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.