Department of English
and Comparative Literature
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble , great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that
revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he
who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with
Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken to time to assure himself of
its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in
bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed
inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her
sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She
would have no one follow.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she
sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of threes that were all
aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a
peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her
faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had
met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless,
except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep
continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a
certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off
yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated
a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was
it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the
sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, She was beginning to recognize this thing
that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as
powerless as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips.
She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of
terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat
fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy  that held her. A clear
and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands  folded in
death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she
saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her
absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would live for
herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women  believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes . Often she had not. What did it matter! What
could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she
suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring
for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What
are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door.
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life
though that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer
days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.
It was only yesterday she had though with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a
feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She
clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them
at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who
entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far
from the scene of accident, and did not even know that there had been one. He stood amazed at
Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen himself from the view of his wife.
But Richards was too late.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of joy that kills .
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-  This is an example of an author foreshadowing something that is important later in the story.