"It was like Lewis to take her as he did. Very noble and generous, too,
even supposing he loved her. I dare say he does. Is Montalli dead?"
"I don't know. I think so. At all events, they were divorced, and for
his cruelty. Only think of a lady, a young lady, not sixteen, and the
darling and idol at home, being beaten and pounded! Ugh! what horrid
creatures Italians are!"
"And you say Lewis happened to be in Mobile at the time?"
"Yes, and fell in love with her,--she, scarcely eighteen, and to have
had this shocking experience! I don't like to tell you how much these
ladies have hinted about her, but enough to make me feel as if I were
reading the "Mysteries of Udolpho," instead of hearing of a live woman,
out of a book, and belonging to our own time."
"Very likely she may have amused herself at the expense of their
credulity. I have seen women do that, just for sport, and to see how
much people would believe. It is a dangerous game to play."
Mr. Lewis came to dinner, and brought me a little three-cornered note
from his wife, written with much grace and elegance, so far as the
composition was concerned. It was sealed with a dove flying, and
expressed her thanks for my bringing the "sweet remembranser" from her
beloved child, and so on, expecting to see me the next day at the Oaks.
The surprising part of the note was, that the writing was scrawled, and
the words misspelt in a manner that would have disgraced the youngest
member of a town-school in Weston. She had "grate" pleasure, and spoke
of my "truble" in a way that made me feel as if I should see a child.
The next day brought Mr. Remington himself, fresh and handsome as ever,
saying that a carriage was waiting, and his tulips were at their best,
and the ladies expecting to see us,--adding, with an informality which I
had not associated with New York, that the day was all planned out for
us,--tulips and lunch at the Oaks, Hoboken in the afternoon.
That was a white day, and one long to be remembered. First of all, for
Hoboken, which, whatever it may be now, was then a spot full of
picturesque beauty and sweet retirement, relieving and contrasting the
roar and tumult of the city; second, for the tulips, which were the most
glorious things I ever saw, and still remain the pattern of exceeding
beauty, though I have since seen wealth of floral splendor, but none
that came up to the Royal Adelaide,--nothing so queenly and so noble as
the large white cup, fit for Hebe to bear and the gods to drink out of,
and holding at least a pint within the snowy radiance of its ample brim.
I did not wonder Mr. Remington had a passion for tulips. He flitted
about among his brilliant brigade like a happy butterfly, rejoicing in
our delight and exulting in our surprise like a pleased child.
"And is each of these different?"
"Not a duplicate among them. Fifteen hundred varieties."
If he had said fifteen thousand, it would not have added to my
astonishment. To be sure, no king was ever arrayed like one of these.
And fifteen hundred! each gorgeous enough for a king's ransom! It took
my breath away to look at the far-reaching parterre of nodding glories,
moved by the breath of the south-wind.
"I am satisfied. I see you are sufficiently impressed with my tulips,
Mrs. Prince," said Mr. Remington, gleefully, "and I shall send you no
end of bulbs for your Weston garden."
Mr. Remington had taken us directly to the garden on our arrival, and
now led the way, through large evergreens, and by a winding path, to the
house. The land was not half an acre in size, yet I was sure that I had
been over a large estate. The same delusion clung to the house, which
was in looks like one of Gainsborough's cottages, and ought to have been
at least two hundred years old, instead of two. But Downing's advent had
already wrought miracles here and there in our land; and a little while
before Mr. Remington had been bitten with an architectural mania. So
under the transplanted trees, and beneath trailing vines of Virginia
creeper and Boursault roses, there peeped the brown gables of a cottage,
which arose and stood there as reposeful and weather-stained as if it
had been built before the Revolution. Mr. Remington showed us twenty
unexpected doors, and juttings-out here and there, to catch a view, or
to let in the sun, and rejoiced in our pleasure, as he had in the
garden, like a child. In the library, Mrs. Remington received us,
looking pale, and being very silent.
I sat down by her without being attracted at all--rather repelled by the
faint sickliness of everything connected with her appearance. But
neither her pale blue eyes, nor her yellow hair, nor her straw-colored
gown and blue ribbons would have repelled me; I could not make her talk
at all. I never saw such reticence before or since. As if she were
determined "to die and make no sign," she sat, bowing and smiling, and
amounting to nothing, one way or another,--giving no opinion, if asked,
and asking no question. She was passively polite, but so very near
nothing that I was rejoiced when Mr. Remington entered with my husband,
and proposed that we should go into the dining-room. He carelessly
introduced Mrs. Remington, but further than that seemed not to know she
was in existence; and I must confess, I did not wonder. While my husband
made, or tried to make, some conversation with her, Mr. Remington showed
me an exquisite Clytie in marble, and a landscape by Cole, which hung in
a good light, and showed its wonderful wild beauty. And now for the
third reason that this was a white day.