have me turn my own mother into the street.”
“No, no--not exactly that; but can’t you give her a hint that she has
staid long enough?”
“I’m sure I can’t, Samuel,” replied the young wife, with a sad and
troubled look on her pretty face. “I don’t see why you should be so
prejudiced against her.”
“Don’t you, my dear? Do you think it is pleasant for me to have one
continually telling me I am extravagant, or something of that sort? She
told me just now that I could not afford to buy turkeys for our Sunday
dinner, when she saw me bring one home.”
“She meant right, Samuel.”
“But it is none of her business, Lottie.”
“She is older and more experienced in these matters than we are.”
“Fudge! Do you believe, Lottie, that I don’t know my own business
a great deal better than she or any one else can teach me?” and
the young husband put on a look of dignity which showed how deeply
conscious he was of his own ability.
“I hope you do, Samuel,” replied Lottie, who, as can easily be
supposed, was sorely perplexed by the difficulties of her unfortunate
position.
Poor thing! She was a gentle-hearted, kind, and tender woman, and loved
her mother as truly as becomes a married daughter. She was conscious
that her mother had her peculiarities--as who has not?--and it was
a source of continued regret to her that her husband could neither
understand nor bear with them.
They had been married about a year and a half. Samuel Lawton was a
merchant on a small scale. His employer had set him up in business
about a year before his marriage, and he had done well; that is, above
his expenses he had cleared some eight hundred or a thousand dollars,
which was considered a very fair income for a young man.
The young merchant was elated with his success, and, like very many
others in his situation, felt that he was an enterprising young man,
and a thorough financier. The road to wealth was before him, and
already he had formed a very clear idea of being at the head of a
large importing house, with clerks and lumpers by the dozen at his
command. His fancy also gilded the picture with a very costly mansion
on Pemberton Hill, with a carriage and two sleek horses, a footman, and
opera, concerts, and great parties to match.
Samuel Lawton formerly belonged to a “debating society,” in which the
question of “early marriages” had been thoroughly discussed. The
chairman had appointed him to sustain the affirmative; and either on
account of the skill and eloquence with which he argued the point, or
because the members were in favor of matrimony at the earliest possible
day, it was decided that early marriages _were_ eminently conducive to
the morality and happiness of mankind in general.
One of the strongest arguments which our hero could offer in support
of his cause was, that matrimony would save the young man from early
dissipation. He even went so far in his zeal as to declare that a young
man, even if he had not a penny in the world, had better be married
than wait till he had the means. I will not trouble the reader with the
facts and statistics by which he made it appear that it was cheaper to
support man and wife than to support man alone. But the best evidence
he could give of his devotion to his philosophy was to get married
himself; and accordingly, though he had not the means of furnishing his
house, and though he was still deeply in debt for his stock, he took
a wife in the person of the youngest and last remaining daughter of a
widow lady, possessing a little property in her own right.
Of course the young man had to run in debt for all the appurtenances
of housekeeping; but this was nothing; he was doing well. It made no
difference how much a man owed, provided he had the means to pay. He
was very sanguine of his future success. His profits would be at least
a thousand dollars a year; but, reckless follow, he had no more idea
how far a thousand dollars would go than a baby. It seemed to him a
very large sum, and he gauged his domestic expenditures on a pretty
high scale.
When he married Mrs. Harding’s last remaining daughter, the widow was
left alone. Lottie said it would be so nice to have her “dear mother”
with her, and accordingly Samuel had invited her to make his house her
home.
The good lady was in the main a very clever sort of person, who
probably talked quite as bad, possibly a little worse, than she meant.
She saw that her son-in-law was going too fast, and, in her own
way, she made such comments as she deemed it the duty of a faithful
mother-in-law to make.
Mr. Lawton did not relish what he deemed her interference. He was very
clear in his own way, and to have a woman dictate to him, and croak
about the possible result of his lavish expenditure, was intolerable;
and when his patience was thoroughly exhausted, he spoke to his wife
upon the subject, as we have written.
Truth has been compared to a two-edged sword, though it is generally
believed that one edge to the sinner is sufficiently uncomfortable.
Samuel Lawton had listened to his mother-in-law’s good advice, to her
suggestions on the economy of the household, for more than a year, and
Mrs. Lawton could not but wonder what it was that made her husband so
“touchy” about it just now. He had always turned off the point of her
rebuke with a jest; but now he looked sour, and actually wanted to get
her mother out of the house.
The fact was, the young merchant had just begun to find out that a
thousand dollars a year would not “keep house” like a nabob. Certain
notes were about to fall due, and little debts without number had been
contracted. The unpleasant truth began to dawn upon him that he was
going faster than his means would permit.
In view of the consequences, he could already hear Mrs. Harding’s
triumphant “I told you so.” He had resolved to reduce his expenses,
to give over roast turkeys for his Sunday dinner, and come down to
plain, old-fashioned pork and beans; but the idea of giving in that the
odious mother-in-law was in the right was not to be harbored. He had
postponed the contemplated retrenchment till those said certain notes
began to cast ominous shadows in his pathway. It must be done, and Mrs.
Harding’s presence became doubly troublesome.
_CHAPTER II._
The poor, despised mother-in-law was so unfortunate as to overhear some
portion of the conversation which so nearly concerned her; and the
consequence was, that in less than a week after, she left the house,
bag and baggage, for the home of another daughter, who had repeatedly
pressed her to come and live with her.
Mrs. Harding might have been provoked with her son-in-law, but she
prudently held her tongue, and made no mention of the reason for her
sudden departure.
Samuel felt quite a relief the very hour she left, and in the evening,
while they were seated in the little parlor, the baby sleeping in
the crib between them, he was so ungenerous and unkind as to express
himself to this effect.
“But, Samuel, you can’t think how lonesome I shall be; you are in town
all day,” said the poor wife.
“Well, perhaps you will be for a few days; but you will get used to it.”
Mrs. Lawton sighed.
“And then,” continued Mr. Lawton, “you have the baby to occupy the
time.”
Just then there came from the cradle a single rough, ringing
cough--that peculiar, metallic-sounding cough which is like the knell
of death to the ear of the loving mother.
“O mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Lawton, in tremulous tones, as she sprang to
the side of the cradle.
“What’s the matter Lottie?” asked Samuel.
“Didn’t you hear that cough?” and the poor mother’s frame trembled, and
her teeth chattered with alarm.
“I suppose Sammy has got a little cold.”
“It’s the croup, Samuel! Do run for the doctor as quick as you can.”
“To-night?”
“O Samuel, he may be dead before morning!” and the tears coursed freely
down the cheek of the anxious mother.
“Nay, Lottie, you are nervous.”
“I know it; but do go for the doctor.”
“I will go if there is any need of it; but, really, I do not see that
there is;” and Samuel bent over the cradle to discover what had so
alarmed his wife.
But the child still slept, and apparently breathed as freely as ever.
“Nay, Samuel, go; you know what the croup is.”
“Certainly, I will go if you wish;” and the young husband put on his
overcoat and left the house.
The residence of the young merchant was in D----, a town adjoining
Boston, and the physician’s house was full half a mile distant. He
could hardly restrain a smile at the idea of going for a doctor when
the baby had only coughed once.
Dr. F---- was fortunately at home, and the two proceeded on their
return together. The physician considered the case much more serious
than the inexperienced father had deemed it.
On their arrival, they found the child awake. The little patient was
breathing laboriously, and occasionally that brazen cough rang from his
throat.
“Croup!” said the doctor, the moment he entered the room.
“O, doctor, do you think he will die?” exclaimed the agonized mother.
“No, no, no!” replied Dr. F----, confidently.
The physician was a good-natured, good-hearted German, who was
thoroughly master of his profession. He had been eminently successful
in his practice, especially with children, and his words were like oil
upon the troubled waters to the anxious mother.
“I am so frightened, doctor!”
“There is nothing to fear; we have the case in season, and there is no
danger. Suppose you wait till to-morrow morning before you call me? I
shrug my shoulders, and tell you the child must die.”
“O Samuel!” exclaimed Lottie, looking at her husband.
Mr. Lawton was appalled by the significant words. His frame shook with
terror. The child was his idol. He knew nothing of the symptoms of the
insidious and terrible disease that menaced the life of his darling
little one; he was nervous and uneasy. Death seemed to cast a broad
shadow upon his home.
The doctor gave the child a little white powder, and placed some
bandages wet in cold water upon its throat and chest. The effect
was instantaneous; the child instantly breathed easier. Leaving the
necessary medicines, Dr. F---- took his leave, assuring the anxious
parents that the little one would be nearly well by morning.
But Mr. Lawton was uneasy, and Lottie was uneasy. An undefinable dread
had taken possession of their hearts. Samuel was troubled. The child
breathed with a sad, groaning sound, which shook every fibre in the
nervous system of the father and mother. He was conscious of their
inexperience; the child might relapse, and symptoms which they did not
understand might appear.
“How I wish mother was here, Samuel!” said poor Lottie, awed by the
fearful responsibility that rested upon her.
Mr. Lawton had wished so before, and thought if he once more had her in
the house, he would give the world to keep her there--mothers-in-law
are so exceedingly useful at times!
Samuel made no reply. Even in his terrible anxiety for the life of his
child, pride had not entirely deserted him.
Lottie shed a flood of tears. For the first time in her life, her
husband seemed cold and unfeeling, and it was cruel in him not to
second her wish in such an hour of trial.
“If he should grow worse, Samuel!” continued the poor wife. “O, I am so
fearful!”
“I will go for your mother if you wish,” replied Mr. Lawton, the
anguish of his wife getting the mastery of his feelings.
“She has got cold; I don’t know as she would dare to come out in the
night air.”
“I will try, at least.”
Mr. Lawton left the house. Mrs. Harding’s new home was not far off. He
succeeded in rousing her, and, in spite of her cold, she was ready in
five minutes to accompany him.
His heart smote him as he thought how hard he had been upon her--how
he had almost attempted to drive her from his roof; and in his soul he
thanked God that she did not know how mean he had been.
Her advice had been good. She had spoken to him for his interest, not
for her own; and if she had not spoken it exactly as he wished, why, it
was only because she was human, and had infirmities, like all the rest
of mankind.
In the moment of peril and trial, he felt what a blessing it was to
have a mother-in-law.
Mrs. Harding soon comforted Lottie. She understood the case, and
perceived that the danger was past. Her presence was like that of an
angel. It restored the drooping spirits of the devoted parents, and by
midnight, worn out with anxiety, they went to sleep by the side of the
child, whose slumbers, though troubled, were deep and sound.
The next morning, as Dr. F---- had predicted, Sammy was nearly well,
and Mr. Lawton went to his business as usual; but there was trouble
brewing around him. He spent nearly all the forenoon in vain attempts
to raise the money to meet one of his notes which came due that day. He
was unsuccessful, and, worn out and dispirited by his anxiety on the
previous night, he gave up in despair, and went home, resolved to let
the note be protested.
“You come home early, Samuel,” said his wife.
The young merchant made no reply, but threw himself, with a heavy sigh,
into a chair.
“Why, what’s the matter, Samuel?”
“I am ruined, Lottie!” replied he, gloomily. “I must fail. This is the
last day of grace, and I have left a note to be protested.”
Lottie was appalled by this intelligence. Mrs. Harding, who sat by the
fire, holding little Sammy, merely glanced at him. She did not use
those awful words, “I knew it would be so.”
“Mother, you were right; I have been too fast,” said Mr. Lawton, gazing
sheepishly at her. “I thought very hard of you for telling me I lived
better than I could afford; but you were right; I may as well own it.”
“I am sorry for you, Samuel. How much is the note?” said Mrs. Harding,
with a gentle look--a look so kind and forgiving that it wrung his soul.
“Eight hundred dollars,” replied Lawton.
“Will you take the baby a moment, Lottie?” continued Mrs. Harding, who,
giving Sammy into the hands of his mother, went to the secretary, and
wrote a check on her bank for the amount.
“Why, mother, you wrong yourself,” exclaimed the astonished Lawton, as
she handed him the check.
“Take it, Samuel; pay your note, and live and learn,” replied she, with
a benignant smile.
Lawton took the money, and hastened back to the city to pay his note.
His credit was saved, and hope again smiled upon him.
In the course of conversation that evening, Lawton was so far
humiliated as to make this remark,--
“Mother, you will come and live with us again, won’t you?”
“What! after you have wished me out of the house?” replied Mrs.
Harding, with a smile. “I heard your conversation the other day.”
“Forgive me, mother.”
“Perhaps, Samuel, I am not always just as I ought to be; but we all
have our weaknesses. I mean to do right.”
“I know you do; I understand you now. Last night and to-day have taught
me your value; and if I had heeded your counsel, I need not have been
pressed for money to-day. Forgive me, mother.”
“Freely, Samuel. I live only to make my children happy.”
Mrs. Harding resumed her residence at Lottie’s, and from that time to
this she has been appreciated. Mr. Lawton learned a lesson. The long
proposed retrenchment was executed, and the prospect now is that he
will die a rich man, if he don’t die too soon.
* * * * *
We were provoked to write this sketch by that contemptible squib
from Punch, to the effect that Adam was a happy man because he had
no mother-in-law. If Cain or Abel, in their babyhood, had the croup,
measles, whooping cough, or any thing of that sort, we warrant
he sighed for that squib-ridden, conundrum-defamed commodity--a
MOTHER-IN-LAW.
MONTAGUE AND LADY.
A LESSON FOR HUSBANDS.
_CHAPTER I._
“Another new dress!” exclaimed Mr. Simeon Montague to his wife. “It
does not seem to be more than three weeks since you had one.”
“Just two months, Simeon.”
“And you need another?”
“I should not ask for the money if I did not. And Franky must have a
new jacket, and Nellie a new cloak.”
Mr. Montague sighed.
“I gave you fifteen dollars only a week ago.”
“What is fifteen dollars? Do you think it will clothe me and the
children a year?” replied Mrs. Montague indignantly.
“Money comes hard,” suggested Mr. Montague.
“I suppose it does; but if you wish me and the children to go half
clothed, why, only say so.”
“Of course, I wish nothing of the kind; I only want you to be as
prudent as possible.”
“I intend to be so.”
“These are dreadful tight times.”
“I should think they were,” replied the lady, with a palpable sneer
on her lip. “They have been just so, though, ever since we have been
married.”
“Won’t next week do?”
“I engaged a dressmaker for next Friday.”
“I don’t see how I can spare fifteen dollars to-day,” said Mr.
Montague, musing, apparently, upon his financial affairs. “I have a
note to pay to-day.”
“You have had a note to pay every time I have asked you for money since
we were married.”
“I will try and have it for you to-morrow.”
“I want to go out shopping to-day; I can’t go to-morrow.”
“I cannot possibly spare it to-day. Won’t ten dollars answer your
purpose?”
“Perhaps I can make it do.”
“If you can, I wish you would,” replied the husband, as he took out his
pocket book and handed her that amount.
“I can only get a calico for myself.”
“Well, won’t that answer?”
“Are you willing to go to church with me with a calico dress on?”
“Certainly, my dear. Why not?”
“I thought you had some pride.”
“I have, but no foolish pride.”
“A twenty-five dollar coat is hardly good enough for you to wear to
church.”
“But I don’t have one every month.”
“You have two every year.”
Mr. Montague did not think it was prudent to say any more; and putting
on his hat, which he had just been brushing with the most scrupulous
care, he surveyed his person before the looking glass. His collar
needed a little elevating, his cravat had to be re-adjusted, and he
discovered a speck of dirt on his black coat, which was carefully
removed. His lady looked at him with a smile as he stood before the
glass.
“Calico dress, indeed,” thought she. “There is not a prouder man walks
Washington Street, than my husband.”
Mr. Montague smoothed down his whiskers, and was leaving the room, when
a gentleman wishing to see him was announced.
“Ah, Butler,” said he, as the gentleman entered the room.
“I called at your store yesterday, but did not find you,” said Butler,
handing him a little paper.
“Just so,” said he, opening it.
Mrs. Montague was impertinent enough to look over his shoulder as he
read the paper. It ran as follows:--
“Mr. Simeon Montague
To Apollo Club Rooms, Dr.
To your Quarterly Assessment, $25,00
“1 Basket Heidsick Champagne, 16,00
“100 Concha Cigars, 4,00
------
$45,00
Received Payment,
B. BUTLER, Steward.”
“Just so,” repeated Mr. Montague, throwing the bill on the table, and
taking out his pocket book. “Sorry to trouble you; meant to have paid
it last night.”
“No trouble at all,” replied Butler.
“Forty-five, is it?” continued Montague, as he counted out the money.
“Forty-five.”
The steward of the “Apollo Club Rooms” put the money in his pocket, and
bade his liberal patron good morning.
“It was too bad to make him call twice for that money, wasn’t it,
Simeon?” asked Mrs. Montague, when the steward had gone.
“Of course I was sorry to give him any unnecessary trouble,” replied
Mr. Montague.
“I thought you had a note to pay to-day?”
“So I have.”
“But can’t you spare me the other five dollars for which I asked you?”
“Can’t, possibly.”
“I think your family ought to receive as much consideration as the Club
House, at least.”
“I must go to the store, my dear; I am in a great hurry.”
“Sixteen dollars for champagne,” said the wife, reading from the bill,
which she had picked up from the table. “I only asked for fifteen.”
“You would not have me niggardly at the Club Rooms, would you?”
“I would not have you go there at all. I suppose it is nothing to be
niggardly in your family?”
“Am I niggardly?” asked Mr. Montague, rather sternly.
The lady was silent.
“One would think that I was made of money, by the way you ask me for
it,” continued Mr. Montague.
“One would think you were, to see you paying forty-five dollars a
quarter at the Club House,” replied Mrs. Montague, meekly. “A married
man too.”
“I wasn’t born to be tied to a woman’s apron-string,” added Mr.
Montague, rushing from the house.
The lady looked at the door which had just closed upon him. Her heart
was sad, and she burst into tears.
_CHAPTER II._
Mr. Simeon Montague thought the money he bestowed upon his family was
as good as wasted. He was not a domestic man. He had married his wife,
with a reasonable show of affection, because her father was rich, and
she was an only daughter. Of course, he would not even confess to his
own heart that he was so selfish and cruel as to marry for sordid
motives--that he had prostituted the holy altar of Hymen by sacrificing
to Plutus upon it; but it was none the less true because he denied it
to himself and every body else.
Mrs. Montague’s father at her marriage was only about forty-five years
of age; yet his health was so feeble that there was not one chance in
ten of his living another year. But the old gentleman had revived,
and now, after twelve years had expired, seemed to be completely
rejuvenated. He was hale and hearty, and gave the promise of living
twenty years more. Of course the sordid son-in-law was disappointed. He
had thrown himself into the sea of matrimony with an unworthy motive,
and if he had been drowned there it would have served him just right.
Poor Mrs. Montague! Her bright hopes were all wrecked. Instead of the
world of affection she had anticipated in the connubial relation, she
found nothing but coldness and sordid selfishness. Her husband still
frequented the Club House; and when at home, he seemed to have no
sympathy with her. His business seemed to engross all his attention,
and he had no time to think of his wife, none to devote to his children.
Yet Mr. Montague was not a morose or an ill-natured man. He loved the
good opinion of the world, and would have made almost any sacrifice
rather than have had an imputation cast upon his domestic character. He
paid the most scrupulous attention to all the forms of life, walked to
church every Sunday with his wife on his arm, always found the place
in the hymn book for her, and never failed abroad to manifest the most
lively interest in his family. He always called his wife “my dear,” and
spoke affectionately to the children in the presence of company.
The eye of affection could penetrate all this mass of conventionalism,
and the poor wife, in less than a year after her marriage, realized
that she had thrown herself away upon a hollow-hearted man--one who,
without loving her, would keep the peace at almost any sacrifice--one
who would compel the world to believe that he was the most tender and
devoted husband, even while his heart was petrified and cold. His
devotion was mere mechanism; it was a kind of habit, acquired by an
active desire to secure the good will of all his friends.
Perhaps, even if there had been none to see him, Mr. Montague would
not have been harsh; it was not his nature. He was a smooth-tongued,
plausible man under all circumstances. He could appear to love when
his heart was perfectly indifferent. He could avoid the most palpable
of his domestic duties even while he professed the most earnest
devotion to the welfare of his family.
Twelve years had in a measure reconciled the disappointed wife to her
lot. She was contented with it because her maiden visions of connubial
bliss had evaporated, and she knew no other existence than that to
which she had been so long accustomed. Her air castles, reared in the
sunny years of her girlhood, had long since tumbled to the ground,
and left her in a world of reality, cold and repulsive at first, but
rendered tolerable by long endurance.
Her husband was sordid and selfish. He never felt a hundred dollars
expended in champagne suppers at the Club House; but half that sum
given to his wife wrung his soul. Though he was in a good business,
lived in good style, and always had money at his command, his brow
always darkened when his wife asked him for any sum to be expended upon
herself or her children. He was absolutely unwilling to give it, though
he could not possibly have endured the mortification of seeing them
shabbily dressed.