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That Mother-in-Law of Mine

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<h2>CHAPTER XII. BABY TALK, OLD DIVES, AND OTHER THINGS.</h2> The cottage seemed dull enough after the departure of George with his bride. Bessie was so absorbed by the care of our little one that she had very little time to think of anything else, and in fact the new-comer, for the time being, monopolized the attention of his grandmother as well as of his mother. I was therefore left to my own resources. “Baby is not very well, Charlie,” Bessie informed me, one morning, with an anxious air. “Do you think it would do to wrap him up well and take him for a little ride this afternoon?” “Yes, that’s a good idea. If I can get that black horse at the livery stable, I’ll bring him around this afternoon. But I don’t see why you should wrap him up. It’s hot as blazes.” “You don’t know anything about babies, Charlie. Go along. Get a nice, easy carriage, and we’ll take mother with us. I long for a ride.” I departed, and secured the desired “team.” Towards two o’clock I drove up to the cottage, and the entire family bundled into the vehicle, and we were off. I chose a pleasant, shady road, and drove slowly, while Bessie and her mother filled the air with baby talk. As we were climbing the hill near Linwood, I saw, a short distance ahead of us, the form of an elderly gentleman toiling up the ascent in the sun. He seemed fatigued, and stopped as we drew near him, to wipe the beads of perspiration from his brow. “Why, it’s Mr. Desmond!” exclaimed Bessie. Sure enough! As he turned toward us I recognized the white vest, the expansive shirt-front, and the resplendent watch-chain that could belong to no other than “old Dives” himself. “How d’ye do?” I cried, halting our fiery steed. “Ah! Mr. Travers, Mrs. Pinkerton, how do you do? Delighted to meet you. It’s very warm.” “How came you so far out in the country afoot?” I asked. “I had some business at Melton, and lost the 2:30 train back to town, so I started to walk to Linwood with the purpose of taking a train on the other road. They told me it was only a mile and a half, but—.” And he sighed significantly. “How fortunate that we met you,” said Mrs. Pinkerton quickly, taking the words out of my mouth. “Get in and ride to Linwood with us. We have a vacant seat, you see.” I seconded her invitation, and without much hesitation he accepted, and took a seat by my side. The conversation turned naturally upon the “young couple” (Bessie and I were no longer referred to in that way), and Mr. Desmond extolled his niece unreservedly. Mother-in-law was evidently somewhat impressed, but I think she made some mental reservations. “Will you smoke, Mr. Desmond?” I asked, offering him a cigar. “No, I thank you.” “Oh, I had forgotten you did not approve of the habit. Excuse me.” Mrs. Pinkerton explained to Mr. Desmond, apologetically, that I was an irresponsible victim of the nicotine poison. I laughed, but Mr. Desmond received the explanation solemnly, and expressed his abhorrence for “the weed.” The old gentleman professed great admiration for baby, and said that he looked exactly like his mother; in fact, the resemblance was almost startling. By the time we had got to Linwood, our passenger had talked himself into a state of good-humor, and we left him at the railroad station, bowing and smiling with true old-school aplomb. Bessie thought the ride did Charlie, junior, good, and so it became a regular thing, on pleasant afternoons, to take him out for a little airing. Mrs. Pinkerton overcame her scruples, and usually accompanied us. A sample of the sweet converse held with my son and heir on the back seat will suffice:— “Sodywazzaleetlecatchykums! ‘Esoodavaboobangy! Mamma’s cunnin’ kitten-baby!” One day, just before noon, when I had been making a mental calculation as to how I should be able to cover the livery-stable bill, a fine equipage stopped in front of the bank, and through the window I saw the stately driver hand a note to our errand-boy. In a moment Tommy appeared in the room and handed me the billet, which ran thus:— <div class="blockquote">My dear Mr. Travers,—I trust you will not take it amiss if I send my coachman out your way once in a while to exercise the ponies. Since Clara’s taking-off, they have stood still too much, and knowing that you go to ride occasionally with your family, I take the liberty of putting them at your disposal for the present, with instructions to John, who is a careful and trustworthy driver, to place himself at your service whenever you are so disposed. The obligation will be entirely on my part, if you will kindly take a turn behind the ponies whenever you choose. My regards to your wife and Mrs. Pinkerton. Believe me yours sincerely, T. G. Desmond. </div> I could find no objection to accepting this kindly offer, so delicately made, but I did not dare to do so before consulting Bessie and her mother, so I stepped into the carriage and had John drive me to the cottage. There was a consultation, and after I had overcome some feeble scruples on Mrs. Pinkerton’s part, which I am afraid were hypocritical, we decided to take advantage of Mr. Desmond’s generosity. I sent a note of thanks back by John, and thenceforth we took our rides behind “old Dives’s” black ponies. Occasionally the old gentleman himself came out in the carriage, and proved himself as trustworthy and careful a driver as John, handling the “ribbons” with the air of an accomplished whip. The rides were very pleasant, those beautiful summer days, and the change from a hired “team” to the sumptuous establishment of Mr. Desmond was extremely grateful. Mr. Desmond was doubtless very lonely without his niece. She had been the light of his home, and her absence was probably felt by the old gentleman with more keenness than he had anticipated at the outset. His large and beautifully furnished mansion needed the presence of just such a person of vivacious and cheery character as Clara, to prevent it from becoming cheerless in its grandeur. He intimated as much, and appeared unusually restless and low-spirited for him. He sought to make up for the absence of the sunshine and joyousness that “Miss Van” had taken away with her, by applying himself with especial diligence to business; but he really had not much business to engross his attention, beyond collecting his interest and looking out for his agents, and it failed to fill the void. He betook himself to his club, and killed time assiduously, talking with the men-about-town he found there, playing whist, and running through the magazines and reviews in search of wit and wisdom wherewith to divert himself. The dull season had set in; there was little doing, in affairs, commerce, politics, or literature; and direct efforts at killing time always result in making time go more heavily than ever. Mr. Desmond’s attempt was like a curious pas seul, executed by a nimble actor in a certain extravaganza, the peculiarity of which is that at every forward step the dancer slides farther and farther backward, until finally an unseen power appears to drag him back into the flies. It was during one of our afternoon drives, when Mr. Desmond usurped the office of his coachman, that he confided to us a plan which he had devised to cure his ennui. “I have made up my mind,” he said, “to go abroad for a good long tour. It will be the best move I could possibly make.” “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “How soon do you propose to go?” And Bessie sighed, “O dear, how delightful!” “My plans are not matured,” Mr. Desmond continued, “but I think I shall sail early next month. My favorite steamer leaves on the 6th.” “I hope you will enjoy a pleasant voyage, and a delightful trip on the other side,” said Mrs. Pinkerton politely. Mr. Desmond returned thanks. Nothing more was said that day concerning his project. When he left us at the cottage, he remarked,— “By the way, Mr. Travers, I wish you would call at my office to-morrow morning at or about eleven o’clock, if you can make it convenient to do so.” “I will do so,” I replied, wondering what he could want of me. At the appointed hour the next day I was on hand at his office. He motioned to me to be seated and then said,— “Yesterday morning I met John K. Blunt, of Blunt Brothers & Company, at my club, and he told me that their cashier had defaulted. An account of the affair is in this morning’s papers. They want a new cashier. I have mentioned your name, and if you will go around to their office with me, we will talk with Blunt.” “Mr. Desmond—” I began, but he stopped me. “Don’t let’s have any talk but business,” he said. “The figures will be satisfactory, I am confident.” Satisfactory! They were munificent! Blunt liked me, and only a few short and sharp sentences from such a man as Desmond finished the business. I saw a future of opulence before me. My head was almost turned. I tried to thank Mr. Desmond, but he would not listen to my earnest expressions of gratitude. “I have engaged passage for the 6th,” he told me when we were parting; “I will try to call at your cottage before I get off. I am busy settling up some details now. Good day.” I hastened home with my good news. Bessie’s eyes glistened when she heard it, and even my mother-in-law showed a faint sign of pleasure at my good luck. The following Saturday evening Mr. Desmond came out to see us. “Don’t consider this my farewell appearance,” he said. “I merely wished to tell you that my friends have inveigled me into giving an informal party Tuesday evening, at which I shall expect you all to appear.” He talked glibly, for him, and gave us an outline sketch of his proposed tour. I thought he seemed strangely restless and nervous, and I pitied him. His “informal party” was really a noteworthy affair, and the wealth and respectability of the city were well represented. Bessie could not go, on account of the baby, so I acted as escort to Mrs. Pinkerton, who made herself amazingly agreeable. There were not many young people present, and the affair was quiet and genteel in the extreme. Bank presidents, capitalists, professional men, and “solid” men, with their wives, attired in black silks, formed the majority of the guests. They were Mr. Desmond’s personal friends. My mother-in-law was in congenial company, and I believe she enjoyed the evening remarkably. Most of the conversation turned, very naturally, upon European travel. Americans who are possessed of wealth always have done “the grand tour,” and they invariably speak of “Europe” in a general way, as if it were all one country. “When I returned from my first tour abroad, a friend said to me that he ‘supposed it was a fine country over there,’” said Mr. Desmond to me, laughing. Some one asked him where he had decided to go. “I shall land at Havre, and go straight to Paris,” he answered. “I flatter myself I am a good American, and as I have been comparatively dead since my niece left me, I am entitled to a place in that terrestrial paradise.” I thought I had never seen Mrs. Pinkerton appear to so good advantage as she did on this occasion. Her natural good manners and her intelligence made her attractive in such a company, and she was the centre of a bright group of middle-aged Brahmins throughout the entire evening. Mr. Desmond appeared grateful for the assistance she rendered in making his party pass off pleasantly, and as for me, I began to feel that I had never quite appreciated her best qualities. She was a woman that one could not wholly know in a year, perhaps not in a lifetime. “Who knows?” I thought; “perhaps I have wronged my mother-in-law.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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