*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30270 ***

                          THAT MOTHER-IN-LAW
                                  OF
                                 MINE.


                     “BE TO HER VIRTUES VERY KIND,
                   BE TO HER FAULTS A LITTLE BLIND.”


                             PHILADELPHIA:
                      THE KEYSTONE PUBLISHING CO.
                                 1889.



                               COPYRIGHT
                    BY JOHN E. POTTER AND COMPANY,
                                 1879



                               Dedicated
                          TO ALL THOSE HAVING
                            MOTHERS-IN-LAW
                         OR EXPECTING TO HAVE.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER                                              Page

   I. BESSIE AND I AND BESSIE’S MOTHER                  7

  II. COURTING THE MOTHER                              15

 III. OUR MARRIAGE                                     28

  IV. MOUNTAINS AND MORE MOTHER-IN-LAW                 37

   V. THE RISE AND FALL                                50

  VI. WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT A MOTHER-IN-LAW?            71

 VII. MISS VAN’S PARTY AND ANOTHER UNPLEASANTNESS      84

VIII. ANOTHER CHARLIE IN THE FIELD                     98

  IX. THE SHADOW ON OUR LIFE                           108

   X. MY MOTHER-IN-LAW SUBDUED                         115

  XI. GEORGE’S NEW DEPARTURE                           123

 XII. BABY TALK, OLD DIVES, AND OTHER THINGS           138

XIII. A SURPRISE                                       150

 XIV. A HAPPY PROSPECT                                 158




MY MOTHER-IN-LAW.




CHAPTER I.

BESSIE AND I AND BESSIE’S MOTHER.


“Why, Charlie, you sha’n’t talk so about my mother! I won’t allow it.”

“It does sound a little rough, my dear; but I can’t help it. She does
exasperate me so. She doesn’t show a proper deference for your husband,
my dear. We are married now, and she ought to give up her objections to
me. I can’t be expected to place myself in her leading strings.”

“But you mustn’t demand too much at once, and should try to conciliate
her. Now do, for my sake; won’t you, dear?”

Here we were, only a month married, and spending our honeymoon at a most
charming summer resort, where there was no excuse for getting out of
patience. Everything was beautiful and attractive: Little hotel,
strange to say, quite delightful; no fault to find with surroundings and
accommodations; my darling Bessie, as sweet as an angel and determined
to be happy and to make me happy; everything, in short, calculated to
give us a long summer of delight.

That is, if Bessie had only been an orphan. But there was her mother,
who had joined us on our summer trip, after the first two weeks of
unalloyed happiness, and threatened to accompany us through life.
Already it almost made the prospect dismal. The idea that Bessie and I
would ever quarrel, or even have any impatient words together, had
seemed to me to be simply ridiculous. I had seen what I had seen. My
dashing friend, Fred, and his stylish wife,—they had been married two
years, and a visible coldness had come upon them. I knew, by an
occasional angry whisper and knitting of the brow before people, that he
must sometimes swear and rave in the privacy of their own rooms, and her
cutting replies or haughty indifference showed that there had been a
deal of love lost between them in those two years.

Other people, too, got indifferent or downright hostile in their
marital relations. But then, I was not a dashing fellow and Bessie was
not stylish, and in other ways we were quite different from most people.
Ours had been a real love-match from the first. Bessie was simple and
unaffected, honest and pure in every thought, and determined to make me
a faithful and loving wife till death did us part. As for me, why, of
course I was generous and affectionate, ready to make any sacrifice and
bear any burden for the trusting creature who had so freely given
herself into my keeping. There should be no clouds to darken her life. I
would never be selfish or impatient, or for one moment hurt her gentle
heart by heedless act or careless word.

But plague upon it! I could not get on with her mother; and here I was,
before our summer holiday was over, and before we had settled down to
that home life in which trouble and annoyance must needs come, getting
out of patience and saying cruel things; and there was Bessie, sitting
in the summer twilight with a light shawl drawn over her shoulders,
pouting her pretty lips with vexation, and digging the toes of her
little boots into the balustrade in front of us, because I had expressed
a pious wish that her mother was in Jericho. I declare, if there weren’t
tears gathering in her gentle blue eyes!

I was angry with myself, and, putting my arm around her slender waist, I
laid my cheek against hers and said soothingly, “Never mind, darling! I
didn’t mean it. Don’t think any more about it.”

But as we sat for the next five minutes without saying a word, I
couldn’t help pondering on the possibilities of the future, for Mrs.
Pinkerton was to live with us. That was one of the understood conditions
of our bargain, and it was evident that she was to furnish the test of
all my good resolutions.

Mrs. Pinkerton had been left a widow when Bessie was twelve years old,
with a neat little cottage in the suburbs of the city and a snug
competence in a secure investment. I was fairly settled in business,
with an income that would enable us to live in modest comfort, and was
determined not to disturb the investment or have it drawn upon in any
way for household expenses. But the old lady—I already began to speak
of her by that disrespectful epithet, although she was still under
fifty—was to live with us. I had readily acquiesced in that
arrangement, for was it not my darling’s wish? And I could not decently
make any objection, for it was mighty convenient to have a pretty
cottage, ready furnished, in one of the finest suburbs of the city in
which I was employed.

Mrs. Pinkerton was a good woman in her way: how could she be anything
else and the mother of such an angel as I had secured for my wife? She
meant well, of course; I admitted that, and I ought to be on the
pleasantest terms with her, and determined from the first that I would
be. But somehow we were not congenial, and when that is the case the
best people in the world find it hard to get along agreeably together.

The course of true love between Bessie and me had run very smooth. From
the moment my old school-fellow, her brother George, now in Paris
studying medicine, had introduced me to her, I had been completely won
by her sweet disposition and charming ways, and she in turn was
captivated by my manly independence, strong good sense, and generous
impulses. I am not vain, but the truth is the truth; and, as I am
telling this story myself, I must set down the facts. We fell in love
right away, and it was not long before we were mutually convinced that
we were made expressly for each other and could never be happy apart.

So it happened that I had to do the courting with the mother. She was
the one to be won over, and it was not likely to be an easy task, for I
plainly saw that she did not quite approve of me. When I was first
introduced to her, she looked at me with her great, steady blue eyes, as
if analyzing me to the very boots, and evidently set me down as a
somewhat arrogant and self-sufficient young fellow who needed a
judicious course of discipline to teach him humility. I was generally
self-possessed and had no little confidence in myself, but I confess
that I was embarrassed in her presence. She was not at all like Bessie,
I thought. She had taught school in her youth, and had learned to
command and be obeyed. The late Mr. Pinkerton, I fancied, had found it
useless to contend against her authority, and this had increased her
disposition to carry things her own way; and her seven years’ widowhood,
with its independence and self-reliance, had not prepared her to be
submissive to the wishes of others.

Still, she loved her daughter with tender devotion, and her chief
anxiety was to have her every wish gratified. Therein was my advantage,
for I knew that Bessie, gentle and trusting as she was, would never give
me up or allow her life to be happy without the gratification of her
first love. So I set to work confidently to make myself agreeable to the
widow and win her consent to our marriage.

“You must bring mamma around to approve of it,” Bessie had said, on that
ever-to-be-remembered evening, when we were returning from a long drive,
and after an hour of sweet confidences she had surrendered herself
without reserve to my future keeping. “She is the best mother in the
world, and loves me very much, but she is peculiar in some ways, and I
am afraid she doesn’t altogether like you. I would not for the world
displease her, that is, if I could help it,” she added, glancing up, as
much as to say, “It is all settled now forever and forevermore, whatever
may befall, but do get my mother to consent to it with a good grace.”




CHAPTER II.

COURTING THE MOTHER.


Mrs. Pinkerton sat in an easy-chair near the window, doing nothing, when
I marched in to begin the siege. I felt diffident and uneasy, although I
am not usually troubled that way. But if I should live to the advanced
age of Methusaleh, I could never forget Mrs. Pinkerton’s appearance on
that memorable occasion. Before I had spoken a word I saw that she knew
what was coming, and had hardened her heart against me. She had
anticipated all that I would say, had discounted my plea, as it were,
and prejudged the whole case. Her look plainly said: “Young man, I know
your pitiful story. You needn’t tell me. You may be very well as young
men go, you fancy you can more than fill a mother’s place in Bessie’s
inexperienced heart, but you can’t get me out. I am Adamant. Your
intentions are all very honorable, but you are a graceless intruder.
Your credentials are rejected on sight.” I saw the difficult task I had
undertaken. “Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said, mustering all my forces, “it is no
use mincing the matter, or beating about the shrubbery. I am in love
with your daughter, and Bessie is in love with me. I believe I can make
Bessie happy, and am sure nothing but Bessie can make me happy. I have
come to ask your consent to our marriage.” Then I hung my head like a
whipped school-boy.

Mrs. Pinkerton took off her eye-glasses, and then put them on again with
considerable care; after which she leveled a look at me and through me
that made me feel like calling out “Murder!” or making for the door. But
I stood my ground, and heard her say quietly,—

“So you are engaged to my daughter?”

A simple remark, but the tone meant “You are a puppy.” I had to muster
all my resolution to reply politely and coolly that, with her gracious
consent, such was the fact.

“Are you aware that it is customary to obtain parental consent before
proceeding to such lengths?”

“Mrs. Pinkerton, excuse me. I thought in my ignorance that it would be
just as well to do that afterwards; or rather, I didn’t think anything
about it. I was so much in love with Bessie that it was all out before I
knew it. If I had thought, of course I would have—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, “if your kind of people ever thought,
they would undoubtedly do differently. Bessie certainly ought to know
better. Girls rush into matrimony now-a-days with as much carelessness
as they would choose partners at a game of croquet. I should have been
consulted in this. It is all wrong to allow young people to have such
entire freedom in affairs of this kind as they are allowed in these
days.”

“But certainly, my dear Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said, becoming somewhat
impatient, “you will not refuse your consent in this case? Bessie’s
happiness—that is, the happiness of all of us, or—our
happiness—Bessie’s and mine, I would say—”

“No doubt your happiness is very important to yourself, Mr. Travers,
and as to my daughter’s well-being, I have looked to that for quite a
number of years past, and I flatter myself I shall be able to look out
for it in the future.”

“Not if you insist on parting us!” I cried, getting out of patience and
letting all my carefully prepared plans of assault go by the board. “You
may withhold your consent, but that cannot prevent our loving each
other!”

“Of course not. Nothing on earth can prevent young people who are in
love from making themselves ridiculous. But getting married and living
together soon cures them of sentimentalism.”

“Won’t you give us that chance to be cured then, my dear Mrs.
Pinkerton?” I exclaimed, regaining a little tact.

She seemed to be taking it under advisement, and my courage came up a
little. Then, looking at me with her peculiarly searching gaze, she
said, “It isn’t necessary to argue the case; I know all you would say.
You love Bessie to distraction; you could not live without her; your
heart would be hopelessly broken if you had to give her up; you will be
true to her forever and a day; you offer her all of the good things of
this world that any sane woman could desire, besides which you throw in
an eternal, undying devotion; and so on, to the end of the chapter. We
will consider that all said, and so save time and trouble. You think
that ought to end the matter and bring me to your way of thinking. I
wonder at the effrontery of young men, who walk into our households and
carelessly tell us mothers what is best for our children, and assure us,
between their puffs of tobacco smoke, that a case of three weeks’
moonshining outweighs the devotion of a lifetime.”

I began to see what course was open for me. The old lady was jealous,
and I could not blame her. Her objections were general, not specific.
Strategy must take the place of a direct assault. There flashed through
my mind the ridiculous old nonsense rhyme quotation,—

    “I must soften the heart of this terrible cow.”

I said gently, “I can readily see how a mother must regard the claims of
the man who comes to her demanding her most precious treasure; and what
you say makes me feel how presumptuous my demand must seem. I love your
daughter—that must be my only excuse. And after all, what has happened
was only what a mother must expect. Your daughter’s love will not be the
less yours because she also loves the man of her choice. That she should
love and be loved was inevitable.”

“We will not go into the discussion any further,” she interrupted. “I
don’t wish to say anything uncomplimentary of you personally, but I
simply am not prepared to give my daughter up at present. My opinion of
men in general is good, so long as they do not interfere with me or
mine.”

(Mental note: “May there be precious little interference between us!”)

“Your judgment is doubtless good,” I said, smiling; “but there are
exceptions which prove the rule, and I hope you will find that even I
will improve upon acquaintance.”

“Your conceit is abominable, young man.”

“Thank you. I have found no one who could flatter me except myself, so I
lose no opportunity to give myself a good character.”

“Especially in addressing the mother of the woman you wish to marry,
eh?”

“Precisely, as she is naturally prejudiced against me. My dear Mrs.
Pinkerton, what must I do to please you?”

“Hold your tongue!”

“Anything but that. You admit that I am a good fellow enough, and that
Bessie would probably marry some one in course of time. Now, I don’t see
why you cannot make us both happy by giving your consent. It costs you a
pang to do it. I honor you for that. Give me the right to console you.”

“By making myself an object of pity? No, not yet, not yet. I must, at
least, have time to think.”

I inwardly cursed my luck. How long was this sort of thing going to
last? I was about to rise and take my leave, when an inspiration struck
me.

“Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said gravely, “what you have said of the ties that
exist between you and your daughter has touched me deeply. I believe we
young people do not half appreciate a mother’s unchanging love. It lies
so far beneath the surface that we are too apt to forget its constant
blessing. My mother died when I was very young. Ah, if she were only
here now, to plead my cause for me!”

With these words, I turned on my heel and hastily got out of the room. I
went into the garden and lighted a cigar, the better to think over the
situation. I could not determine what progress, if any, I had made in
the good graces of Mrs. Pinkerton. While I was cogitating, Bessie came
out and approached me with an inquiring look. I am afraid my returning
glance did not greatly reassure her. As she came up and took my arm, she
said,—

“Well?”

“Well! No, it’s not very well. I am beaten, my dear. Your mother is
simply a stony-hearted parent!”

“What did she say?”

“Oh, she wants you to grow up an old maid—as if such a thing were
possible!—and says that lovers have no idea of what a mean, cruel thing
it is to rob people of only daughters; and that she shall require time
to think of it. What do you think of that?”

Bessie knitted her pretty brows, and dug her toes into the walk.

“Perhaps I had better go to her?” she said.

“Of course you must. But I know it won’t be of any use just yet. We
must, as she says, give her time. She will come around all right at the
end of nine or ten years. The fact is, Bessie, she’s a little bit
jealous of me and regards me as an intruder.”

“Poor, dear mamma!” said Bessie, her eyes becoming moist.

“Poor, dear pussy-cat! You should have seen her shoot me with her eyes
and ridicule my honest sentiment. She used me roughly, my dear, and I
can’t help wondering at my amazing politeness to her.”

Bessie was not discouraged. She had several interviews with her mother,
in which protestations, tears, smiles, and coaxings played a part, but
there was no apparent change of heart on the part of the old lady, after
all. I don’t know how long this disagreeable state of affairs would have
continued under ordinary circumstances, had not an unexpected,
thrilling, and, as it happened, fortunate occurrence hastened a crisis
and brought an end to the siege. It was a very singular thing, and it
seemed to have been pre-arranged to bring me glory, and, what was
better, the desired goodwill of the “stony-hearted parent.”

If there was any one thing that the worthy Mrs. Pinkerton detested more
than men and tobacco, that thing was a burglar. Add fear to detestation,
and you will see that when I defended the old lady from the attentions
of a burglar, I had taken a long step into her good graces.

It was a week after the interview narrated above, and in the early
summer, Mrs. Pinkerton had gone down to a quiet sea-side resort for a
short stay, thinking to get away from me; but I was not to be put off
so. I followed her, taking a room at the same hotel.

About one o’clock at night, the particular burglar to whom I owe so
much, effected an entrance into the hotel through a basement window, and
quietly made his way up stairs. Every one was asleep except myself, and
I was planning all sorts of expedients to conquer the prejudices of my
mother-in-law that was to be. Mrs. Pinkerton’s room opened on a long
corridor, near the end of which my modest seven-by-nine snuggery was
situated. It was a warm night, and the transoms over the doors of almost
all the bed-chambers had been left open to admit the air. A gleam of
light from a dark-lantern, coming through my transom, was what led me to
hastily don a pair of trousers and take my revolver from my valise. Then
I opened my door very cautiously, without having struck a light, and
could see—nothing! I waited a few moments, almost holding my breath. At
the end of those few moments I could make out the form of a man swarming
over the top of the door of Mrs. Pinkerton’s room. His head and
shoulders were already inside the room, and I could see his legs wriggle
about as he noiselessly wormed his way through the narrow transom. It
took me but a brief second of time to glide forward on tiptoe and mount
the same chair which had been used by the intruder in climbing to the
transom. This done, I seized both the wriggling legs simultaneously, and
gave a tremendous pull.

My excitement must have imbued me with double my natural strength, and
the result of that pull was simply indescribable. Burglar,
transom-glass, chair and all, went in a heap on the floor of the
corridor, producing the most appalling and unearthly racket conceivable.
The whole house was in an uproar in a moment. People seemed to spring up
from every square foot of floor in the corridor as if by magic. Cries of
“Fire!” “Murder!” “Help!” and screams of frightened women, rose on every
hand. The costumes which I beheld on that momentous occasion were not
only varied but exceedingly amusing and picturesque as well. The
assembled multitude found nothing to interest them, however. I alone was
to be seen, seated on a broken chair, with a rapidly swelling black eye,
while broken glass and an extinguished lantern lay on the floor. I told
the male guests what had happened. The burglar had not waited to ask for
my card, but had contented himself with planting one blow from the
shoulder on my left eye, before I could get upon my legs. And my
revolver. Well, I had not had the ghost of a chance to use it. It was in
my pocket. Fifteen minutes after the fracas, Mrs. Pinkerton came to my
room, completely dressed, and insisted upon coming in to hear all about
it and to overwhelm me with thanks and admiration. I was as modest as
heroes proverbially are, and then and there told her never to refer to
the subject again unless she addressed me as Bessie’s betrothed.

We went riding together, Bessie, Mrs. Pinkerton, and I, the day after
this episode; and without any previous indication of an approaching
thaw, that singular old lady began to talk freely about what should be
worn at “the wedding,” referring to it as though she had been the
principal agent in bringing it about.




CHAPTER III.

OUR MARRIAGE.


So it was that I brought my darling’s mother around to consent, if not
with a very good grace, still with apparent cheerfulness, and she at
once took the direction of the nuptial preparations. I made a show of
consulting her about many things, but she invariably gave me to
understand that her experience and superior knowledge in such matters
were not to be gainsaid. I was willing to leave to her all the fuss and
frippery of preparing clothes for her daughter. It always seemed to me
that she had clothes enough, and clothes that were good enough for
married life. I couldn’t understand why a young woman, on becoming a
wife, should need a lot of new and elaborate dresses, such as she had
never worn and never cared to wear, and an endless variety of
under-garments of mysterious and incomprehensible make, with frills and
fringes and laces and edgings, as if, up to that time, she had never had
anything next to her precious person, except what was visible to the
exterior world. And even assuming that she donned these things for the
first time as parts of a manifold and complicated wedding garment, why
should so much fine needle-work and delicate trimming be prepared to be
stowed away out of sight of prying mortals, for whose vision women are
presumed to dress themselves? Are they got up to show to friends and
excite envy, and to fill the minds of other young people with a sense of
the difficulties of getting married?

One day, when I happened in,—by accident, of course,—and the mother
happened to be out on one of her many pilgrimages to town, Bessie took
me up to her room in a half-frightened way, as if doing something that
she was afraid was terribly improper, and showed me a bewildering
profusion of these things, neatly tucked away in bureau drawers. I
laughed outright, and asked her who was to see all that finery. She was
vexed and bit her lip, and I was sorry and voted myself a brute. From
that moment, I determined not to say a word about the clothes, except to
express unstinted admiration.

There was not only clothing, but blankets and quilts and bed linen,
though we were to live in her old home, which was already well supplied.
One would suppose that a large and sudden increase of family was
expected at once. These things annoyed me as senseless, and as absorbing
so much of my Bessie’s attention that we didn’t have half the blissful
times together that we had before our engagement was an acknowledged
thing. But I knew that it was the mother’s doings. Bessie did not really
have any foolish care for dress, though always beautifully arrayed
without any apparent effort; but she supposed it was the proper thing,
and submitted to her mother.

But there was one thing I set my heart on. I wanted a quiet wedding,
without display or pretence. It did seem to me that this was a private
occasion in which the wishes of the persons chiefly concerned should be
consulted. It was their business and should be conducted in their own
way. Bessie sympathized with me, and wanted of all things to go to
church quietly and privately, and then, after a leave-taking with a few
intimate friends at home, start right off on our proposed trip to the
White Mountains. But no; we were inexperienced, and the widow knew what
the occasion demanded much better than we did. She was a little grand in
her ideas, and felt the importance of keeping on good terms with
society. I was disposed to apply profane epithets to society, and to
insist that this marriage was mine and Bessie’s, and nobody’s else. But
what was the use? There would be unpleasant feelings, and the mamma must
be conciliated, and so I yielded after a warm but altogether
affectionate little controversy with Bessie.

Every time I came to the house now, I was informed of some new feature
which Mrs. P. had decided upon as indispensable to the gorgeousness of
the occasion.

“Have you ordered your dress suit yet?” she asked one evening.

“Dress suit? Oh yes. I had almost forgotten that.”

“And, by the way, those cards? I think you had better send them out:
you write such a good, legible hand.”

“Y-e-s, oh yes. With pleasure.”

“When you go to the city to-morrow, I wish you would drop in at Draper’s
and get me a few little things. I have made out a list, so it won’t be
any trouble to you.”

“No trouble at all. Glad to do it.”

“That white ribbon should be medium width. And before I forget it, have
you written yet to your friend De Forest about his standing up?”

“No, I forgot it. I’ll drop him a line to-morrow. But what do you want
that ribbon to be so long for?”

“That is to be held across the aisle by the ushers, you know, to keep
off the _ignobile vulgus_. You and Bessie will march up _here_, you see,
preceded by the four ushers and the bridesmaids and groomsmen, who will
then range themselves off this way. The members of the families and the
friends will be separated from the other people _thus_. It’s very
pretty. Belle Graham was married that way at St. Thomas’s, and everybody
said it was splendid.”

This is the kind of talk I had to listen to for weeks, and is it any
wonder that I grew thin and had sleepless nights?

I was now a mere puppet in the hands of Mrs. Pinkerton, and came and
went as she pulled the wires. She had arranged that the affair was to
take place in “her church”—and a very fashionable temple of worship it
was. Her rector was to officiate, assisted by the vealy young man who
had just graduated from the theological seminary. There were to be four
bridesmaids and an equal number of groomsmen and of ushers. I should
have liked to have something to say about who should “stand up” with us,
as Mrs. Pinkerton expressed it; but when I timidly suggested that some
of my friends would be available for the purpose, I was taken aback to
learn that the entire list had been made up and decided upon without my
knowledge, and that only one of the groomsmen chosen was a friend of
mine,—De Forest,—the others being young men whom the worthy Mrs.
Pinkerton had selected from her list of society people. One of the young
men was a downright fool, if I must call things by their right names,
but he dressed to perfection; the remaining two I scarcely knew by
sight, but I did know that one of them had seen the time when he aspired
to occupy the place I was now filling in respect to the Pinkerton
household: need I say more concerning my sentiments regarding him?

The ushers,—well, of course, they were the four young gentlemen who
knew everybody who was anybody, and I could not object to them,
considering that they charged nothing for their onerous services.

The bridesmaids were all old school friends of Bessie’s, and two of them
were considered pretty, and the other two were stylish.

One of my keenest regrets was that Bessie’s brother George was away off
in Paris, and could not grace the occasion with his superb presence; for
he was a superb fellow in all respects, and I felt a true brotherly
affection for him. Had he not introduced me to Bessie? Had he not always
wanted me to become his brother-in-law?

The great day came at last. The town was full of the invited people, and
the weather, so anxiously looked to on such occasions, was all that
could be desired. My remembrance of the solemn events of that day is
now rather misty. I remember the tussle De Forest and I had with my
collar and cravat in the morning, and how he stuck pins into my neck,
and wrestled mightily with his own elaborate toilet. I remember, and
this very distinctly, how awfully tight were my new patent-leather
boots, which caused me for the time being the most excruciating anguish.
Beyond these, and similar minor things which have a way of sticking in
the memory, all the rest is very much like a vivid dream. The close
carriage whirling through the streets; a great crush of people, with
here and there a familiar, smiling face; Bessie in her wedding-dress of
white silk, with her long veil and twining garlands of orange blossoms;
the bridesmaids, radiant in tarletan, with pretty blue bows and sashes;
the long aisle, up which we marched with slow and reverent tread; the
pealing measures of the Wedding Chorus; the dignified and fatherly
clergyman; the vealy young assistant; the unction of the slowly intoned
words of the marriage-service; the fumbling for the ring,—and through
it all there rises, as out of a mist, the face of my mother-in-law, the
presiding genius of it all, the unknown quantity in the equation of my
married life, now begun amid the felicitations, more or less sincere, of
a host of kissing, hand-shaking, smiling, chattering, good-natured
aunts, uncles, cousins, and relatives of all degrees.




CHAPTER IV.

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.




CHAPTER V.

THE RISE AND FALL.


During the next week of our stay at the Fairview hotel, it grew rather
dull. There was little to do but drive on the long country roads, or
wander over the hills and in the fields and woods. I could have found
plenty of pleasure in that with Bessie and a party of congenial friends,
but it didn’t seem to be right always to leave my worthy mother-in-law
behind, with her crochet work or the last new novel from the city, on
the sunny piazza or in her dim little chamber. She was not averse to
drives, in fact enjoyed them very much, but she seemed to divine that I
did not really want her company, though I protested, as became a dutiful
son-in-law, that I should be very glad to take her at any time. She did
go with us once or twice, but the laughter and romping behavior which
gave our rides their chief zest were extinguished, and we jogged along
in the most proper manner, professing admiration for the outlines of the
hills and the far-away stretches of scenery between the more distant
mountains. We returned as quiet and demure as if we had been to a
funeral. Mrs. Pinkerton saw the effect, and with her fine feeling of
independence, she politely but firmly declined to go afterwards. As for
walking on anything but level sidewalks or gravel-paths, she could not
think of such a thing. The idea of her climbing a hill or getting
herself over a fence seemed ridiculous to anybody that knew her.

So it was that we were continually forced to leave her behind, or deny
ourselves the chief recreation of the country. I was sincerely
disinclined to slight her in any way, and desirous of contributing to
her pleasure, but what could I do? A fellow can’t get an iceberg to
enjoy tropical sunshine. Our dislike to leave the old lady alone,
although she insisted that she didn’t mind it at all, led us to pass a
large portion of each day, sometimes all day, about the house. It was
“deuced stupid,” to use Marston’s elegant phrase, but there was little
to do for it. To be sure, there was Desmond, “old Dives,” Fred called
him. He seldom went out of sight of the house, but he had a perfect
mail-bag of newspapers and letters every morning, and spent the forenoon
indoors, holding sweet communion with them and answering his
correspondents. In the afternoon he sat on the piazza by the hour,
contemplating the mountain-top that had such a fascination for him. He
had a prodigious amount of information on all manner of subjects, and a
quick and accurate judgment; but he was generally very reticent, as he
tipped back in his chair and twisted his fingers in and out of that fine
gold chain. My mother-in-law, from her shady nook of the piazza, would
glance at him occasionally from her work or her book, as much as to say,
“It is strange people can’t make some effort to be agreeable, instead of
being so stiff and dignified all the afternoon”; but he seemed
unconscious of her looks and her mental comments. His thoughts were
probably in the marts of trade.

Fred was continually going off to distant towns, or down to the great
hotels in the mountains, for livelier diversion. His wife often insisted
on going with him, to his evident disgust, not because she cared to be
in his company, but because she wanted to go to the same places and
could not well go alone. Now, Fred wasn’t a bad fellow at heart. I had
known him for years, and used to like him exceedingly. But he was left
without a father at an early age, with a considerable fortune, and his
mother was indulgent and not overwise. He got rather fast as he grew up,
and then he contracted a thoughtless marriage with Lizzie Carleton, a
handsome and stylish young lady, fond of dress and gay society, and
without a notion of domestic responsibility or duty. Like most women who
are not positively bad, she had in her heart a desire to be right, but
she didn’t know how. She was all impulse, and gave way to whims and
feelings, as if helpless in any effort to manage her own waywardness. As
a natural consequence there were constant jars between the pair. Fred
took to his clubs and mingled with men of the race-course and the
billiard halls, and Lizzie beguiled herself as best she could with her
fashionable friends.

And where was Miss Van Duzen these long and tedious days? They were
never tedious to her, for she was always on the go. She would go off
alone on interminable strolls, and bring back loads of flowers and
strange plants, and she could tell all about them too. Her knowledge of
botany was wonderful, and she could make very clever sketches; she would
sit by the hour on some lonely rock, putting picturesque scenery on
paper, just for the love of it; for when the pictures were done she
would give them away or throw them away without the least compunction.
She had a fine sense of the ludicrous and was all the time seeing funny
things, which she described in a manner quite inimitable. She had grown
up in New York, before her father’s death, in the most select of
Knickerbocker circles, but there was not a trace of aristocracy in her
ways. She was sociable with the ostler and the office-boy, and agreeable
to the neighboring farmers, talking with them with a spirit that quite
delighted them. And yet there was nothing free and easy in her ways that
encouraged undue familiarity. It was merely natural ease and good
nature. She inspired respect in everybody but my mother-in-law, who was
puzzled with her conduct, so different from her own ideas of propriety,
and yet so free from real vulgarity. Mrs. Pinkerton could by no means
approve of her, and yet she could accuse her of no offence which the
most rigid could seriously censure.

Miss Van was the life of the company when she was about, telling of her
adventures, getting up impromptu amusements in the parlor, and planning
excursions. She was the only person in the world, probably, who was
quite familiar with Mr. Desmond, and she would sit on his knee, pull his
whiskers, and call him an “awful glum old fogy,” whereat he would laugh
and say she had gayety enough for them both. He admired and loved her
for the very qualities that he lacked.

All this while I was trying to win the gracious favor of my
mother-in-law, but it was up-hill work. She would answer me with severe
politeness, and volunteer an occasional remark intended to be pleasant,
but the moment I seemed to be gaining headway, a turn at billiards with
Marston, for whom she had a great aversion, a thoughtless expression
with a flavor of profanity in it, or my cigars, which I now indulged in
without restraint, brought back her freezing air of disapproval.

“Oh, dear!” I yawned sometimes, “why can’t I go ahead and enjoy myself
without minding that very respectable and severe old woman?” But I
couldn’t do it. I was always feeling the influence of those eyes, and
even of her thoughts. I couldn’t get away from it. Sunday came, and Mrs.
Pinkerton expressed the hope that we were to attend divine service
together. I hadn’t thought of it till that moment, and then it struck me
as a terrible bore. There was no church within ten miles except a little
white, meek edifice in the neighboring village, occupied alternately by
Methodist and Baptist expounders of a very Calvinistic, and, to me, a
very unattractive sort of religion. It was not altogether to my
mother-in-law’s liking, but she regarded any church as far better than
none.

“I presume you will go, sir,” she said, addressing me when I made no
reply to the previous hint. She always used “sir,” with a peculiar
emphasis, when any suggestion was intended to have the force of a
command.

“Well, really, I had not thought about it,” I said, rather vexed, as I
secretly made up my mind, reckless of my policy of conciliation, that I
would not go at any price. A tedious, droning sermon of an hour and
perhaps an hour and a half in a country church, full of dismal
doctrines,—the sermon, not the church,—I couldn’t stand, I thought.

Mrs. Pinkerton’s eyes were upon me, waiting for a more definite answer.
“I—well, no, I don’t think I really feel like it this morning. I
thought I would read to Bessie quietly in our room, and take a rest.”

“Very well, sir,” she said, “Bessie and I will walk down to the
village.”

“The deuce you will!” I thought; “walk a mile and a half on a dusty
road; to be bored!” I knew it was useless to protest, and I was too
wilful to take back what I had said, have the team harnessed, and go,
like a good fellow, to church. “No, I’ll be blowed if I do!” I muttered.

So off went the widow and her daughter without me. Bessie tripped around
to me on the piazza, looking like a fairy in her white dress and bit of
blue ribbon, gave me a sweet kiss, and said, “I’ll be back before
dinner. Have a nice quiet time, now.”

“Oh, yes; have a nice quiet time, and you gone off with that old
dragon!” It was a wicked thought, for she was not a bit of a dragon, but
the feeling came over me that I was going to feel miserable all the
forenoon, and so I did. Miss Van and her uncle had gone early to the
neighboring town, the largest in the county, for church and the
opportunity of observing; Fred and his wife had gone, the night before,
round to the other side of the mountains, where there was to be a sort
of ball or hop at the leading hotel; and the rest of the people in the
house might as well have been in the moon, for all that I cared about
them. A nice quiet time! Oh, yes; lounging about and trying to think of
something besides Mrs. Pinkerton and my own shabby behavior. I would ten
times rather have been in the dullest country church that ever echoed to
the voice of the old and unimproved theology of Calvin’s day. But I was
in for it, and lay in the hammock and looked through the stables, tried
to read, tried to sleep, started on a walk and came back, and almost
cursed the quiet country Sunday, as specially calculated to make a man
of sense feel wretched.

At last Bessie and her mother returned, and we had dinner. In the
afternoon I was an outcast from Mrs. Pinkerton’s favor, but I had Bessie
and read to her, and, on the whole, got through the rest of the day
comfortably.

The week following I began to feel that this was getting tiresome. Under
other circumstances it might be very pleasant, but really I began to
doubt whether I was enjoying it. But I made up my mind that during these
days of leisure I ought to be making progress in the favor of my
mother-in-law, with whom I was destined to live, nobody could say how
many years. I couldn’t and wouldn’t make a martyr or a hypocrite of
myself. I wouldn’t conceal my actions or deny myself freedom. So I
smoked with Fred, played billiards, rolled ten-pins with Fred’s wife and
Miss Van, and even beguiled Bessie into that vigorous and healthful
exercise, which brought a gentle reprimand from her mother, addressed to
her but directed at me. She did not think that kind of amusement
becoming to ladies who had a proper respect for themselves.

“Why, mamma, Miss Van Duzen plays, and says she thinks it jolly fun,”
said Bessie innocently.

“That doesn’t alter the case in the least,” was the rejoinder. “Miss Van
Duzen can judge for herself. I don’t think it proper. Besides, your
husband’s familiar way with those ladies—one of whom is married and no
better than she ought to be, if appearances mean anything—does not
please me at all.”

“O mamma, how absurd! I see no harm in it at all, and poor Lizzie, I am
sure, never means any harm.”

“Well, well, my dear, I don’t wish to say anything about other people,
and I only hope you will never have occasion to see any harm in your
husband’s evident preference for the company of people with loose
notions about proper and becoming behavior.”

On Saturday of that week a little incident occurred that raised me
perceptibly in Mrs. Pinkerton’s estimation. The great, lumbering
stage-coach came up just at evening, more heavily laden than usual, and
top-heavy with trunks piled up on the roof. The driver dashed along with
his customary recklessness, the six horses breaking into a canter as
they turned to come up the rather steep acclivity to the house. The
coach was drawn about a foot from its usual rut, one of the wheels
struck a projecting stone, and over went the huge vehicle, passengers,
trunks, and all. The driver took a terrible leap and was stunned. The
horses stopped and looked calmly around on the havoc. There was great
consternation in and about the house. Here my natural self-possession
came into full play. I took command of the situation at once, directed
prompt and vigorous efforts to the extrication of the passengers, had
the injured ones taken into the house, applied proper restoratives, and
in a few minutes ascertained that only one was seriously hurt. She was a
young girl, who had insisted on riding outside, higher up even than the
driver. She had been thrown headlong, striking, fortunately, on the
grass, but terribly bruising one side of her face and dislocating her
left shoulder. In a trice I had made her as comfortable as possible;
dashed down to the village for the nearest doctor, having had the
forethought to order a team harnessed in anticipation of such a
necessity; and, having started the doctor up in a hurry, kept on to the
neighboring county town for a surgeon who had considerable local
reputation. I had him on the ground in a surprisingly short time, and
before bedtime the unfortunate girl was put in the way of recovery,
having received no internal injury.

My behavior in this affair, as I said, gave me a lift in my
mother-in-law’s estimation, and of course filled Bessie with the most
unbounded admiration, though I had never thought of the moral effect of
my action. In the morning I determined to follow up my advantage. It was
Sunday again, and I bespoke the team early, to go to the neighboring
town, where there was an Episcopal church, and where, for that day, a
distinguished divine from the city, who was spending his vacation in
those parts, was to hold forth. When I had announced my preparation for
the religious observance of the day, I actually received what was
almost a smile of approval from my mother-in-law. I enjoyed the ride,
and was not greatly bored by the service, for I was thinking of
something else most of the time, or amusing my mind with the native
congregation. We got back late to dinner, and the rest had left the
dining-room. The ladies went in without removing their bonnets, and
after dinner retired to their rooms.

As I came out on the piazza, Fred, who was walking about in a restless
way, puffing his cigar with a sort of ferocity, as though determined to
put it through as speedily as possible, shouted, “Hello! Charlie, old
boy, where the eternal furies have you been? Here I have been about this
dead, sleepy, stupid place all the morning, with nothing to do and
nobody to speak to!”

“Why, where’s Mrs. M.?”

“Lib? Oh, she’s been here, but then she was reading a ghastly stupid
novel, and wasn’t company; and she went off to the big boarding-house
down the road half a mile, to dine with a friend. I wouldn’t go to the
blasted place, and really think she didn’t want me to. But where in
thunder were you all the while?”

“At church, to be sure, with my wife and her mother.”

“Oh, yes!” was the reply, peculiarly prolonged, as if the idea never
occurred to him before. “How long since you became so pious, old man?
Didn’t suppose you knew what the inside of a church was used for. The
outside is mainly useful to put a clock on, where it can be seen. Old
Pink,—beg pardon! Mrs. Pinkerton,—I suppose, dragged you along by main
force.”

“Not at all. I went of my own motion; in fact, suggested it to the
ladies.”

“You don’t say so! Well, I see she is bringing you around. It is she
that is destined to gain the supremacy.”

“Pshaw! Is my going to church such an indication of submission? It
wouldn’t do you any harm to go to church once in a while, Fred.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he said, taking out his cigar, and
stretching his feet to the top of the balustrade; “I don’t know about
that. I am afraid it might be the ruin of me. I might become awfully
pious, and then what a stick and a moping man of rags I should become. I
tell you, Charlie, my boy, there’s many a good fellow spoilt by too
much church and Sunday school.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, “but you and I are beyond danger.”

“Well, yes, but you can’t be too careful of yourself, you know.”

There was no answering that, and we relapsed into commonplace, and
finished our cigars.

“Where’s old Dives to-day, and his charming niece, the lively Van?”
asked Fred, after an uncommon fit of silent contemplation.

“They went over to some town thirty or forty miles away, yesterday, and
haven’t got back,” I replied.

“I tell you, that girl knows how to circumvent these stupid Sundays,
don’t she, though? And she takes old Dives along wherever she wants to
go. I believe she would take him where the other Dives went, if she was
disposed to take a trip there herself. But, holy Jerusalem! what are we
to do to get through the rest of the day. No company, no billiards, no
fishing. Confound the prejudices of society. I tell you, it is just such
women as that mother-in-law of yours that keep society intimidated, as
it were, into artificial proprieties. Now where’s the harm of a pleasant
game on a Sunday, more than sitting here and grumbling and cursing
because there’s nothing to do?”

I made no reply, and Fred lighted another cigar. He was evidently
thinking of something. “Look here, old fellow,” he said at length in an
undertone, something very unusual with him, “come up to my room. You
haven’t seen it. Lib won’t be back till teatime, and perhaps we can find
something to amuse ourselves.”

He led the way and I followed, thinking no harm. His room was up stairs
and on the back of the house, looking up the great hill that stretched
back to the clouds. As we entered, I found he had brought a good many
things with him, and given the room much the air of the quarters of a
bachelor in the city. His sleeping-room was separate from that, and
formed a sort of boudoir for his wife. He motioned me to an easy-chair,
set a box of fine cigars on the table, and going to the closet brought
out a decanter of sherry and some glasses.

“In these cursed places, you can get nothing to drink,” he said,
“unless on the sly, and I hate that; so I bring along my own beverages,
you see.”

I saw and tasted, and found it very good. He was still fumbling about
the closet, with profane ejaculations, and finally emerged with
something in his hand that I at first took for a small book. But he
unblushingly put on the table that pasteboard volume sometimes called
the Devil’s Bible. “Come,” he said, “where’s the harm? Let us have a
quiet game of Casino or California Jack, or something else. It is better
than perishing of stupidity.”

I demurred. I was not over-scrupulous, but I had sufficient of my early
breeding left to have a qualm of conscience at the thought of playing
cards on Sunday.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Fred, carelessly, as he proceeded to deal the cards
for Casino. “There, you have an ace and little Casino right before you.
Go ahead, old man!”

I made a feeble show of protesting, but took up my cards, and, finding
that I could capture the ace and little Casino, took them. From that the
play went on; I became quite absorbed, and dismissed my scruples, when,
as the sun was getting low, a shadow passed the window.

“Great Jupiter!” I exclaimed, looking up. “Does that second-story piazza
go all the way round here?”

“To be sure,” answered Fred, whose back was to the window. “Why not?
What did you see,—a spook?”

“My mother-in-law!”

“The devil!”

“No, Mrs. Pinkerton!”

“Well, what do you care? You are your own boss, I hope.”

“Yes, of course; but she will be terribly offended, and I think it would
be pleasanter for all concerned to keep in her good graces.”

“Gammon! Assert your rights, be master of yourself, and teach the old
woman her place. D—— me, if I would have a mother-in-law riding over
me, or prying around to see what I was about!”

“Oh, I am sure she passed the window by accident. She would never pry
around; it isn’t her style; she has a fine sense of propriety, has my
mother-in-law!”

“Oh, yes, old Pink is the pink of propriety, no doubt about that!” said
the rascal, laughing heartily at his heartless pun.

But I couldn’t laugh. I saw plainly enough that I had lost more than all
the ground that I had gained in my mother-in-law’s favor, and my task
would be harder than ever. I had no more desire to play cards, and
sauntered down stairs and out of doors as if nothing had happened. At
the tea-table Mrs. Pinkerton was very impressive in her manner, but
showed no direct consciousness of anything new. On the piazza, after
tea, she was uncommonly affable to her daughter, and, I thought, a
little disposed to keep Bessie from talking to me. The latter appeared
troubled somewhat, and looked at me in an anxious way, as if longing to
rush into my arms and ask me all about it and say how willingly she
forgave me; but her mother kept her within the circle of her influence,
and I sat apart, harboring unutterable thoughts and saying nothing. At
last Mrs. Pinkerton arose, and said sweetly, “I wouldn’t stay out any
later, dear, it is rather damp.”

“Stay with me, Bessie,” I said, “I want to speak to you. Your mother is
at liberty to go in whenever she pleases.” It was then she gave me a
disdainful look and swept in, and I muttered the wish regarding her
transportation to a distant clime, which brought out the gentle rebuke
with which this story opens.

I saw no prospect of enjoying a longer stay at the Fairview, unless some
burglary or terrible accident should occur to give me chance for a new
display of my heroic qualities, and even then, I thought, it would be of
no use, for I should spoil it all next day. So we determined to go home
a week earlier than we had intended. The Marstons were going to Canada
and Lake George, and wouldn’t reach home till October. Mr. Desmond and
his niece stayed a month longer where they were, and that would bring
them home about the same time. Bessie and I went home with a lack of
that buoyant bliss with which we had travelled to the mountains and
spent those first two weeks. There was no change in us, but it was all
due to my mother-in-law.




CHAPTER VI.

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!”




CHAPTER VII.

MISS VAN’S PARTY AND ANOTHER UNPLEASANTNESS.


One day in the early fall, Mrs. Pinkerton received a letter postmarked
at Paris, which seemed to throw her into a state of extraordinary
excitement. I knew her well enough to be certain that she would not tell
me the news, but that I should hear it later through Bessie. Such was
the case. When I came home towards evening and went up stairs to prepare
for supper, Bessie, who was seated in our room, said in a joyful tone,—

“George is coming home next month!”

“That’s good,” I said; and the more I thought of it the better it
seemed. A new element would be infused into our home life with his
advent, and I confidently believed that the widow’s society would be
vastly more tolerable when he was among us. George had been so long in
Paris that he had become a veritable Parisian. That he would bring
along with him a large amount of Paris sunshine and vivacity to enliven
the atmosphere of our little circle, I felt certain.

“Is he coming to stay?” I asked.

“He don’t know. He says he never makes any plans for six months ahead.
It will depend upon circumstances.”

“Well, that’s Parisian. I’m very glad he’s coming, and I hope
circumstances will keep him here. Isn’t old Dr. Jones pretty nearly
dead? Seems to me George could take his practice.”

“Now, Charlie!”

“It’s all right, puss; doctors must die as well as their patients.”

I broached the subject to mother-in-law at the supper-table,
and—_mirabile dictu!_—she agreed with me that we must keep George with
us when we got him.

In November George arrived. He didn’t telegraph from New York, but came
right on by a night train, and, walking into the house while we were at
breakfast, took us by surprise.

Mrs. Pinkerton taken by surprise was a funny phenomenon, and I’m afraid
propriety received a pretty smart blow when she threw her napkin into a
plate of buckwheat cakes, dropped her eye-glasses, and rushed to meet
the long-lost prodigal.

As for George, he brought such a gale into the house with him—there are
plenty of them on the Atlantic in November—that everything seemed
metamorphosed. He laughed and shouted, and hugged first one of us and
then another, and finally sat down and ate breakfast enough for six
Frenchmen, every minute ripping out some wicked little French oath and
winking at his mother with the utmost complacency. Never since I had
become an inmate of the cottage had we enjoyed a meal so much as that
one. There was an _abandon_, an _insouciance_, an _esprit_, a
_je-ne-sais-quoi_ about this young frog-eater that thoroughly carried
away the whole party, including even Mrs. Pinkerton.

When George had eaten everything he could find on the table, he lighted
a cigarette,—right there in the dining-room, too, and under his
mother’s eyes,—and we had a good, long, jolly talk together, Bessie
sitting between us and feasting her eyes on her brother’s comeliness.
He certainly was handsome.

“I have no plans,” he said, “except to loaf here awhile and wait for an
opening.”

“A French Micawber,” said I. “And I suppose you know all about medicine
and surgery?”

“I have learned when not to give medicine, I believe, and so, I think, I
can save lots of lives.”

A few days after George’s arrival we received a call from the Watsons. I
had never had the pleasure of meeting the Watsons, but I had had the
Watsons held up before me as examples of the right sort of style so many
times, that I felt already well acquainted with them.

Mr. Watson was a very retiring, quiet little man, awed into obscurity by
his wife. After a long and persistent effort to interest him in
conversation, I was compelled to give it up, and to leave him smiling
blankly, with his gaze directed toward the Argand burner.

Mrs. Watson was immense in every sense of the word. Her moral and mental
dimensions were awe-inspiring; and she delivered what I afterwards
found, on reflection, to be very commonplace utterances in a style in
which unction, dogmatism, self-satisfaction, and finality were
predominant. Once, when she had brought forth an unusually imposing
sentence, her husband fairly smacked his lips.

The Watsons had no children. They were among the most prominent
attendants of St. Thomas’s, and the old gentleman was reputed to be
worth about a million.

George came in while the call was in progress, and after greeting the
Watsons, he turned to Mrs. W., and uttered one of the most polished,
delicate, pleasing little compliments it has ever been my fortune to
hear uttered. Then he quietly withdrew into the background.

Just then some more callers were announced, and what was my surprise to
see Mr. Desmond and Miss Van Duzen enter. The former was as resplendent
as to his watch-chain as ever, and his niece looked charming.
Introductions all round followed, and the company broke up into groups.

George took a seat near Miss Van, and a brisk fire of conversation was
soon under way between them, varied by frequent bursts of friendly
laughter.

Mr. Desmond soon drew out Mr. Watson, and their talk was on stocks,
bonds, and the like.

After Mrs. Watson had proved her theory of the laws of the universe, and
had almost intoxicated my worthy mother-in-law with her glittering
rhetoric, the Watsons took their departure. Before the others followed
their example, Miss Van extended an informal invitation to us to attend
a “social gathering” at her uncle’s residence the following Wednesday
evening.

We went, of course, Mrs. Pinkerton, George, Bessie, and I. It was a
pleasant party, and it could not have been otherwise with Miss Van as
the hostess. There was a little dancing,—not enough to entitle it to be
called a dancing-party; a little card-playing,—not enough to make it a
card-party; and there was a vast amount of bright and pleasant
conversation, but still one could not name it a _converzatione_. The
company was remarkably good, and Miss Van’s management, although
imperceptible, was so skilful that her guests found themselves at their
ease, and enjoying themselves, without knowing that their pleasure was
more than half due to her _finesse_.

George was quite a lion, and I envied his easy tact, his unconscious
grace of manner, and his faculty of saying bright things without effort.
He and Miss Van got on famously together, and she found him an efficient
and trustworthy aid in her capacity as hostess.

Mrs. Pinkerton made a lovely wall-flower, and I could not refrain from a
wicked chuckle when I saw her sitting on a sofa, exchanging commonplaces
with a puffing dowager. Presently, however, I noticed that she had gone,
and I found that Mr. Desmond had been kind enough to relieve me from the
onerous duty of taking her down to supper.

I wish I had a printed bill of fare of that supper, for even George,
fresh from Véfour’s and the Trois Frères Provençaux, acknowledged that
it was sublime, magnificent, perfect. We men folks, in fact, talked so
much about it afterwards, that Bessie rebuked us by remarking that “men
didn’t care about anything so much as eating.”

As Fred Marston remarked to me, while helping himself a third time to
the salad, “It’s a stunning old lay-out, isn’t it!” His wife was there,
dressed “to kill,” as he himself said, and dancing with every gentleman
she could decoy into asking her.

After we had come up from the supper-room, Fred Marston pulled me into a
corner, and inflicted on me a volley of stinging observations about the
people in the room. George, Bessie, Mrs. Pinkerton, and Miss Van were, I
supposed, in one of the other rooms; I had lost sight of them.

“Old Jenks lost a cool hundred thousand fighting the tiger at Saratoga,
this last summer,” said Fred. “I had it from a man who backed him. Do
you know that young widow talking with him near the end of the piano?
No? Why, that’s Mrs. Delascelles, and a devil of a little piece she
is,—twice divorced and once widowed, and she isn’t a day over
twenty-five. You ought to know her. By the way, that brother of yours is
a whole team, with a bull-pup under the wagon. Does he let old Pink boss
him around as she does you?”

“It’s a fine night,” I said.

“Delightful! I say, Charlie, it must be a terrible bore to lug the old
woman around to all these shindigs with you, hey?”

“What do you think about the State election?” I demanded.

“The Republicans have got a dead sure thing, I’ll lay you a V. She has
bulldozed you till you don’t dare open your head, my boy. Yours is one
of the saddest and most malignant cases of mother-in-law I ever struck.”

“Fred,” I said, in hopes of bringing his tirade to an end, “your
friendship is slightly oppressive. Confine your attentions to your own
grievances. I will take care of mine.”

“Ah! at last you acknowledge that you have one. Confess, now, that old
Pink is a confounded nuisance!”

“Well, then, yes, she is! Does that satisfy you, scandal-monger? Now,
for Heaven’s sake, shut up!”

I heard a brisk rustling of silk just at my left and a little back of
where I sat, and some one passed toward the front parlor.

“By Jove!” ejaculated Fred, looking intently. “It’s old Pink herself,
and I hope she got the benefit of what we said about her. I had no idea
she was sitting near us.”

“What _we_ said about her!” I repeated. “I didn’t say anything about
her.”

“Yes, you did. Ha, ha! You said she was a confounded nuisance!”

I shuddered.

“Oh, well, brace up! Perhaps she didn’t hear that impious remark,” said
Fred, chuckling maliciously. “Or if she did, perhaps she’ll let you off
easy: only a few hours in the dark closet, or bread and water for a day
or two.”

“Confound your mischief-making tongue!” I growled. “Here comes Miss Van
Duzen to bid you quit spreading scandal about her guests.”

Miss Van Duzen, on the contrary, only wished Mr. Marston to secure a
partner for the Lanciers, which he promptly did.

I sat brooding while the dancing went on, and was somewhat astonished,
when it was over, to see George making for my corner.

“How’s this?” he said. “Didn’t you go home with them?”

“With them? What! You don’t mean to say—”

“But I do, though! Bessie and mother made their adieux half an hour
ago, and I thought of course you had gone home with them, as nothing was
said to me. This is a pretty go! Bessie must have been ill.”

“Nonsense!” I exclaimed. “I should have known if that was the case.
Where’s Miss Van?”

“I saw her. She thought it was odd, but supposed you had gone with them.
What could have started them off in that fashion?”

“Well, well, don’t let’s stand here talking. Come on.”

We did not stop for ceremony. Rushing up stairs, we donned our hats and
coats, and made our way out to the sidewalk without losing any time. I
hailed a carriage, and we drove rapidly out of town. It was about half
past one o’clock when we arrived home. There were lights in our room and
in Mrs. Pinkerton’s chamber. George followed me up stairs, and I tapped
at the door of our room.

“Is it you, Charlie?” said Bessie’s voice.

“Yes,—and George.”

She opened the door. It was evidently not long since their arrival
home, for she had not begun to undress.

“Explain, for our benefit, the new method of leaving a party,” said
George, “and why it was deemed necessary to give us a scare in
inaugurating the same.” He threw himself into an easy-chair.

“Perhaps Mr. Travers is better able to tell you why mother should have
left in the way she did,” said Bessie, trying to make her speech sound
sarcastic and cutting, but finding it a difficult job, with her breath
coming and going so quickly.

“The deuce he is!” roared George. “Come, Charlie, what have you been up
to? I must get it out of some of you.”

“I am utterly unable to tell you why your mother should have left in the
way she did,” was all I could find to say.

“Sapristi! This is getting mysterious and blood-curdling. The latest
_feuilleton_ is nothing to it. Must I go to bed without knowing the
cause of this escapade? Well, so be it. But let me tell you, young
woman, that it wasn’t the thing to do. If you find your husband flirting
with some siren, you must lead him off by the ear next time, but don’t
sulk. Good night.”

George walked out and shut the door after him.

“See here, Bessie,” I said kindly, “don’t cry, because I want to talk
sensibly with you.”

She was sobbing now in good earnest.

“I want you to tell me what your mother said to you about me.”

She couldn’t talk just then, poor little woman! But when she had had her
cry partly out, she told me.

Her mother had not told her a word of what had passed between Fred
Marston and me! The outraged dignity of the widow would not admit of an
explicit account of the unspeakable insult she had received. She had
simply given Bessie to understand that I had uttered some unpardonable,
infamous slander, and had hustled the poor girl breathlessly into a cab
and away, before she fairly realized what had happened.

I then told Bessie what our conversation had been, and left her to judge
for herself. I had not the heart to scold her for her part in the French
leave-taking, though it made me feel miserable to think how few
episodes of such a sort might bring about endless misunderstandings and
heart-aches.

Of course more or less talk was caused by the mysterious manner of our
several departures from Miss Van’s party; and, thanks to Fred Marston
and his wife and similar rattle-pates, it became generally known that
there was a skeleton in the Pinkerton closet.

Miss Van soon heard how it came about, and nothing could have afforded a
more complete proof of her refinement of character than the delicacy and
tact with which she ignored the whole affair.




CHAPTER VIII.

ANOTHER CHARLIE IN THE FIELD.


The winter, with its petty trials and contentions, had gone by; spring,
with its bloom and fragrance, was far advanced; and already another
summer, with its possible pleasures and recreations, was close upon us.
Before it had fairly set in, however, an event of extraordinary
importance was to occur in our little household. There had been
premonitions of it for some time, which had a tendency to soften and
soothe all asperities, and cause a rather sober and subdued air to
pervade the little cottage, and now there were active preparations going
on. Of course, the widow was gradually assuming the management of the
whole affair, and it was a matter in which I could hardly venture to
dispute her right. Her experience and knowledge were certainly superior
to mine, and it was an affair in which these qualities were very
important. In fact, I seemed to be counted out altogether in the
preparations, as if it was something in the nature of a surprise party
in my honor. Mrs. Pinkerton had an air of mysterious and exclusive
knowledge concerning the grand event. Miss Van, who had come to have
confidential relations with Bessie, of the most intimate kind,
notwithstanding the mother’s objections, knew all about it, but had a
queer way of appearing unconscious of anything unusual. There seemed to
be a general consent to a shallow pretence that I was in utter and
hopeless ignorance. It annoyed me a little, as I flattered myself that I
knew quite as much about what was coming as any of them, and I thought
it silly to make believe I didn’t, and to ignore my interest in the
affair. Bessie had no secrets from me, of course, and our understanding
was complete, but one might have thought from appearances that we had
less concern in the matter than anybody else.

As the auspicious time drew near, the goings-on increased in mystery and
the widow’s control grew more and more complete. Bessie showed me one
day a wardrobe that amused me immensely. It was quite astonishing in
its extent and variety, but so liliputian in the dimensions of the
separate garments as to seem ridiculous to me.

“Aren’t they cunning?” said the dear girl, holding up one after another
of the various articles of raiment. Then she showed me a basket,
marvellously constructed, with a mere skeleton of wicker-work and
coverings of pink silk and fine lace, and furnished with toilet
appliances that seemed to belong to a fairy; and finally, removing a big
quilt that had excited my curiosity, she showed me the most startling
object of all,—a cradle! I had seen such things before and felt no
particular thrill, but this had a strange effect upon me. I didn’t stop
to inquire how these things had all been smuggled into the house without
my knowledge or consent, but kissed my little wife fondly, and went down
stairs in a musing and pensive mood.

The next day a decree of virtual exile was pronounced upon me. My
mother-in-law thought perhaps it would be better if I would occupy
another room in the house for a time, and let her share Bessie’s
chamber. The poor, dear girl might need her care at any time, and the
widow looked at me as much as to say, “You cannot be expected to know
anything about these matters, and have nothing to do but obey my
directions.” I consented without a murmur or the least show of
resistance, for I admitted everything that could possibly be said, and
lost all my spirit of independence in view of the impressive event that
was coming. So I meekly took to the attic, and put up with the most
forlorn and desolate quarters. One or two mornings after, I was aroused
at an inhuman hour, and ordered in the most imperative tones to call in
Dr. Lyman as quickly as possible, and haste after Mrs. Sweet. I hurried
into my clothes in the utmost agitation, raced down the street in a
manner that led a watchful policeman to stop me and inquire my business,
rung up the doctor with the most unbecoming violence, and delivered my
errand up a speaking-tube, in answer to his muffled, “What’s wanted?”
Then I rushed to the neighboring stable, and got up the sleepy hostler
with as much vehemence in my manner as if he were in danger of being
burned to death, and induced him to harness a team, in what I
considered about twice the necessary length of time; drove three miles
in the morning twilight for Mrs. Sweet, a motherly old maid in the
nursing business, who had officiated at Bessie’s own _début_ upon the
stage of life. When I had got back and returned the team to the stable,
and was walking about the lower rooms in a restless manner, feeling as
if I had suddenly become a hopeless outcast, the doctor came down
stairs, and said, with amazing calmness, as though it was the most
commonplace thing in the world,—

“Getting on nicely. Fine boy, sir! Mrs. Travers is quite comfortable.
Will look in again in the course of the morning.”

Then I was left alone again, an outcast and a wanderer in my own home.
All the life was up stairs, including the wee bit of new life that had
come to venture upon the perils and vicissitudes of the great world. It
was two hours, but it seemed a month, before any one relieved my
solitude, and then it was at Bessie’s interposition—in fact, a command
that she had to insist upon until her mother was afraid of her getting
excited—that I was admitted to behold the mysteries above.

Well, it is nobody’s business about the particulars of that chamber. It
was too sacred for description; but there was the tiny, quivering, red
new-comer, already dressed in some of the dainty liliputian garments,
and very much astonished and not altogether pleased at the effect.
Bessie was proud and happy, the nurse, moving about silently, knew just
what to do and how to do it, and the mother-in-law held supreme command.
She was grand and severe, and evidently her wishes had been disregarded
in respect to the sex of her grandchild. She feared the consequences of
another Charlie launched into a world already too degenerate, and she
had hoped for an addition to the superior sex. But Bessie and I were
mightily pleased that it was a boy.

There was little to be said then, but in a few days the restraint began
to be relaxed, and discussions arose about what had become the most
important member of the household. Even the widow must be content with
the second place now, but I began to have misgivings lest my position
had been permanently fixed as the third. In my secret mind, however, I
determined to assert my rights as soon as Bessie was strong again, and
reduce my mother-in-law to the position in which she belonged. I had put
off doing it too long, and advantage might be taken of the present
juncture of affairs to strengthen her claim to supremacy, and it really
wouldn’t do to delay much longer.

“I think he looks just like Charlie,” said Bessie to Miss Van, the first
time the latter called after the great event.

“Well, I don’t know,” was the reply. “It seems to me he has his papa’s
dark eyes, but I can’t see any other resemblance.”

“Oh, I do!” Bessie replied with spirit. “Why, it is just his forehead
and mouth, and his hair will be just the same beautiful brown when he
grows up.”

The old lady was looking on reproachfully, and finally said, “Bessie, my
dear, that child looks precisely like your own family. George at his age
was just such an infant; you couldn’t tell them apart.”

George entered the room at that moment, and with his boisterous laugh
said, “You don’t mean to say that I was ever such a little, soft,
ridiculous lump of humanity as that, do you?”

“As like as two peas,” was the reply of his mother.

For my part I kept out of the discussion, for I must confess I could see
no resemblance between the precious baby and any other mortal creature,
except another baby of the same age. I thought they looked pretty much
all alike, and was not prepared to deny that it was the exact
counterpart of anybody at that particular stage of development.

“I tell you what, Bess,” said George, after the debate had fully
subsided, “you must name that little chap for me.”

“Oh, no,” replied the proud mother, “that is all settled; his name is
Charlie.”

Nothing had been said on the subject before, and I was a little startled
at Bessie’s positive manner, for I thought even this matter would not be
free from her mother’s dictation. The old lady seemed surprised and
vexed. “George is a much better name, I think,” she said very quietly,
keeping down her vexation, “but I thought perhaps you might remember
your dear father in this matter. His name, you know, was Benjamin.”

“Yes, I know,” said Bessie, very firmly, “but I think there is one with
a still higher claim, and the child’s name is Charles.”

“Good for you, little girl!” I thought, but I said nothing. Within me I
felt a gleeful satisfaction at Bessie’s spirit, which showed that if it
ever came to a sharp contest with her mother, nothing could keep her
from holding her own place by her husband’s side. All my misgivings
about her possible estrangement by her mother’s influence vanished, and
I saw that the new tie between us would be stronger than any earthly
power.

“Well,” said George abruptly, after a pause, “I wouldn’t be so
disobliging about a little thing like that.”

“Ah! you wait until you can afford the opportunity of furnishing names,
and see what you will do,” I said jokingly. My joke was not generally
appreciated. The widow gave me a look a little short of savage. Bessie
suppressed a smile, in order to give me a reproof with her eyes, and
Miss Van just then thought of something wholly irrelevant to say, as if
she had not noticed my remark at all. On the whole, I was made to feel
that it was a disgraceful failure.




CHAPTER IX.

THE SHADOW ON OUR LIFE.


Another summer with all its glory was upon us. It was nearly a year
since we were married, and I was beginning to feel the dignity of a
family man. As Bessie regained her strength and bloom, she seemed to
have a matronly grace and self-command quite new to her. As I looked
back over our married life I saw no dark shadows, no coldness between us
two, no misunderstandings that need occasion regret, but somehow it
seemed as though that year had not been so bright and happy as it ought
to have been. We had lived under an irksome restraint that was
depressing. I had felt it more than Bessie, for she had been accustomed
to submit to her mother, and did not chafe, but she plainly saw that my
life had not that blithesomeness that would have been natural to me, and
which she would have been glad to give it.

It was the presence and influence of the mother-in-law that gave a
chill to my home life, and yet I could accuse the good woman of no
special offence. She was no vulgar meddler, and never wished or intended
to mar our domestic felicity. She had managed to keep control of our
household arrangements and we had passively acquiesced, but I felt that
it would be better if Bessie would take command and cater more to our
own desires. We could then have things our own way, and her position
would be more becoming as the lady of the house. She began to regard it
in the same light herself. Our social life, too, had been restrained and
restricted. I was very fond of having my friends about me, and wished
them to come in for the evening or to dinner or to pass a Sunday
afternoon in our little bower, as often as they could find it agreeable.
Mrs. Pinkerton made no open objections, but I knew the company of my
friends was not congenial to her, and so was reluctant and backward in
my invitations to them. Besides, they were apt to be chilled and
disconcerted by the widow’s stately presence and rebuking ways, and were
disinclined to make themselves quite at home with us. Fred Marston and
his wife had been quite driven away. Mrs. Pinkerton had declined to
speak to the latter, and had told the former in plain terms that he used
language of which no gentleman would be guilty.

“By thunder!” roared the impulsive fellow, “I’ll have you to understand
that my wife and I are just as good as you, with your cursed airs of
superiority!” and he stormed out of doors, and incontinently returned to
town. When I met him afterwards he condescendingly declared that he
didn’t blame me, except that I ought to be a man and not allow “old
Pink” to insult my guests. I did not particularly regret his
discontinuing his visits, for, to tell the truth, I did not like his
manners, and he had drifted into a circle and among associates not at
all to my taste, but it galled me to have any one whom I chose to
entertain driven out of my house.

I think nothing saved our charming friend, Miss Van Duzen, to whom we
had both become greatly attached, from being gracefully snubbed and
insulted, except the presence of her uncle, whenever she came out to
visit us in the evening. Mr. Desmond’s indisputable social rank, his
unimpeachable demeanor as a gentleman, and the dignity and
impressiveness of his presence, though it could by no means overawe my
mother-in-law, made it impossible even for her to give him an affront.
Besides, she seemed to have a real respect for that fine old gentleman.
She would doubtless have thought better of him if he had been a regular
attendant at St. Thomas’s Church, but she could not learn that he was
very constant at any sanctuary. His views were decidedly what are called
liberal, and yet he was very considerate of the religious beliefs and
practices of others, and would cheerfully acknowledge the worthy aims
and good works of all the different Christian denominations. He seemed
to understand why other persons should choose to join one or another,
while he preferred to stand aloof, have his own ways of thinking, and do
whatever good he might in his own way. He had large business interests
and great wealth, and though he maintained his mansion in the city in
great elegance, his family expenses were comparatively small, and he was
reputed to make it up fully by supporting more than one poor family in
a quiet way. He was liberal in his conduct as well as his belief, and
his character and habits were above the reproach of the severest critic.
Hence it was that the widow was forced to respect at least this one of
our visitors, and to treat his niece with common civility, though
cordiality was out of the question.

In fact, we owed to Mr. Desmond not a little for what relief we obtained
in our social life from the chilling restraints of the mother-in-law’s
presence. He seemed to take a real pleasure in coming out to our little
snuggery. His stately establishment in town could not be very home-like.
His niece presided over it with great skill, and saw that every wish or
taste of his was gratified. She could always entertain him with her
sprightly wit, and their social occasions were among the most elegant in
the city. He had his club to go to, which furnished every means that
ingenuity and lavish resources could contrive to minister to the
pleasures of man. And yet, there was wanting to his life that element
that was the essence of home. He had longed for it when he was young,
and had provided for it in his household; but the wife of his youth had
been called from him early, and he had vainly tried to fill all his life
with business, with silent works of charity, with elegance and profusion
in his house, with his clubs, his studies, and his travels; but still
there was a void, and when he came to visit us, he seemed to find
something akin to the home feeling in our little circle. So he came far
oftener than was to be expected of one in his position. Clara was his
excuse, but it was plain to see that he liked to come on his own
account, and he made himself very agreeable to us all; and when he came,
we noticed the chilling influence of Mrs. Pinkerton much less than when
he was not there.

Sometimes we had a whist party. It was generally Bessie and I against
Clara and George, but the widow had no objection to whist and was
occasionally induced to take a hand, while Mr. Desmond was quite fond of
the game and was a consummate player. When we young people made up the
set, Mr. Desmond would converse with the widow, for though reticent
where politeness did not call upon him to talk, he was incapable of the
rudeness of sitting silent with one other person, or in a small party
of intimate friends; and these conversations, showing his wide
information on all manner of subjects, his sympathy with all charitable
movements, and his tolerant regard even for the widow’s pet ideas on
church and society, evidently increased her respect for him.

George must not be forgotten as a member of our circle, and never can be
by those who were in it. His vivacity did much to relieve us from the
depression that brooded over us. He and Clara Van, as he had taken to
calling her as a sort of play upon caravan,—for was she not a whole
team in herself? he would say,—he and Clara had many a lively contest
of words, and were well matched in their powers of wit and repartee.

Thus there were lights as well as shades, relief as well as depression,
in our social life, but over it all was a shadow, the shadow of my
mother-in-law.




CHAPTER X.

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.




CHAPTER XI.

GEORGE’S NEW DEPARTURE.


“George is growing very restless. I don’t know what ails him,” Bessie
said to me.

“I can guess,” I said, looking wise.

“What is it?”

“Do you remember what an uneasy, good-for-nothing chap one Charlie
Travers was, when he first began to call on a certain young woman with
conspicuous regularity?”

“O Charlie, you don’t think he—”

“No, no! Now don’t explode too suddenly. I wouldn’t have him know that I
suspect anything for the world. We won’t name any names, but I keep my
eyes about me, and I flatter myself I know the symptoms.”

And with these mysterious words, I started for the bank, leaving to
Bessie a new and delightful subject for speculation and air-castle
building.

George did not come home to supper that day, but that was nothing
extraordinary. I was sitting out on the porch, smoking after the meal,
and saw him coming up the street.

“Where have you been?” I asked, as he joined me and took a seat.

“None of your business. In town.”

“Is Miss Van well?” I asked mischievously.

“How should I know?”

“Come, George, you don’t play the part of Innocence over well. Suppose
you try Candor, and tell me where you have been.”

“You mistake my identity. I’m not your baby. You will find the youthful
Charlie entertaining his mother up stairs.”

A long-drawn-out, agonized wail, proceeding from the regions above,
showed how Bessie was being entertained.

“No opening yet?” I ventured to ask, changing the subject.

“Not the slightest prospect. If some of these doctors could only be
inveigled into taking some of their own prescriptions! But no; they are
too wise.”

“The bitterness of your tone would seem to indicate that you have not
enjoyed your visit to the town.”

“The town be hanged, and the country too! Let’s take a walk down the
street. Give me a cigar, confound you! How hot it is!”

We strolled down the street.

“This is a terrible vale of tears, this world,” said I. “The world is
hollow, and my doll is stuffed with sawdust, which accounts for his
howling.”

George was silent. He pulled at his cigar ferociously, smoked it half
up, threw it away, and replaced it by a cigarette.

“When a man throws away the best part of a Reina Victoria he is either
flush or badly in love,” said I to myself. I waited patiently for him to
speak, as I was perfectly willing to receive his confidence, but I
didn’t have the chance. He maintained a loud silence all the way, and we
walked back home as we had gone out.

“Something’s up—something serious,” I informed Bessie that night, “but
George does not confide in me worth a cent, which I think is a little
unbrotherly.”

The following day George was absent from an early hour in the afternoon
till long after all the household were fast asleep at night. I was
awakened at about midnight by a light tapping at the door of our room,
and slipped out of bed without disturbing Bessie or the baby.

“Come up to my den!” whispered George, as I opened the door. “Don’t wake
the others.”

I quietly got into my clothes and crawled noiselessly up to George’s
“den,” devoured by curiosity. The moment I caught sight of his handsome
face I saw that it was all right with him, and that he had nothing but
good news to tell me. We sat down, hoisted our heels to a comfortable
altitude, and George told his story. I let him tell it himself here:—

“I was feeling terribly blue yesterday, when you saw me,” he began, “as
you could see. In the afternoon I went into town, and, according to a
previous arrangement, hired a horse and buggy and called to take her out
riding.”

(Of course “her” was Miss Van.)

“We had agreed to take the old Linwood road, and follow it to the
village, returning through the Maplewood Park and so getting back to the
city at about six. We left the town and passed through the suburbs
rapidly, until we struck into the country, and there I let the horse go
his own pace, which was slow. So much the better. Miss Van Duzen was
never more charming. We had the most agreeable bit of talk, and she drew
me out till I amazed myself. She always does. It’s no use my telling
you, Charlie, but I have been a fool in my love for her ever since the
night she came into this cottage like a stray beam of sunshine on a
cloudy day. My heart went out of my keeping the night she called here
with the old gentleman. I believe it was her freshness, her moral
purity, that acted on my morbid, half _blasé_ spirit, like a tonic, and
brought me on my feet. I’m talking random nonsense, you say, but why
shouldn’t I? I’m drunk with love. Don’t laugh at me. I’ll be all right
by daylight, except a headache. We got to talking about ourselves.
Lovers always do, don’t they? You ought to know. There doesn’t seem to
be much else in the world worth talking about. I told her all about
myself,—my past, with its good and bad points, and my present hopes and
purposes. It all popped out as naturally as possible. I suppose it would
sound like drivel if I were to repeat it. Finally she began to laugh.

“‘It is dangerous to make a woman your confidant,’ she said. ‘How do you
know that I can keep a secret better than any other of my sex?’

“‘I am not afraid on that score,’ said I. ‘This is my confessional. It
is as sacred as any. Am I to receive absolution?’

“She could not fully promise that. She read me a neat little lecture. It
was fascinating to thus receive correction at her hands. I pledged
myself, when it was done, to follow the course laid out for me. Then I
made bold to exchange _rôles_. With some maidenly hesitation, which soon
vanished, she in turn laid before me the inner history of her life. Ah,
my boy, how little there was in it to gloss over! how much to humiliate
the best and noblest of us men! It was a revelation that made me
prostrate myself before her. I was not worthy to hear it.”

George paused, and drummed on the table with his fingers nervously.

“I may as well tell you all,” he resumed. “I had resolved to ask that
girl to marry me when we started on our ride, but after what she said to
me so simply and modestly, I positively could not do it. She expected me
to speak, I know that, for she would not have told me what she did tell
me, otherwise.”

“So you didn’t speak? Oh, stupid, stupid boy!”

“I know it. But my tongue was tied. Perhaps it was all cowardice; I
can’t say. I never was afraid of any one before. I came home utterly
shattered and down-hearted. To-day I gravitated back to her, after a
sleepless night. She received me with the same friendly smile as usual,
but there seemed to be a slight shadow over her spirits. That little,
almost imperceptible change filled me with joy. I jumped to a conclusion
that intoxicated me, and made the plunge at once.

“‘It is another case of the moth and the candle,’ I said to her.

“‘Thank you. So I am a candle? That is a fine figure of speech.’

“‘Seriously speaking, I think we had not finished what we were talking
of yesterday.’

“‘What were we talking of yesterday?’ she had the effrontery to ask.
‘Oh, yes, now I recollect. It was yourself. That subject, I fear, you
will never finish talking of.’

“‘Now that’s a very mean speech, all things considered,’ I whined. ‘Do
you want to strike a man, when he’s way down?’

“‘Don’t play Uriah Heep. I hate ’umble people. But if I have perchance
pierced the thick epidermis of Parisian pride you have so long worn, I’m
glad of it.’

“She likes to abuse me, and I enjoy it quite as well as she. She
continued to scold me and mock me for some time, to disguise her actual
mood. I saw through it, and let her have her way for a while. The meeker
my replies, the greater the exaggerated harshness of her criticisms. At
last I no longer attempted to reply at all. Leaning back in a corner of
the sofa, I watched the play of her animated features and the light of
her dark brown eyes, and felt that she was the one woman in the
universe that suited me, the one woman I could respect and love
passionately at the same time.

“‘You say truly I am a coward. I am aware of that. I admit that I am all
that is detestable. If such a wretch as you describe were to love a
woman, what unhappiness for him! There could be no hope for him. He
would know his own irredeemable unworthiness, and so could only slink
away in shame.’

“‘You are quite right,’ she cried, laughing merrily. ‘That would be the
only course for him to pursue.’

“‘By the way,’ I said, ‘that reminds me that my train goes out in twenty
minutes.’

“I rose, and she also stood up to accompany me to the door. I held out
my hand. It was an unusual demonstration, and perhaps she thought it
meant good-by in earnest. At least, as she put her hand in mine, I
detected a look I had never before seen in the depths of those fine
eyes. With a sudden, unpremeditated, and irresistible movement, I drew
her close to me, folded my arms about her, and kissed her passionately.

“‘Clara!’ I whispered, ‘I love you! I love you! Don’t tell me to go.’

“She gently drew herself out of my reluctant arms, and though her eyes
were misty now, I saw in them that I was to stay.

“That’s all the story I have to tell you, Charlie. I am too happy
to-night to sleep, so I couldn’t let you sleep. I stayed and spent the
evening. Mr. Desmond, bless his dear old heart! cried over Clara, and
gave her an old-fashioned blessing. I walked home on air. Do I look very
badly corned?”

I gave him a rousing hand-shake, and wiped away a stray bit of moisture
from my cheek.

“May I tell Bessie?” were my first words when I found my tongue.

“Why not? There will be no long engagement in this case. The knot shall
be tied as soon as possible.”

The announcement I made to my little wife the following morning was not
entirely unexpected, yet it filled her with delight. Miss Van was the
woman of all others that Bessie wished to have George marry. The
arrangement was, therefore, completely to her satisfaction, and she
beamed upon the happy George with true sisterly affection.

What effect would the news have upon Mrs. Pinkerton? I asked myself. I
had not long to wait for an answer, for it was at the breakfast-table
that George fired the shot.

“Mother,” said the bold youth, “I’m going to be married.”

His mother abruptly stopped stirring her coffee, and her spine visibly
stiffened, but she said nothing.

“The event will occur without delay. Of course it is useless to inform
you who is the—”

“Quite useless,” Mrs. Pinkerton broke in; “my wishes in the matter are
not of the slightest consequence to you.”

“On the contrary. Now, look here; don’t be so infernally quick to
anticipate my wilfulness. I want to conform to your wishes if I can.
_Que faire?_”

“We will talk about it after breakfast.”

Accordingly, there was a serious passage-at-arms in the library after
breakfast. George left the house a conqueror, but the conquered had no
sort of intention of abandoning the campaign after a Bull Run defeat. In
fact, war had only just been declared. It must not be supposed that it
was a war the movements of which could be followed by the acutest
military observer; the batteries were all masked, but the gunpowder was
there. I felt confident that George would carry everything before him,
and he did. He brought Miss Van over to spend the evening, and we had
the pleasantest time imaginable. He would not allow his mother to say a
word against Miss Van, and made a fair show of proving that the latter
had, not only better blood, but also better breeding and a truer sense
of propriety than my mother-in-law, that is, “when it came to the
scratch,” as George said. “But who would give a snap for a young woman
who can’t throw aside the shackles of conventionality once in a while,
and be herself?”

Miss Van was her own jolliest, sweetest self at this time. Her beauty
had never been so noticeable: joy is an excellent cosmetic, and love
paints far better than rouge or powder.

As soon as Mrs. Pinkerton had recovered from her defeat, and when the
engagement had become an acknowledged fact which all the world might
know, the wedding began to loom up before us, and I could not help
wondering if St. Thomas’s Church was to be the scene of as fashionable
and grand a display as on the occasion when Bessie and myself were made
one.

I felt reasonably certain that Mrs. Pinkerton would make an effort to
that end, and I was curious to see how George would look on it.

Bessie, I think, would have been glad to see the marriage take place
with as much pomp and show as possible. She was intensely interested in
what Clara should wear, and every visit from that young woman was the
occasion for a vast deal of confidential and no doubt highly important
_tête-à-tête_ consultation.

Mother-in-law sailed into the library one evening with unusual celerity
of movement.

“George, dear,” she said, “this cannot be true! You would not permit
such an eccentric, uncivilized proceeding. Surely you will not offend
our friends by—”

“Avast there! Our friends be hanged!” cried George wickedly. “Yes, it’s
true, too true. The ceremony will be private, and no cards. You can
come, though! Next Wednesday, at two o’clock, sharp!”

This was cruel. I could see his mother almost stagger under the blow.
She attempted to remonstrate, but it was too late. George assured her
that “it was all fixed,” and that Clara had agreed with him regarding
the details.

“Honest old John Stephens will tie the knot,” said he, “and it will be
just as tight as if Dr. McCanon manipulated the holy bonds. I trust we
shall have the pleasure of your company, mother. Consider yourself
invited. A few of the choicest spirits will be on hand. Clara will wear
the most exquisite gray travelling suit you ever laid eyes on.”

The widow was flanked, outgeneralled, routed along the whole line. She
brought forward all her reserve forces of good-breeding, and thus
escaped a disastrous panic by retiring in good order.

The ceremony occurred, as George had announced, the following
Wednesday. The near relatives and best friends of the young couple were
present, and it was a quiet and thoroughly enjoyable affair for all who
participated. An hour after they had been pronounced man and wife,
George and his bride rode away to take the train for the mountains.

    “And on her lover’s arm she leant,
      And round her waist she felt it fold,
    And far across the hills they went
      In that new world which is the old.”




CHAPTER XII.

BABY TALK, OLD DIVES, AND OTHER THINGS.


The cottage seemed dull enough after the departure of George with his
bride. Bessie was so absorbed by the care of our little one that she had
very little time to think of anything else, and in fact the new-comer,
for the time being, monopolized the attention of his grandmother as well
as of his mother. I was therefore left to my own resources.

“Baby is not very well, Charlie,” Bessie informed me, one morning, with
an anxious air. “Do you think it would do to wrap him up well and take
him for a little ride this afternoon?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. If I can get that black horse at the livery
stable, I’ll bring him around this afternoon. But I don’t see why you
should wrap him up. It’s hot as blazes.”

“You don’t know anything about babies, Charlie. Go along. Get a nice,
easy carriage, and we’ll take mother with us. I long for a ride.”

I departed, and secured the desired “team.”

Towards two o’clock I drove up to the cottage, and the entire family
bundled into the vehicle, and we were off. I chose a pleasant, shady
road, and drove slowly, while Bessie and her mother filled the air with
baby talk.

As we were climbing the hill near Linwood, I saw, a short distance ahead
of us, the form of an elderly gentleman toiling up the ascent in the
sun. He seemed fatigued, and stopped as we drew near him, to wipe the
beads of perspiration from his brow.

“Why, it’s Mr. Desmond!” exclaimed Bessie.

Sure enough! As he turned toward us I recognized the white vest, the
expansive shirt-front, and the resplendent watch-chain that could belong
to no other than “old Dives” himself.

“How d’ye do?” I cried, halting our fiery steed.

“Ah! Mr. Travers, Mrs. Pinkerton, how do you do? Delighted to meet you.
It’s very warm.”

“How came you so far out in the country afoot?” I asked.

“I had some business at Melton, and lost the 2:30 train back to town,
so I started to walk to Linwood with the purpose of taking a train on
the other road. They told me it was only a mile and a half, but—.” And
he sighed significantly.

“How fortunate that we met you,” said Mrs. Pinkerton quickly, taking the
words out of my mouth. “Get in and ride to Linwood with us. We have a
vacant seat, you see.”

I seconded her invitation, and without much hesitation he accepted, and
took a seat by my side. The conversation turned naturally upon the
“young couple” (Bessie and I were no longer referred to in that way),
and Mr. Desmond extolled his niece unreservedly. Mother-in-law was
evidently somewhat impressed, but I think she made some mental
reservations.

“Will you smoke, Mr. Desmond?” I asked, offering him a cigar.

“No, I thank you.”

“Oh, I had forgotten you did not approve of the habit. Excuse me.”

Mrs. Pinkerton explained to Mr. Desmond, apologetically, that I was an
irresponsible victim of the nicotine poison. I laughed, but Mr. Desmond
received the explanation solemnly, and expressed his abhorrence for “the
weed.”

The old gentleman professed great admiration for baby, and said that he
looked exactly like his mother; in fact, the resemblance was almost
startling.

By the time we had got to Linwood, our passenger had talked himself into
a state of good-humor, and we left him at the railroad station, bowing
and smiling with true old-school _aplomb_.

Bessie thought the ride did Charlie, junior, good, and so it became a
regular thing, on pleasant afternoons, to take him out for a little
airing. Mrs. Pinkerton overcame her scruples, and usually accompanied
us. A sample of the sweet converse held with my son and heir on the back
seat will suffice:—

“Sodywazzaleetlecatchykums! ‘Esoodavaboobangy! Mamma’s cunnin’
kitten-baby!”

One day, just before noon, when I had been making a mental calculation
as to how I should be able to cover the livery-stable bill, a fine
equipage stopped in front of the bank, and through the window I saw the
stately driver hand a note to our errand-boy. In a moment Tommy appeared
in the room and handed me the billet, which ran thus:—

    MY DEAR MR. TRAVERS,—I trust you will not take it amiss if I
    send my coachman out your way once in a while to exercise the
    ponies. Since Clara’s taking-off, they have stood still too
    much, and knowing that you go to ride occasionally with your
    family, I take the liberty of putting them at your disposal for
    the present, with instructions to John, who is a careful and
    trustworthy driver, to place himself at your service whenever
    you are so disposed. The obligation will be entirely on my part,
    if you will kindly take a turn behind the ponies whenever you
    choose. My regards to your wife and Mrs. Pinkerton.

        Believe me yours sincerely,

            T. G. DESMOND.


I could find no objection to accepting this kindly offer, so delicately
made, but I did not dare to do so before consulting Bessie and her
mother, so I stepped into the carriage and had John drive me to the
cottage. There was a consultation, and after I had overcome some feeble
scruples on Mrs. Pinkerton’s part, which I am afraid were hypocritical,
we decided to take advantage of Mr. Desmond’s generosity. I sent a note
of thanks back by John, and thenceforth we took our rides behind “old
Dives’s” black ponies. Occasionally the old gentleman himself came out
in the carriage, and proved himself as trustworthy and careful a driver
as John, handling the “ribbons” with the air of an accomplished whip.
The rides were very pleasant, those beautiful summer days, and the
change from a hired “team” to the sumptuous establishment of Mr. Desmond
was extremely grateful.

Mr. Desmond was doubtless very lonely without his niece. She had been
the light of his home, and her absence was probably felt by the old
gentleman with more keenness than he had anticipated at the outset. His
large and beautifully furnished mansion needed the presence of just such
a person of vivacious and cheery character as Clara, to prevent it from
becoming cheerless in its grandeur. He intimated as much, and appeared
unusually restless and low-spirited for him. He sought to make up for
the absence of the sunshine and joyousness that “Miss Van” had taken
away with her, by applying himself with especial diligence to business;
but he really had not much business to engross his attention, beyond
collecting his interest and looking out for his agents, and it failed to
fill the void. He betook himself to his club, and killed time
assiduously, talking with the men-about-town he found there, playing
whist, and running through the magazines and reviews in search of wit
and wisdom wherewith to divert himself. The dull season had set in;
there was little doing, in affairs, commerce, politics, or literature;
and direct efforts at killing time always result in making time go more
heavily than ever. Mr. Desmond’s attempt was like a curious _pas seul_,
executed by a nimble actor in a certain extravaganza, the peculiarity of
which is that at every forward step the dancer slides farther and
farther backward, until finally an unseen power appears to drag him back
into the flies.

It was during one of our afternoon drives, when Mr. Desmond usurped the
office of his coachman, that he confided to us a plan which he had
devised to cure his _ennui_.

“I have made up my mind,” he said, “to go abroad for a good long tour.
It will be the best move I could possibly make.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “How soon do you propose to go?” And Bessie
sighed, “O dear, how delightful!”

“My plans are not matured,” Mr. Desmond continued, “but I think I shall
sail early next month. My favorite steamer leaves on the 6th.”

“I hope you will enjoy a pleasant voyage, and a delightful trip on the
other side,” said Mrs. Pinkerton politely.

Mr. Desmond returned thanks. Nothing more was said that day concerning
his project. When he left us at the cottage, he remarked,—

“By the way, Mr. Travers, I wish you would call at my office to-morrow
morning at or about eleven o’clock, if you can make it convenient to do
so.”

“I will do so,” I replied, wondering what he could want of me.

At the appointed hour the next day I was on hand at his office. He
motioned to me to be seated and then said,—

“Yesterday morning I met John K. Blunt, of Blunt Brothers & Company, at
my club, and he told me that their cashier had defaulted. An account of
the affair is in this morning’s papers. They want a new cashier. I have
mentioned your name, and if you will go around to their office with me,
we will talk with Blunt.”

“Mr. Desmond—” I began, but he stopped me.

“Don’t let’s have any talk but business,” he said. “The figures will be
satisfactory, I am confident.”

Satisfactory! They were munificent! Blunt liked me, and only a few short
and sharp sentences from such a man as Desmond finished the business. I
saw a future of opulence before me. My head was almost turned. I tried
to thank Mr. Desmond, but he would not listen to my earnest expressions
of gratitude.

“I have engaged passage for the 6th,” he told me when we were parting;
“I will try to call at your cottage before I get off. I am busy settling
up some details now. Good day.”

I hastened home with my good news. Bessie’s eyes glistened when she
heard it, and even my mother-in-law showed a faint sign of pleasure at
my good luck.

The following Saturday evening Mr. Desmond came out to see us.

“Don’t consider this my farewell appearance,” he said. “I merely wished
to tell you that my friends have inveigled me into giving an informal
party Tuesday evening, at which I shall expect you all to appear.”

He talked glibly, for him, and gave us an outline sketch of his proposed
tour. I thought he seemed strangely restless and nervous, and I pitied
him.

His “informal party” was really a noteworthy affair, and the wealth and
respectability of the city were well represented. Bessie could not go,
on account of the baby, so I acted as escort to Mrs. Pinkerton, who made
herself amazingly agreeable. There were not many young people present,
and the affair was quiet and genteel in the extreme. Bank presidents,
capitalists, professional men, and “solid” men, with their wives,
attired in black silks, formed the majority of the guests. They were Mr.
Desmond’s personal friends. My mother-in-law was in congenial company,
and I believe she enjoyed the evening remarkably. Most of the
conversation turned, very naturally, upon European travel. Americans who
are possessed of wealth always have done “the grand tour,” and they
invariably speak of “Europe” in a general way, as if it were all one
country.

“When I returned from my first tour abroad, a friend said to me that he
‘supposed it was a fine country over there,’” said Mr. Desmond to me,
laughing.

Some one asked him where he had decided to go.

“I shall land at Havre, and go straight to Paris,” he answered. “I
flatter myself I am a good American, and as I have been comparatively
dead since my niece left me, I am entitled to a place in that
terrestrial paradise.”

I thought I had never seen Mrs. Pinkerton appear to so good advantage as
she did on this occasion. Her natural good manners and her intelligence
made her attractive in such a company, and she was the centre of a
bright group of middle-aged Brahmins throughout the entire evening. Mr.
Desmond appeared grateful for the assistance she rendered in making his
party pass off pleasantly, and as for me, I began to feel that I had
never quite appreciated her best qualities. She was a woman that one
could not wholly know in a year, perhaps not in a lifetime. “Who knows?”
I thought; “perhaps I have wronged my mother-in-law.”




CHAPTER XIII.

A SURPRISE.


We were feeling a little solemn at the cottage. George, with his lively
ways, and Clara, with her sparkling vivacity, were away on their wedding
tour, and our good friend, Mr. Desmond, to whom we had taken a great
liking, was about to sail for an indefinite absence in foreign lands.
Though the mother-in-law’s presence was less oppressive than formerly,
there was now a pensiveness, an air of departed glory about it, that was
not cheerful. There was danger of settling down to a humdrum sort of
life, free from strife, perhaps, but at the same time devoid of that
buoyancy which should make the home of a young couple joyous.

I was a little doubtful of making a vacation in the country this summer.
To be sure, when George went away, it was agreed that after he had gone
the round of the White Mountains, the attractions of Canada, Niagara
Falls, and Saratoga, he would return for a quiet stay of a few weeks, at
the close of the season, to the little resort which we had visited a
year ago, and there, if Bessie’s health would permit, and I could
arrange for a sufficient absence from business, we would join them. But
I almost dreaded taking Mrs. Pinkerton with us, and doubted whether she
would go; at the same time, I did not like to propose leaving her behind
to take care of the cottage. I was in perplexity, and, notwithstanding
my splendid new prospects in business, was not feeling cheerful.

Coming home from a restless round of the city on the Fourth of July,
where I had found the great national holiday a bore, I noticed Mr.
Desmond’s team coming up to the garden gate with a brisk turn. That fine
old gentleman—I always feel like calling him old on account of his gray
whiskers, though he was little more than fifty—came down the walk and
with stately politeness assisted Bessie and the baby out of the
carriage. I looked to see Mrs. Pinkerton follow, but she was not there,
and clearly Mr. Desmond had not been to ride. It struck me as a little
queer, not to say amusing, that they had been having a quiet
_tête-à-tête_ together in the cottage while John gave Bessie and the
baby their airing. But then, it was not so strange either, for was he
not going to leave us in two days? It was no uncommon thing for Mrs.
Pinkerton to stay within while Bessie was out, and he had probably
dropped in late in the afternoon, expecting to find us all at home, as
it was a holiday. I bade him good by in case I did not see him again, as
he got into the carriage to ride back to the city.

“Oh, I shall see you to-morrow,” he said in a brisk tone which had not
been habitual with him of late.

That evening my mother-in-law was uncommonly gracious, a little
absent-minded, and more pleasant in spirit than I had ever known her.
She seemed to be filled with an inward satisfaction that I could not
make out at all. Bessie and I both remarked it, but could not surmise
any cause for the apparent change that had come over the spirit of her
dream.

Next morning, on reaching town, I found a note asking me to step over
to Mr. Desmond’s office when I could find time. I went at my leisure,
wondering what was up. As I entered, he seemed remarkably cordial and
happy.

“I find that Blunt,” he said in a business-like way, “would like to have
you take hold at once, if possible. Their affairs are in some confusion
and need an experienced hand to straighten them out. It will be
necessary for you to give a bond, which I have here all prepared, with
satisfactory sureties, and you need only give us your signature, which I
will have properly witnessed on the spot.”

“Oh, is that it?” I thought. Strange I didn’t think of its having
something to do with my new position. I knew I could get away from my
old place at a week’s notice, as I had already made known my intention
to leave, and there were several applicants for the position. The bond
was executed without hesitation.

“You will not lose your vacation,” Mr. Desmond said, “though your salary
will begin at once. As soon as you can get matters in order, which may
take a month or more, you are to be allowed a few weeks’ absence to
recuperate and get fully prepared for your new responsibilities.”

Thanking him for his kindness, I was about to go, when he said, “Sit
down, Mr. Travers. I have something else to say to you.”

“What’s coming now?” I wondered, as I took my seat again. Mr. Desmond
seemed a little at a loss how to begin his new communication, and came
nearer appearing embarrassed than I should have thought possible for
him.

“The fact is,” he said at last, “I have changed my mind about going
abroad.”

I have no doubt I looked very much surprised and puzzled, and smiling at
the expression of my face, he went on,—

“Your mother-in-law, Mrs. Pinkerton, is a very worthy woman; in fact, a
remarkably worthy woman.”

I couldn’t deny that; but why should he choose such a time and place to
compliment her?

“Do you know,” he added, with a still nearer approach to embarrassment
in his manner, and something like a blush on his usually calm face, “I
have asked her to become Mrs. Desmond.”

“The devil you have!” was my thought as astonishment fairly overcame
me. I didn’t say it, though, but it was my turn to be embarrassed, and I
hardly knew what to say.

Having got it out, Mr. Desmond fairly recovered his equanimity. “Yes,”
he said, “I put the idea away from me for a long time, but it would
persist in growing upon me, and I finally concluded that perhaps it
might contribute to the happiness of _all_ parties, so I have taken the
plunge. I hope you approve of it,” he added, with a queer twinkle in his
eye.

“With all my heart, sir,” I said earnestly; “and I am sure it will be as
pleasing as it is surprising to us all.”

Throughout that afternoon I was restless, and eager to get home to tell
Bessie the wonderful news. It was the longest afternoon I ever saw, but
at length it passed and I hurried home. As Bessie met me at the door I
said eagerly, “I’ve got a surprise for you, deary.”

Now I noticed for the first time that she was all smiles and full of
something that she was eager to surprise me with. Simultaneously each
recognized that the other had the secret already. Of course; what a
fool I was! Her mother naturally enough would tell her while Mr. Desmond
broke the matter to me.

“Isn’t it jolly?” I said.

“Why, Charlie, are you then so anxious to get rid of poor, dear mamma?”
she said, half reproachfully and half teasingly.

“Oh, no, of course not, but it is really nice for all of us, isn’t it
now? She won’t be far off, you know; we shall have our little home all
to ourselves, and Mr. Desmond will be a sort of guardian for us. And as
I said before, I think it is jolly.”

“Well, I must confess I do not altogether like the idea of mamma
marrying again, and I shall miss her very much, after all.”

I couldn’t help laughing at the little woman’s demure countenance, as
she said this. There was a little trace of jealousy in her gentle
heart—jealousy so natural to women—at the idea of another’s taking her
mother off, just as that good woman had been jealous at her taking off.
I accused her of it, and she repudiated the idea.

But everybody must admit that things had fallen out just right for all
parties, and the shadow was to be taken from our household by a new
burst of sunlight, without any heart-burning for anybody, and with
nothing but satisfaction for all. It was arranged that the new marriage
should presently occur, and the mature couple take a little trip, and
surprise George and Clara by being at the Fairview Hotel before them.
Their first knowledge of the turn of affairs was to come when they
arrived there late in August, and found their new relations in
possession. Bessie and I were to join the party for a brief stay, and so
my perplexity was happily ended.




CHAPTER XIV.

A HAPPY PROSPECT.


The landscape is lovely in these latter days of August. The mountains
are grand and solemn in their everlasting silence. We are together at
the Fairview, and everybody feels free and happy. There is no restraint,
and our future prospects are delightful. Before George left home in June
he had made application for a vacant chair in the Medical College and
presented his credentials and testimonials. He expected nothing from it,
he said, but would leave me to look out and see what decision was made.
I had brought with me the news of his appointment. I had also secured
for him the refusal of an elegant house which had been suddenly vacated
and offered for sale on account of the failure in business of its owner.
It was very near our cottage, had lovely surroundings, was beautifully
furnished, and was to be sold with all its contents. It has now been
decided between George and Mr. Desmond that it shall be purchased at
once, and shall become the legal possession of Clara, being paid for out
of her ample fortune, now under her own control, but not yet taken from
her uncle’s keeping.

Mr. and Mrs. Desmond will take possession of the city mansion, and I
have no doubt that its state and elegance will be fully kept up. I see
before me happy times for us all, and at last I think we understand and
appreciate each other. Our relations being properly and happily
adjusted, there will be no more “unpleasantness.” And I must acknowledge
that, in spite of past feelings and the little clouds that have flecked
our sky, sometimes appearing dark and portentous, these happy results
are due in no small measure to MY MOTHER-IN-LAW.


THE END.




Transcriber’s Note: The table below lists all corrections applied to
the original text.

p. 039: a hand encased in a mit -> mitt
p. 128: [added quotes] better than any other of my sex?’
p. 131: [added quotes] slink away in shame.’
p. 133: [added quotes] _Que faire?_”
p. 145: And Besssie sighed -> Bessie





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