That Mother-in-Law of Mine

by Anonymous

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.