stay there.