Edna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the
subject of her refusal to attend her sister’s wedding. Mr. Pontellier
declined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his
authority. He was following Doctor Mandelet’s advice, and letting her
do as she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of
filial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly
consideration. His arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted
if Janet would accept any excuse—forgetting that Edna had offered none.
He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure
Margaret would not.
Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off
with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded
shoulders, his Bible reading, his “toddies” and ponderous oaths.
Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on
his way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and love
could devise to atone somewhat for Edna’s incomprehensible action.
“You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Léonce,” asserted the
Colonel. “Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down
good and hard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.”
The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into
her grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought
it needless to mention at that late day.
Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband’s leaving home as
she had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached
when he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew
melting and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration
and his repeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was
solicitous about his health and his welfare. She bustled around,
looking after his clothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as
Madame Ratignolle would have done under similar circumstances. She
cried when he went away, calling him her dear, good friend, and she was
quite certain she would grow lonely before very long and go to join him
in New York.
But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found
herself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had
come herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The
old madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be
neglected during Léonce’s absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She
was hungry for them—even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not
want them to be wholly “children of the pavement,” she always said when
begging to have them for a space. She wished them to know the country,
with its streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to
the young. She wished them to taste something of the life their father
had lived and known and loved when he, too, was a little child.
When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of
relief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her.
She walked all through the house, from one room to another, as if
inspecting it for the first time. She tried the various chairs and
lounges, as if she had never sat and reclined upon them before. And she
perambulated around the outside of the house, investigating, looking to
see if windows and shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were
like new acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and
made herself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna
called to the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she
stayed, and stooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead,
dry leaves. The children’s little dog came out, interfering, getting in
her way. She scolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden
smelled so good and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna
plucked all the bright flowers she could find, and went into the house
with them, she and the little dog.
Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had
never before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to
say that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they
would require only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and
groceries. She told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied
during Mr. Pontellier’s absence, and she begged her to take all thought
and responsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders.
That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the
center of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle
of light in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and
shadowy. The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast—a
luscious tenderloin broiled _à point_. The wine tasted good; the
_marron glacé_ seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant,
too, to dine in a comfortable _peignoir_.
She thought a little sentimentally about Léonce and the children, and
wondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the
doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was
beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable
advances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks
and a lively agitation.
Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she
grew sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and
determined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that
her time was completely her own to do with as she liked.
After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled
comfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her,
such as she had not known before.