Story of an Hour Sequel

Moments in a Story

Brently Mallard sat in a pew of New Orleans’ St. Louis Cathedral replaying the whole conversation in his head.

“Your wife must have loved you very much, Mr. Mallard,” the doctor told him. “I apologize for your loss.”

Brently said nothing. He simply sat in the uncomfortable parlor chair and stared at his hands in wonder. In a way, he found it almost funny that he should be sitting here dry-eyed and completely alive when Louise was dead of a fit of emotion. He didn’t think he would ever be able to put the sight of her glossy, wide eyes and hysterically grinning mouth from his mind.

“Thank you, Dr. Williams. If you don’t mind, I’d like to begin making some arrangements immediately, “ he told the kindly old man in front of him.

“Of course, Mr. Mallard. I’ll see myself out,” and he was alone.

There had been something wrong. Something had not connected. He kept coming back to “Your wife must have loved you very much.” He could not reconcile it with the grotesque, laughing expression on his usually somber and pallid wife.

“Did you hear about Louise Mallard?” he heard in hushed tones behind him. He strained to listen.

“Oh yes, poor thing. She always was a sickly, queer sort of girl though. Frankly, I didn’t think she had it in her to go the way she did. You know, for Brently and all.”

“Yes, it’s really quite romantic in a tragic sort of way!” Brently’s jaw set.

He made the sign of the cross across his heart and confidently rose. He heard a short gasp from one of the women. He gave her a little bow of respect before striding to the door. Above, the intricate portraits of gods and saints watched him like jail keepers. Louise had always loved them and often spent what seemed like hours staring at them. “They come to life,” she would say.

Brently loved Louise. He always would. He remembered the day he first saw her at a grand ball for Mardi Gras.

The other girls, quintessential Louisiana belles, flirted with him and doused him with praise. Even the ball’s queen left her king’s side for a dance with him. Beautiful girls with coquettish smiles and colorful dresses surrounded him. There was no denying that Brently Mallard had been an eligible bachelor in his youth: handsome, intelligent, charming, and from an old French family.

By chance, looking for some extra bourbon, he stumbled into the host’s library where he started to see a startled girl in a beige silk dress pouring over a book.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said.

“It’s quite alright,” she breathed lightly.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said with some force, “I’ll be fine. Let me catch my breath a moment.”

He took that moment to look her over. Her skin was very pale. She looked almost like a ghost. But her hair was dark and soft, piled up fashionably on her head.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James,” she told him with more enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe.”

“And you’ll need someone to protect you from all the men there to seek your fortune and connections,” he told her cheekily.

Her smile widened. “You’ve read it!”

“Indeed.”

So she invited him to sit with her to discuss the genius of Henry James.

Over the next few weeks, she beguiled Brently. She was not at all girlish or even particularly beautiful, but she was intelligent, striking, and direct.

But he had long lost hope of wedding her. When she saw him in the room she would give him a small smile, but he knew she was not nearly as enamored of him as he was of her. He thought of her every moment and she always looked a little surprised to see him.

Their proposal was a strange affair.

“Ms. Blanchard,” he began.

“Louise.”

“Louise,” he continued. “I know that you may not be as taken with me as I am with you, but believe me when I tell you that I love you very much with my whole heart.”

“Brently—.”

“Please, let me finish. I would simply like for you to consider marriage to me. You don’t have to say today or even tomorrow—.”

“Brently! I can’t marry you. Today or tomorrow or ever,” she said firmly. Her eyes shone with tears.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I’m very ill, Brently. Very ill,” she choked.

Immediately his heart sank. “Louise, darling, tell me. Is it very serious?”

“It’s a problem of the heart. Perhaps I’ll live, perhaps I won’t.”

His heart lifted a bit and he responded to her. “Marry me. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure that you don’t get too excited and I—I’ll care for you. “

“Brently, I think it might be better if I just didn’t marry. You deserve the kind of girl who likes to go to parties and dress in fine clothes.”

“I’ll take you to Europe. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he begged.

“I don’t know. I suppose I might like to live alone for a while, perhaps help the less fortunate or study the piano more than I have.”

“I want to marry you. Don’t try to make me feel as though I shouldn’t want to. I love you.”

She sighed. “Alright, Brently. I’ll marry you if I live to see our wedding day.”

Brently had taken care of her. Every single day. He was forever at her side. The one day he had left to take care of some business up north she had passed. He couldn’t stand it.

She had become a shadow of herself as her illness progressed and he kept her under his watch more and more. She no longer laughed as readily or had a witty comment at hand to lash at him towards the end. Her smiles became smaller and smaller.

Perhaps, Louise could have lived perfectly well all alone, but Brently was nothing without Louise.