Part XXXVIII

Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air.

The Doctor's coupe had returned for him and stood before the

porte cochere. She did not wish to enter the coupe, and told

Doctor Mandelet she would walk; she was not afraid, and would go

alone. He directed his carriage to meet him at Mrs. Pontellier's,

and he started to walk home with her.

Up—away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses,

the stars were blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool

with the breath of spring and the night. They walked slowly, the

Doctor with a heavy, measured tread and his hands behind him; Edna,

in an absent-minded way, as she had walked one night at Grand Isle,

as if her thoughts had gone ahead of her and she was striving to

overtake them.

"You shouldn't have been there, Mrs. Pontellier," he said.

"That was no place for you. Adele is full of whims at such times.

There were a dozen women she might have had with her,

unimpressionable women. I felt that it was cruel, cruel. You

shouldn't have gone."

"Oh, well!" she answered, indifferently. "I don't know that

it matters after all. One has to think of the children some time

or other; the sooner the better."

"When is Leonce coming back?"

"Quite soon. Some time in March."

"And you are going abroad?"

"Perhaps—no, I am not going. I'm not going to be forced into

doing things. I don't want to go abroad. I want to be let alone.

Nobody has any right—except children, perhaps—and even then, it

seems to me—or it did seem—" She felt that her speech was voicing

the incoherency of her thoughts, and stopped abruptly.

"The trouble is," sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning

intuitively, "that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be

a provision of Nature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And

Nature takes no account of moral consequences, of arbitrary

conditions which we create, and which we feel obliged to maintain

at any cost."

"Yes," she said. "The years that are gone seem like

dreams—if one might go on sleeping and dreaming—but to wake up and

find—oh! well! perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to

suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one's life."

"It seems to me, my dear child," said the Doctor at parting,

holding her hand, "you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going

to ask for your confidence. I will only say that if ever you feel

moved to give it to me, perhaps I might help you. I know I would

understand, And I tell you there are not many who would—not many,

my dear."

"Some way I don't feel moved to speak of things that trouble

me. Don't think I am ungrateful or that I don't appreciate your

sympathy. There are periods of despondency and suffering which

take possession of me. But I don't want anything but my own way.

That is wanting a good deal, of course, when you have to trample

upon the lives, the hearts, the prejudices of others—but no

matter-still, I shouldn't want to trample upon the little lives.

Oh! I don't know what I'm saying, Doctor. Good night. Don't blame

me for anything."

"Yes, I will blame you if you don't come and see me soon.

We will talk of things you never have dreamt of talking

about before. It will do us both good. I don't want you

to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good night, my child."

She let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she

sat upon the step of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing.

All the tearing emotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away

from her like a somber, uncomfortable garment, which she had but to

loosen to be rid of. She went back to that hour before Adele had

sent for her; and her senses kindled afresh in thinking of Robert's

words, the pressure of his arms, and the feeling of his lips upon

her own. She could picture at that moment no greater bliss on

earth than possession of the beloved one. His expression of love

had already given him to her in part. When she thought that he was

there at hand, waiting for her, she grew numb with the intoxication

of expectancy. It was so late; he would be asleep perhaps. She

would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep that

she might arouse him with her caresses.

Still, she remembered Adele's voice whispering, "Think of the

children; think of them." She meant to think of them; that

determination had driven into her soul like a death wound—but not

to-night. To-morrow would be time to think of everything.

Robert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was

nowhere at hand. The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a

piece of paper that lay in the lamplight:

"I love you. Good-by—because I love you."

Edna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on

the sofa. Then she stretched herself out there, never uttering a

sound. She did not sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp

sputtered and went out. She was still awake in the morning, when

Celestine unlocked the kitchen door and came in to light the fire.