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.