The Awakening Other Short Stories | Page 6

which her husband had
left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and
went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to
and fro.
It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out
from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old
owl in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at
that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.
The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her peignoir no
longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose
sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face,
steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any
longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying.
Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed
never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and

a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood.
An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her
consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a
mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood.
She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had
directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry
all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and
nipping at her bare insteps.
The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held
her there in the darkness half a night longer.
The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which
was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his
business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had
regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before.
He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street.
Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's
hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and, accepted it with
no little satisfaction.
"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!" she exclaimed, smoothing out
the bills as she counted them one by one.
"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss
her good-by.
The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be
brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even
nurses, were always on hand to say goodby to him. His wife stood smiling and waving,
the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.
A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her
husband. It was filled with friandises, with luscious and toothsome bits--the finest of
fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.
Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite
used to receiving them when away from home. The pates and fruit were brought to the
dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and
discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best
husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.

IV

It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or
any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something
which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent
regret and ample atonement.
If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush
crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the
water out of his eves and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were,
they pulled together and stood their