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.”