XXXVIII.
ON THE SHELF.
In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,
when "_Vive la liberté_" becomes their motto. In America, as every one
knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their
freedom with republican zest; but the young matrons usually abdicate
with the first heir to the throne, and go into a seclusion almost as
close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they
like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the
wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a
very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one
takes any notice of me because I'm married."
Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience
this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world
primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and
beloved than ever.
As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very
strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter
exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded
over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender
mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen
department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely
attentions he had been accustomed to receive; but, as he adored his
babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing,
with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be restored. But three
months passed, and there was no return of repose; Meg looked worn and
nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was
neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life "aisy," kept him on short
commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small
commissions for the captive mamma; if he came gayly in at night, eager
to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! they are just asleep
after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No,
it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture or concert, he
was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided "Leave my children
for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions
of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the
night; his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the
presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp
sounded from the nest above; and when he read his paper of an evening,
Demi's colic got into the shipping-list, and Daisy's fall affected the
price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.
The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of
his wife; home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual "hushing" made
him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts
of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and, when no
signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles
do,--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone
to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over
for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his
own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a
lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she
performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright
and attractive, the chess-board ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay
gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely;
but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and enjoyed his
neighbor's society.
Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a
relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the
parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by and
by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to sleep at
proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and
find her work-basket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in
his old dressing-gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender.
She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did
not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the
many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn
out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind
which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares
oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much
devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as
if they were all nerve and no muscle.
"Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly;
John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife
and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the
babies love me; they don't care if I am thin and pale, and haven't time
to crimp my hair; they are my comfort, and some day John will see what
I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"
To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a
crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which
soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as
politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss
interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him.
Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one
day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping
spirits had not escaped her observation.
"I wouldn't tell any one except you, mother; but I really do need
advice, for, if John goes on so much longer I might as well be widowed,"
replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib, with an injured
air.
"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.
"He's away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is
continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have
the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even
the best of them."
"So are women; don't blame John till you see where you are wrong
yourself."
"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."
"Don't you neglect him?"
"Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part!"
"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is yours,
Meg."
"I don't see how."
"Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you
made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure
time?"
"No; but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."
"I think you could, dear; and I think you ought. May I speak quite
freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as
mother who sympathizes?"
"Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel
as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for
everything."
Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and, with a little
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly
together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than
ever.
"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make,--forgotten
your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural
and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before
you take to different ways; for children should draw you nearer than
ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing
to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not
spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time."
"I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous; and
I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him,
and I don't know how to tell him without words."
"Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for
his little home; but it isn't home without you, and you are always in
the nursery."
"Oughtn't I to be there?"
"Not all the time; too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you
are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well
as to the babies; don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out
of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as
well as yours, and the children need him; let him feel that he has his
part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be
better for you all."
"You really think so, mother?"
"I know it, Meg, for I've tried it; and I seldom give advice unless I've
proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just
as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself
wholly to you. Poor father took to his books, after I had refused all
offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled
along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoilt
her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell
sick myself. Then father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything,
and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been
able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home
happiness: he does not let business wean him from the little cares and
duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy
my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but
at home we work together, always."
"It is so, mother; and my great wish is to be to my husband and children
what you have been to yours. Show me how; I'll do anything you say."
"You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let
John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs
training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often
proposed, let Hannah come and help you; she is a capital nurse, and you
may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You
need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his
wife again. Go out more; keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the
sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair
weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes,--talk
with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in
that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman,
but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part
in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours."
"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask
questions about politics and things."
"I don't believe he would; love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom
could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't
find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."
"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I _have_ neglected him sadly, but I
thought I was right, and he never said anything."
"He tried not to be selfish, but he _has_ felt rather forlorn, I fancy.
This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow
apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together; for the
first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it;
and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years
of the little lives given them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to
the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this
world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you
will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear,
good-by; think over mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good,
and God bless you all!"
Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the
first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course
the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they
found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.
Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was not so easily
subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt
at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a
trifle of his sire's firmness of character,--we won't call it
obstinacy,--and when he made up his little mind to have or to do
anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change
that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be
taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed that it never was
too soon to learn obedience; so Master Demi early discovered that when
he undertook to "wrastle" with "parpar," he always got the worst of it;
yet, like the Englishman, Baby respected the man who conquered him, and
loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all
mamma's love-pats.
A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social
evening with John; so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in
order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that
nothing should interfere with her experiment. But, unfortunately, Demi's
most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he
decided to go on a rampage; so poor Meg sung and rocked, told stories
and tried every sleep-provoking wile she could devise, but all in vain,
the big eyes wouldn't shut; and long after Daisy had gone to byelow,
like the chubby little bunch of good-nature she was, naughty Demi lay
staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression
of countenance.
"Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while mamma runs down and gives
poor papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall-door softly closed, and the
well-known step went tiptoeing into the dining-room.
"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.
"No; but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go
bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"
"Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the
desired day.
Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away, and ran
down to greet her husband with a smiling face, and the little blue bow
in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once, and
said, with pleased surprise,--
"Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect company?"
"Only you, dear."
"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"
"No; I'm tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always
make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are; so why
shouldn't I when I have the time?"
"I do it out of respect to you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.
"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again,
as she nodded to him over the teapot.
"Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes
right. I drink your health, dear." And John sipped his tea with an air
of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration, however; for, as
he put down his cup, the door-handle rattled mysteriously, and a little
voice was heard, saying impatiently,--
"Opy doy; me's tummin!"
"It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is,
downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said
Meg, answering the call.
[Illustration: Mornin' now]
"Mornin' now," announced Demi, in a joyful tone, as he entered, with his
long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every curl
bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eying the "cakies" with
loving glances.
"No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor
mamma; then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."
"Me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal
knee, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to
Meg,--
"If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do
it, or he will never learn to mind you."
"Yes, of course. Come, Demi;" and Meg led her son away, feeling a
strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,
laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as
soon as they reached the nursery.
Nor was he disappointed; for that short-sighted woman actually gave him
a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more
promenades till morning.
"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and
regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.
Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when
the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by
boldly demanding,--
"More sudar, marmar."
"Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging
little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to
go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough; give
him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed
and leave him, Meg."
"He won't stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him."
"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma
bids you."
"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted
"cakie," and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.
"You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don't go
yourself."
"Go 'way; me don't love parpar;" and Demi retired to his mother's skirts
for protection.
But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the
enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with
dismay; for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment-day was at hand.
Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong
hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but
openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way
upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on
the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by
the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which lively
performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he
devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise
usually conquered Meg; but John sat as unmoved as the post which is
popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no
story; even the light was put out, and only the red glow of the fire
enlivened the "big dark" which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than
fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for
"marmar," as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his
tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail
which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran up
to say beseechingly,--
"Let me stay with him; he'll be good, now, John."
"No, my dear, I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him; and he
must, if I stay here all night."
"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for
deserting her boy.
"No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off, and then the matter
is settled; for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't
interfere; I'll manage him."
"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."
"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoilt by indulgence. Go
down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."
When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never
regretted her docility.
"Please let me kiss him once, John?"
"Certainly. Demi, say 'good-night' to mamma, and let her go and rest,
for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."
Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory; for after it
was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom
of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.
"Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him
up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to
the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.
But he wasn't; for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes
opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying,
with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."
Sitting on the stairs, outside, Meg wondered at the long silence which
followed the uproar; and, after imagining all sorts of impossible
accidents, she slipped into the room, to set her fears at rest. Demi lay
fast asleep; not in his usual spread-eagle attitude, but in a subdued
bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his
father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and
had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser baby. So held, John had waited
with womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold; and, while
waiting, had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than
with his whole day's work.
As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to
herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone,--
"I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies: he _does_
know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi _is_ getting
too much for me."
When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful
wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet,
and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election,
if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some
kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was
such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her
life, and therefore the clew would soon appear. He read a long debate
with the most amiable readiness, and then explained it in his most lucid
manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent
questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the
nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she
decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission
of politicians seemed to be calling each other names; but she kept these
feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head, and
said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity,--
"Well, I really don't see what we are coming to."
John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty
little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with
the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.
"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like
millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding
aloud,--
"That's very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast-cap?"
[Illustration: My dear man, it's a bonnet]
"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theatre
bonnet."
"I beg your pardon; it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of
the fly-away things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?"
"These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so;" and
Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him with an air
of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.
"It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks
young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great
detriment of the rosebud under the chin.
"I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new
concerts some night; I really need some music to put me in tune. Will
you, please?"
"Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You
have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall
enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?"
"Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous
and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less
care; so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to
things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to
keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my
time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake
as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and
I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I
hope?"