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.