by Kate Chopin
XI
The Self-Assumed Burden.
The wedding was over. Hosmer and Fanny had been married in the smalllibrary of their Unitarian minister whom they had found intent uponthe shaping of his Sunday sermon.
Out of deference, he had been briefly told the outward circumstancesof the case, which he knew already; for these two had been formerlymembers of his congregation, and gossip had not been reluctant intelling their story. Hosmer, of course, had drifted away from hisknowledge, and in late years, he had seen little of Fanny, who whenmoved to attend church at all usually went to the Redemptorist's RockChurch with her friend Belle Worthington. This lady was a goodCatholic to the necessary extent of hearing a mass on Sundays,abstaining from meat on Fridays and Ember days, and making her"Easters." Which concessions were not without their attendantdiscomforts, counterbalanced, however, by the soothing assurance whichthey gave her of keeping on the safe side.
The minister had been much impressed with the significance of thisre-marriage which he was called upon to perform, and had offered somefew and well chosen expressions of salutary advice as to its futureguidance. The sexton and housekeeper had been called in as witnesses.Then Hosmer had taken Fanny back home in a cab as she requested,because of her eyes that were red and swollen.
Inside the little hall-way he took her in his arms and kissed her,calling her "my child." He could not have told why, except that itexpressed the responsibility he accepted of bearing all things that afather must bear from the child to whom he has given life.
"I should like to go out for an hour, Fanny; but if you would rathernot, I shall stay."
"No, David, I want to be alone," she said, turning into the littleparlor, with eyes big and heavy from weariness and inward clashingemotions.
Along the length of Lindell avenue from Grand avenue west to Forestpark, reaches for two miles on either side of the wide and well keptgravel drive a smooth stone walk, bordered its full extent with adouble row of trees which were young and still uncertain, when Hosmerwalked between them.
Had it been Sunday, he would have found himself making one of afashionable throng of promenaders; it being at that time a fad withsociety people to walk to Forest park and back of a Sunday afternoon.Driving was then considered a respectable diversion only on the sixwork days of the week.
But it was not Sunday and this inviting promenade was almost deserted.An occasional laborer would walk clumsily by; apathetic; swinging histin bucket and bearing some implement of toil with the yellow clay yetclinging to it. Or it might be a brace of strong-minded girls walkingwith long and springing stride, which was then fashionable; lookingnot to the right nor left; indulging in no exchange of friendly andgirlish chatter, but grimly intent upon the purpose of their walk.
A steady line of vehicles was pushing on towards the park at themoderate speed which the law required. On both sides the wideboulevard tasteful dwellings, many completed, but most of them incourse of construction, were in constant view. Hosmer noted everything, but absently; and yet he was not pre-occupied with thought. Hefelt himself to be hurrying away from something that was fastovertaking him, and his faculties for the moment were centered in themere act of motion. It is said that motion is pleasurable to man. Nodoubt, in connection with a healthy body and free mind, movementbrings to the normal human being a certain degree of enjoyment. Butwhere the healthful conditions are only physical, rapid motion changesfrom a source of pleasure to one of mere expediency.
So long as Hosmer could walk he kept a certain pressing consciousnessat bay. He would have liked to run if he had dared. Since he hadentered the park there were constant trains of cars speeding somewhereoverhead; he could hear them at near intervals clashing over the stonebridge. And there was not a train which passed that he did not long tobe at the front of it to measure and let out its speed. What a madflight he would have given it, to make men hold their breath withterror! How he would have driven it till its end was death andchaos!--so much the better.
There suddenly formed in Hosmer's mind a sentence--sharp and distinct.We are all conscious of such quick mental visions whether of words orpictures, coming sometimes from a hidden and untraceable source,making us quiver with awe at this mysterious power of mind manifestingitself with the vividness of visible matter.
"It was the act of a coward."
Those were the words which checked him, and forbade him to go farther:which compelled him to turn about and face the reality of hisconvictions.
It is no unusual sight, that of a man lying full length in the softtender grass of some retired spot of Forest park--with his face hiddenin his folded arms. To the few who may see him, if they speculate atall about him he sleeps or he rests his body after a day's fatigue."Am I never to be the brave man?" thought Hosmer, "always the coward,flying even from my own thoughts?"
How hard to him was this unaccustomed task of dealing with moraldifficulties, which all through his life before, however lightly theyhad come, he had shirked and avoided! He realized now, that there wasto be no more of that. If he did not wish his life to end indisgraceful shipwreck, he must take command and direction of it uponhimself.
He had felt himself capable of stolid endurance since love haddeclared itself his guide and helper. But now--only to-day--somethingbeside had crept into his heart. Not something to be endured, but athing to be strangled and thrust away. It was the demon of hate; sonew, so awful, so loathsome, he doubted that he could look it in theface and live.
Here was the problem of his new existence.
The woman who had formerly made his life colorless and empty he hadquietly turned his back upon, carrying with him a pity that was notuntender. But the woman who had unwittingly robbed him of allpossibility of earthly happiness--he hated her. The woman who for theremainder of a life-time was to be in all the world the nearest thingto him, he hated her. He hated this woman of whom he must be careful,to whom he must be tender, and loyal and generous. And to give no signor word but of kindness; to do no action that was not considerate, wasthe task which destiny had thrust upon his honor.
He did not ask himself if it were possible of accomplishment. He hadflung hesitancy away, to make room for the all-powerful "Must be."
He walked slowly back to his home. There was no need to run now;nothing pursued him. Should he quicken his pace or drag himself everso slowly, it could henceforth make no difference. The burden fromwhich he had fled was now banded upon him and not to be loosed, unlesshe fling himself with it into forgetfulness.