That Mother-in-Law of Mine Part 5

"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 w.i.l.l.y-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 _arriere pensee_ 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 circ.u.mstances."

"Well, that's Parisian. I'm very glad he's coming, and I hope circ.u.mstances 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-gla.s.ses, and rushed to meet the long-lost prodigal.