One evening, soon after Lulu's return, for she soon took up her old
habits of intimacy, she sat listlessly by the fire, holding her two
hands in her lap, as usual, and not even dawdling at netting. Perhaps
the still evening and the quiet room induced confidence, or she may have
felt the effect of my "receptivity," as she called it. (She always
insisted that she could not help telling me everything.) She turned away
abruptly from the fire, saying,--
"Do you know I don't love William a particle,--not the smallest atom?"
"I hope you are only talking nonsense," said I, rising, and ringing for
lights; "but it is painful for me to hear you. Don't! I beg!"
"No, it isn't nonsense. It is the simple truth. And it is best you
should know it. Because,--you don't want me to be a living lie, do you?
To the world I can keep up the old seeming. But it is better you should
know the truth."
"There I differ from you entirely, Lulu. If you are so sadly
unfortunate, so wretched, as not to love your husband, it is too painful
and serious a matter lightly to be talked of. It is a matter for
grievous lamentation,--a matter between your conscience and your God. I
don't think any friend can help you; and if not, of course you can have
no motive in confiding it."
She had the same old look, as if she would say, "Anan!" but presently
added,--
"He cares only for himself,--not at all for me. Don't I see that every
day? Am I but the plume in his cap? but the lace on his sleeve? but the
jewel in his linen? Whatever I might have felt for him, I am sure I have
no need to feel now; and I repeat to you, I should not care at all if I
were never again to lay my eyes on him!"
I shuddered to hear this talk. It was said, however, without anger, and
with the air rather of a simple child who thought it right not to have
false pretences. Her frankness, if it had been united with deep feeling,
would have touched me exceedingly. As it was, I was bewildered, yet only
anxious to avoid explanations, which it seemed to me would only increase
the evil.
Thoughts of the ill-training that had made such a poor piece of
life-work out of the rich materials before me made my heart ache. She
sat still, looking in the fire, like a child, rebuked and chidden for
some unconscious fault. So many fine traits of character, yet such a
hopeless want of balance, such an utter wrongheadedness! I turned, and
did what I very seldom do, yielded to my impulses of compassionate
tenderness and kissed her. To my surprise, she burst into a hearty fit
of crying.
"If I had known you early! or if my mother had lived!" she sobbed; "but
now I am good for nothing! I don't know what is right nor what is
wrong!"
"Don't say so,--we can always try."
"Not this. I could at first. But to be always treated like a baby,--and
if I express any contrary opinion, or show that I've a mind of my
own,--a sick baby! I can tell you this comes pretty hard three hundred
and sixty-five days in a year! Oh, I wish I were a free woman! There! I
am going to stop now. But you know."
I was only too glad to be interrupted by our two husbands. Lulu ran
up-stairs,--I supposed, to bathe her eyes and compose herself. She,
however, was down again in a minute, with some drapery which she wound
about her after the fashion Lady Hamilton was said to do, and
represented, like her, the Muses, and various statues. With the curtain
and one light she managed to give a very statuesque effect. Mr. Lewis
was evidently very proud of her grace and talent, and she had a pretty,
wilful, bird-like way with him, that was fascinating, and did not seem,
as I thought it must really be, mechanical. I felt, more than ever, how
idle it must be to talk with her. The affectionate respect, the joyful
uplooking of wifehood, was not to be taught by words, nor to be taught,
in fact, any way. Mr. Lewis's manner to his wife, which I criticized
carefully, was always tender and dignified. And, from my knowledge of
him, I felt sure that his expression was that of genuine feeling.
Evidently he did not understand her feelings at all. She longed for
encouragement and improvement. He looked at her as a lovely child only.
Being a minister's wife, I felt called on to labor in my vocation, and
from time to time watch the pliant moment, and endeavor to lead Lulu's
mind to the foundation of all truth. But, surely, never fell seed on
such stony ground. To be sure, the flowers sprang up. Dewy, rich, and
running, they climbed over the rocks beneath; but they shed their
perfume, and shrank dead in a day, leaving the stones bare. I was
discouraged about sowing seed.
The Lewises had been but a few weeks in Boston, when Lulu brought Mr.
Remington in one morning to make a call. He was dressed in black, and
told me he had been a widower six months. His bright, genial face and
healthful nature seemed not to have sustained any severe shock, however,
and he spoke with great composure of his loss.
He was at Mr. Lewis's a great deal. It seemed as a matter of course. As
an accomplished man, with great powers of entertaining, he must
naturally be acceptable there; but we were too much occupied with family
and parish matters to see much of him, and about that time went on a
journey of some weeks.
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