Chapter XXV

by Kate Chopin

　　When the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. Sheneeded the sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point.She had reached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling herway, working, when in the humor, with sureness and ease. And beingdevoid of ambition, and striving not toward accomplishment, shedrew satisfaction from the work in itself.On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought thesociety of the friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else shestayed indoors and nursed a mood with which she was becoming toofamiliar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It was notdespair; but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leavingits promise broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days whenshe listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises which heryouth held out to her.She went again to the races, and again. Alcee Arobin and Mrs.Highcamp called for her one bright afternoon in Arobin's drag.Mrs. Highcamp was a worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tallblonde woman in the forties, with an indifferent manner and blueeyes that stared. She had a daughter who served her as a pretextfor cultivating the society of young men of fashion. Alcee Arobinwas one of them. He was a familiar figure at the race course, theopera, the fashionable clubs. There was a perpetual smile in hiseyes, which seldom failed to awaken a corresponding cheerfulness inany one who looked into them and listened to his good-humoredvoice. His manner was quiet, and at times a little insolent. Hepossessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened withdepth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the conventionalman of fashion.He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the raceswith her father. He had met her before on other occasions, but shehad seemed to him unapproachable until that day. It was at hisinstigation that Mrs. Highcamp called to ask her to go with them tothe Jockey Club to witness the turf event of the season.There were possibly a few track men out there who knew therace horse as well as Edna, but there was certainly none who knewit better. She sat between her two companions as one havingauthority to speak. She laughed at Arobin's pretensions, anddeplored Mrs. Highcamp's ignorance. The race horse was a friendand intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere of thestables and the breath of the blue grass paddock revived in hermemory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive that shewas talking like her father as the sleek geldings ambled in reviewbefore them. She played for very high stakes, and fortune favoredher. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and eves, and itgot into her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant. Peopleturned their heads to look at her, and more than one lent anattentive car to her utterances, hoping thereby to secure theelusive but ever-desired "tip." Arobin caught the contagion ofexcitement which drew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcampremained, as usual, unmoved, with her indifferent stare anduplifted eyebrows.Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged todo so. Arobin also remained and sent away his drag.The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerfulefforts of Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored theabsence of her daughter from the races, and tried to convey to herwhat she had missed by going to the "Dante reading" instead ofjoining them. The girl held a geranium leaf up to her nose andsaid nothing, but looked knowing and noncommittal. Mr. Highcampwas a plain, bald-headed man, who only talked under compulsion.He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of delicate courtesyand consideration toward her husband. She addressed most of herconversation to him at table. They sat in the library after dinnerand read the evening papers together under the droplight; while theyounger people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. MissHighcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. Sheseemed to have apprehended all of the composer's coldness and noneof his poetry. While Edna listened she could not help wondering ifshe had lost her taste for music.When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted alame offer to escort her, looking down at his slippered feet withtactless concern. It was Arobin who took her home. The car ridewas long, and it was late when they reached Esplanade Street.Arobin asked permission to enter for a second to light hiscigarette--his match safe was empty. He filled his match safe, butdid not light his cigarette until he left her, after she hadexpressed her willingness to go to the races with him again.Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, forthe Highcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lackedabundance. She rummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice ofGruyere and some crackers. She opened a bottle of beer which shefound in the icebox. Edna felt extremely restless and excited.She vacantly hummed a fantastic tune as she poked at the woodembers on the hearth and munched a cracker.She wanted something to happen--something, anything; she didnot know what. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay ahalf hour to talk over the horses with her. She counted the moneyshe had won. But there was nothing else to do, so she went to bed,and tossed there for hours in a sort of monotonous agitation.In the middle of the night she remembered that she hadforgotten to write her regular letter to her husband; and shedecided to do so next day and tell him about her afternoon at theJockey Club. She lay wide awake composing a letter which wasnothing like the one which she wrote next day. When the maidawoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of Mr. Highcampplaying the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal Street,while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, as they boarded anEsplanade Street car:"What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go."When, a few days later, Alcee Arobin again called for Edna inhis drag, Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pickher up. But as that lady had not been apprised of his intention ofpicking her up, she was not at home. The daughter was just leavingthe house to attend the meeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, andregretted that she could not accompany them. Arobin appearednonplused, and asked Edna if there were any one else she cared toask.She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of thefashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. Shethought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did notleave the house, except to take a languid walk around the blockwith her husband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would havelaughed at such a request from Edna. Madame Lebrun might haveenjoyed the outing, but for some reason Edna did not want her. Sothey went alone, she and Arobin.The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. Theexcitement came back upon her like a remittent fever. Her talkgrew familiar and confidential. It was no labor to become intimatewith Arobin. His manner invited easy confidence. The preliminarystage of becoming acquainted was one which he always endeavored toignore when a pretty and engaging woman was concerned.He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside thewood fire. They laughed and talked; and before it was time to gohe was telling her how different life might have been if he hadknown her years before. With ingenuous frankness he spoke of whata wicked, ill-disciplined boy he had been, and impulsively drew uphis cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar from a saber cut whichhe had received in a duel outside of Paris when he was nineteen.She touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the insideof his white wrist. A quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodicimpelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch upon his hand.He felt the pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of his palm.She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel."The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,"she said. "I shouldn't have looked at it.""I beg your pardon," he entreated, following her; "it neveroccurred to me that it might be repulsive."He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelledthe old, vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakeningsensuousness. He saw enough in her face to impel him to take herhand and hold it while he said his lingering good night."Will you go to the races again?" he asked."No," she said. "I've had enough of the races. I don't wantto lose all the money I've won, and I've got to work when theweather is bright, instead of--""Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work.What morning may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?""No!""Day after?""No, no.""Oh, please don't refuse me! I know something of such things.I might help you with a stray suggestion or two.""No. Good night. Why don't you go after you have said goodnight? I don't like you," she went on in a high, excited pitch,attempting to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lackeddignity and sincerity, and she knew that he felt it."I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. Howhave I offended you? What have I done? Can't you forgive me?"And he bent and pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wishednever more to withdraw them."Mr. Arobin," she complained, "I'm greatly upset by the excitementof the afternoon; I'm not myself. My manner must have misled youin some way. I wish you to go, please." She spoke in a monotonous,dull tone. He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turnedfrom her, looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept animpressive silence."Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier," he saidfinally. "My own emotions have done that. I couldn't help it.When I'm near you, how could I help it? Don't think anything of it,don't bother, please. You see, I go when you command me. If youwish me to stay away, I shall do so. If you let me come back,I--oh! you will let me come back?"He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made noresponse. Alcee Arobin's manner was so genuine that it oftendeceived even himself.Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not.When she was alone she looked mechanically at the back of her handwhich he had kissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down onthe mantelpiece. She felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment ofpassion is betrayed into an act of infidelity, and realizes thesignificance of the act without being wholly awakened from itsglamour. The thought was passing vaguely through her mind, "Whatwould he think?"She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of RobertLebrun. Her husband seemed to her now like a person whom she hadmarried without love as an excuse.She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcee Arobin wasabsolutely nothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, thewarmth of his glances, and above all the touch of his lips upon herhand had acted like a narcotic upon her.She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishingdreams.