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The Awakening
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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.
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