Threads of Grey and Gold Part 18

Discussion was rife among the pa.s.sengers, till an irreverent youth ended it by saying: "Mamma's got the rocks; that's the why of it!"

Perhaps it was, but one wonders why a man should slight his promised wife so publicly, even to please a mother with "rocks!"

To the mother who adores her son, every girl who smiles at him has matrimonial designs. When he falls in love, it is because he has been entrapped--she seldom considers him as being the aggressive one of the two. The mother of the girl feels the same way, and, in the lower circles, there is occasionally an illuminating time when the two mothers meet.

Each is made aware how the other's offspring has given the entrapped one no peace, and how the affair has been the scandal of two separate neighbourhoods, more eligible partners having been lost by both sides.

In the Declaration of Independence there is no cla.s.sification of the rights of the married, but the clause regarding "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" has been held pointedly to refer to the matrimonial state. If the mother would accord to her daughter-in-law the same rights she claimed at the outset of her own married life, the relation would be perceptibly smoother in many instances.

When a woman marries, she has a right to expect the love of her husband, material support, a home of her own, even though it be only two tiny rooms, and absolute freedom from outside interference. It is her life, and she must live it in her own way, and a girl of spirit _will_ live it in her own way, without taking heed of the consequences, if she is pushed too far.

On the other hand, the mother who bore him still has proprietary rights. She may reasonably claim a share of his society, a part of his earnings, if she needs financial a.s.sistance, and his interest in all that nearly concerns her. If she expects to be at the head of his house, with the wife as a sort of a boarder, she need not be surprised if there is trouble.

Marriage brings to a girl certain freedom, but it gives her no superiority to her husband's family. A chain is as strong as its weakest link, and the members of a family do not rise above the general level. Every one of them is as good as the man she has married, and she is not above any of them, unless her own personality commands a higher position.

She treasonably violates the confidence placed in her if she makes a discreditable use of any information coming to her through her a.s.sociation with her husband's family. There are skeletons in every closet, and she may not tell even her own mother of what she has seen in the other house. A single word breathed against her husband's family to an outsider stamps her as a traitor, who deserves a traitor's punishment.

The girl who tells her most intimate friend that the mother of her fiance "is an old cat," by that act has lowered herself far below the level of any self-respecting cat. Even if outward and visible disgrace comes to the family of her husband, she is unworthy if she does not hold her head high and let the world see her loyalty.

Marriage gives her no right to criticise any member of her husband's family; their faults are out of her reach except by the force of tactful example. Her concern is with herself and him, not his family, and a wise girl, at the beginning of her married life, will draw a sharp line between her affairs and those of others, and will stay on her own side of the line.

When a man falls in love with a thoughtless b.u.t.terfly, his womenfolk may be pardoned if they stand aghast a moment before they regain their self-command. In a way it is like a guest who is given the freedom of the house, and who, when her visit is over, tells her friends that the parlour carpet was turned, and the stairs left undusted.

Another household is intimately opened to the woman whom the son has married, and the members of it can make no defence. She can betray them if she chooses; there is nothing to shield them except her love for her husband, and too often that is insufficient.

A girl seldom stops to think what she owes to her husband's mother.

Twenty-five or thirty years ago, the man she loves was born. Since then there has been no time, sleeping or waking, when he has not been in the thoughts of the mother who has sought to do her best by him.

She gave her life wholly to the demands of her child, without a moment's hesitation.

She has sacrificed herself in countless ways, all through those years, in order that he might have his education, his pleasures, and his strong body. With every day he has grown nearer and dearer to her; every day his loss would have been that much harder to bear.

In quiet talks in the twilight, she teaches him to be gentle and considerate, to be courteous to every woman because a woman gave him life; to be brave, n.o.ble, and tender; to be strong and fine; to choose honour with a crust, rather than shame with plenty.

Then comes the pretty b.u.t.terfly, with whom her son is in love. Is it strange that the heart of the mother tightens with sudden pain?

With never a thought, the girl takes it all as her due. She would write a gracious note of thanks to the friend who sent her a pretty handkerchief, but for the woman who is the means of satisfying her heart's desire she has not even toleration. All the sweetness and beauty of his adoring love are a gift to her, unwilling too often, perhaps, but a gift nevertheless, from his mother.

Long years of life have taught the mother what it may mean and what, alas, it does too often mean. Memories only are her portion; she need expect nothing now. He may not come to see his mother for an old familiar talk, because his wife either comes with him, or expects him to be at home. He has no time for his mother's interests or his mother's friends; there is scant welcome in his home for her, because between them has come an alien presence which never yields or softens.

Strangely, and without any definite idea of the change, he comes to see his mother as she is. Once, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and her roughened hands were lovely because they had toiled for him. Once, her counsel was wise, her judgment good, and the gift of feeling which her motherhood brought her was seen as generous sympathy.

Now, by comparison with a bright, well-dressed wife, he sees what an "old frump" his mother is. She is shabby and old-fashioned, clinging to obsolete forms of speech, hysterical and emotional. When the mists of love have cleared from her boy's eyes, she may just as well give up, because there is no return, save in that other mist which comes too late, when mother is at rest.

The wife who tries to keep alive her husband's love for his family, not only in his heart, but in outward observance as well, serves her own interests even better than theirs. The love of the many comes with the love of the one, and just as truly as he loves his sweetheart better because of his mother and sisters, he may love them better because of her.

The poor heart-hungry mother, who stands by with br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes, fearful that the joy of her life may be taken from her, will be content with but little if she may but keep it for her own. It is only a little while at the longest, for the end of the journey is soon, but sunset and afterglow would have some of the rapture of dawn, if her son's wife opened the door of her young heart and said with true sincerity and wells of tenderness: "Mother--Come!"

A Lullaby

Sleep, baby, sleep, The twilight breezes blow, The flower bells are ringing, The birds are twittering low, Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep, The whippoorwill is calling, The stars are twinkling faintly, The dew is softly falling, Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep, Upon your pillow lying, The rushes whisper to the stream, The summer day is dying, Sleep, baby, sleep.

The Dressing-Sack Habit

Someone has said that a dressing-sack is only a Mother Hubbard with a college education. Accepting this statement as a great truth, one is inclined to wonder whether education has improved the Mother Hubbard, since another clever person has characterised a college as "a place where pebbles are polished and diamonds are dimmed!"

The bond of relationship between the two is not at first apparent, yet there are subtle ties of kinship between the two. If we take a Hubbard and cut it off at the hips, we have only a dressing-sack with a yoke.

The dressing-sack, however, cannot be walked on, even when the wearer is stooping, and in this respect it has the advantage of the other; it is also supposed to fit in the back, but it never does.

Doubtless in the wise economy of the universe, where every weed has its function, even this garment has its place--else it would not be.

Possibly one may take a nap, or arrange one's crown of glory to better advantage in a "boudoir negligee," or an invalid may be thus tempted to think of breakfast. Indeed, the habit is apt to begin during illness, when a friend presents the ailing lady with a dainty affair of silk and lace which inclines the suffering soul to frivolities.

Presently she sits up, takes notice, and plans more garments of the sort, so that after she fully recovers all the world may see these becoming things!

The worst of the habit is that all the world does see. Fancy runs riot with one pattern, a sewing-machine, and all the remnants a single purse can compa.s.s. The lady with a kindly feeling for colour browses along the bargain counter and speedily acquires a rainbow for her own.

Each morning she a.s.sumes a different phase, and, at the end of the week, one's recollection of her is lost in a kaleidoscopic whirl.

Red, now--is anything prettier than red? And how the men admire it!

Does not the dark lady build wisely who dons a red dressing-sack on a cold morning, that her husband may carry a bright bit of colour to the office in his fond memories of home?

A book with a red cover, a red cushion, crimson draperies, and scarlet ribbons, are all notoriously pleasing to monsieur--why not a red dressing-sack?

If questioned, monsieur does not know why, yet gradually his pa.s.sion for red will wane, then fail. Later in the game, he will be affronted by the colour, even as the gentleman cow in the pasture. It is not the colour, dear madame, but the shiftless garment, which has wrought this change.

There are few who dare to a.s.sume pink, for one must have a complexion of peaches and cream, delicately powdered at that, before the rosy hues are becoming. Yet, the sallow lady, with streaks of grey in her hair, crow's feet around her eyes, and little time tracks registered all over her face, will put on a pink dressing-sack when she gets ready for breakfast. She would scream with horror at the thought of a pink and white organdie gown, made over rosy taffeta, but the kimono is another story.

Green dressing-sacks are not often seen, but more's the pity, for in the grand array of colour nothing should be lacking, and the wearers of these garments never seem to stop to think whether or not they are becoming. What could be more cheerful on a cloudy morning than a flannel negligee of the blessed shade of green consecrated to the observance of the seventeenth of March?

It looks as well as many things which are commonly welded into dressing-sacks; then why this invidious distinction?

When we approach blue in our dressing-sack rainbow, speech becomes pitifully weak. Ancient maidens and matrons, with olive skins, proudly a.s.sume a turquoise negligee. Blue flannel, with cascades of white lace--could anything be more attractive? It has only one rival--the garment of lavender eiderdown flannel, the b.u.t.ton-holes st.i.tched with black yarn, which the elderly widow too often puts on when the tide of her grief has turned.

The combination of black with any shade of purple is well fitted to produce grief, even as the cutting of an onion will bring tears. Could the dear departed see his relict in the morning, with lavender eiderdown environment, he would appreciate his mercies as never before.

The speaking shades of yellow and orange are much affected by German ladies for dressing-sacks, and also for the knitted tippets which our Teutonic friends wear, in and out of the house, from October to July.

Canary yellow is delicate and becoming to most, but it is German taste to wear orange.

At first, perhaps, with a sense of the fitness of things, the negligee is worn only in one's own room. She says: "It's so comfortable!"