Part XXIV

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, Leonce," 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 Leonce'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

candies 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 a

point. The wine tasted good; the marron glace seemed to be

just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine in a

comfortable peignoir.

She thought a little sentimentally about Leonce 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.