the squire, when it comes to his wife, has no more backbone
than a wet string."

"Wonder if there's anything under it all?" came the sly insinuation
of gossip; "wonder if she hasn't got something besides the Shakers
up her sleeve? You wait!"

If Athalia's imagination spared her these comments,
Lewis's unimaginative common sense supplied them.
He knew what other men and husbands were saying about him;
what servants and gossip and friends insinuated to one another,
and set his jaw in silence. He made no excuse and no explanation.
Why should he? The facts spoke. His wife did prefer the Shakers
to her husband and her home. To have interfered with her purpose
by any plea of his personal unhappiness, or by any threat
of an appeal to law, or even by refusing to give the "consent"
essential to her admission, would not have altered these facts.
As for his reasons for going with her, they would not have
enhanced his dignity in the eyes of the men who wouldn't
have had any such nonsense in their families: he must be
near her to see that she did not suffer too much hardship,
and to bring her home when she was ready to come.

In those days of tearing his life up by the roots the silent
man was just a little more silent, that was all. But the fact
was burning into his consciousness: he couldn't keep his wife!
That was what they said, and that was the truth.
It seemed to him as if his soul blushed at his helplessness.
But his face was perfectly stolid. He told Athalia, passively,
that he had rented the house and mill to Henry Davis;