The New York Stories of Henry James

  “Austin married a wife with money—why shouldn’t you?”

  “Ah! but your brother was a doctor,” Morris objected.

  “Well, all young men can’t be doctors!”

  “I should think it an extremely loathsome profession,” said Morris, with an air of intellectual independence. Then, in a moment, he went on rather inconsequently, “Do you suppose there is a will already made in Catherine’s favour?”

  “I suppose so—even doctors must die; and perhaps a little in mine,” Mrs. Penniman frankly added.

  “And you believe he would certainly change it—as regards Catherine?”

  “Yes; and then change it back again.”

  “Ah, but one can’t depend on that!” said Morris.

  “Do you want to depend on it?” Mrs. Penniman asked.

  Morris blushed a little. “Well, I am certainly afraid of being the cause of an injury to Catherine.”

  “Ah! you must not be afraid. Be afraid of nothing, and everything will go well!”

  And then Mrs. Penniman paid for her cup of tea, and Morris paid for his oyster stew, and they went out together into the dimly-lighted wilderness of the Seventh Avenue. The dusk had closed in completely, and the street lamps were separated by wide intervals of a pavement in which cavities and fissures played a disproportionate part. An omnibus, emblazoned with strange pictures, went tumbling over the dislocated cobble-stones.

  “How will you go home?” Morris asked, following this vehicle with an interested eye. Mrs. Penniman had taken his arm.

  She hesitated a moment. “I think this manner would be pleasant,” she said; and she continued to let him feel the value of his support.

  So he walked with her through the devious ways of the west side of the town, and through the bustle of gathering nightfall in populous streets, to the quiet precinct of Washington Square. They lingered a moment at the foot of Dr. Sloper’s white marble steps, above which a spotless white door, adorned with a glittering silver plate, seemed to figure, for Morris, the closed portal of happiness; and then Mrs. Penniman’s companion rested a melancholy eye upon a lighted window in the upper part of the house.

  “That is my room—my dear little room!” Mrs. Penniman remarked.

  Morris started. “Then I needn’t come walking round the square to gaze at it.”

  “That’s as you please. But Catherine’s is behind; two noble windows on the second floor. I think you can see them from the other street.”

  “I don’t want to see them, ma’am!” And Morris turned his back to the house.

  “I will tell her you have been here, at any rate,” said Mrs. Penniman, pointing to the spot where they stood; “and I will give her your message—that she is to hold fast!”

  “Oh, yes! of course. You know I write her all that.”

  “It seems to say more when it is spoken! And remember, if you need me, that I am there;” and Mrs. Penniman glanced at the third floor.

  On this they separated, and Morris, left to himself, stood looking at the house a moment; after which he turned away, and took a gloomy walk round the Square, on the opposite side, close to the wooden fence. Then he came back, and paused for a minute in front of Dr. Sloper’s dwelling. His eyes travelled over it; they even rested on the ruddy windows of Mrs. Penniman’s apartment. He thought it a devilish comfortable house.

  XVII

  MRS. PENNIMAN told Catherine that evening—the two ladies were sitting in the back parlour—that she had had an interview with Morris Townsend; and on receiving this news the girl started with a sense of pain. She felt angry for the moment; it was almost the first time she had ever felt angry. It seemed to her that her aunt was meddlesome; and from this came a vague apprehension that she would spoil something.

  “I don’t see why you should have seen him. I don’t think it was right,” Catherine said.

  “I was so sorry for him—it seemed to me some one ought to see him.”

  “No one but I,” said Catherine, who felt as if she were making the most presumptuous speech of her life, and yet at the same time had an instinct that she was right in doing so.

  “But you wouldn’t, my dear,” Aunt Lavinia rejoined; “and I didn’t know what might have become of him.”

  “I have not seen him, because my father has forbidden it,” Catherine said, very simply.

  There was a simplicity in this, indeed, which fairly vexed Mrs. Penniman. “If your father forbade you to go to sleep, I suppose you would keep awake!” she commented.

  Catherine looked at her. “I don’t understand you. You seem to be very strange.”

  “Well, my dear, you will understand me some day!” And Mrs. Penniman, who was reading the evening paper, which she perused daily from the first line to the last, resumed her occupation. She wrapped herself in silence; she was determined Catherine should ask her for an account of her interview with Morris. But Catherine was silent for so long, that she almost lost patience; and she was on the point of remarking to her that she was very heartless, when the girl at last spoke.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He said he is ready to marry you any day, in spite of everything.”

  Catherine made no answer to this, and Mrs. Penniman almost lost patience again; owing to which she at last volunteered the information that Morris looked very handsome, but terribly haggard.

  “Did he seem sad?” asked her niece.

  “He was dark under the eyes,” said Mrs. Penniman. “So different from when I first saw him; though I am not sure that if I had seen him in this condition the first time, I should not have been even more struck with him. There is something brilliant in his very misery.”

  This was, to Catherine’s sense, a vivid picture, and though she disapproved, she felt herself gazing at it. “Where did you see him?” she asked presently.

  “In—in the Bowery; at a confectioner’s,” said Mrs. Penniman, who had a general idea that she ought to dissemble a little.

  “Whereabouts is the place?” Catherine inquired, after another pause.

  “Do you wish to go there, my dear?” said her aunt.

  “Oh, no!” And Catherine got up from her seat and went to the fire, where she stood looking awhile at the glowing coals.

  “Why are you so dry, Catherine?” Mrs. Penniman said at last.

  “So dry?”

  “So cold—so irresponsive.”

  The girl turned, very quickly. “Did he say that?”

  Mrs. Penniman hesitated a moment. “I will tell you what he said. He said he feared only one thing—that you would be afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of your father.”

  Catherine turned back to the fire again, and then, after a pause, she said—“I am afraid of my father.”

  Mrs. Penniman got quickly up from her chair and approached her niece. “Do you mean to give him up, then?”

  Catherine for some time never moved; she kept her eyes on the coals. At last she raised her head and looked at her aunt. “Why do you push me so?” she asked.

  “I don’t push you. When have I spoken to you before?”

  “It seems to me that you have spoken to me several times.”

  “I am afraid it is necessary, then, Catherine,” said Mrs. Penniman, with a good deal of solemnity. “I am afraid you don’t feel the importance——” She paused a little; Catherine was looking at her. “The importance of not disappointing that gallant young heart!” And Mrs. Penniman went back to her chair, by the lamp, and, with a little jerk, picked up the evening paper again.

  Catherine stood there before the fire, with her hands behind her, looking at her aunt, to whom it seemed that the girl had never had just this dark fixedness in her gaze. “I don’t think you understand—or that you know me,” she said.

  “If I don’t, it is not wonderful; you trust me so little.”

  Catherine made no attempt to deny this charge, and for some time more nothing was said. But Mrs. Penniman’s imagination was restl
ess, and the evening paper failed on this occasion to enchain it.

  “If you succumb to the dread of your father’s wrath,” she said, “I don’t know what will become of us.”

  “Did he tell you to say these things to me?”

  “He told me to use my influence.”

  “You must be mistaken,” said Catherine. “He trusts me.”

  “I hope he may never repent of it!” And Mrs. Penniman gave a little sharp slap to her newspaper. She knew not what to make of her niece, who had suddenly become stern and contradictious.

  This tendency on Catherine’s part was presently even more apparent. “You had much better not make any more appointments with Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I don’t think it is right.”

  Mrs. Penniman rose with considerable majesty. “My poor child, are you jealous of me?” she inquired.

  “Oh, Aunt Lavinia!” murmured Catherine blushing.

  “I don’t think it is your place to teach me what is right.”

  On this point Catherine made no concession. “It can’t be right to deceive.”

  “I certainly have not deceived you!”

  “Yes; but I promised my father——”

  “I have no doubt you promised your father. But I have promised him nothing!”

  Catherine had to admit this, and she did so in silence. “I don’t believe Mr. Townsend himself likes it,” she said at last.

  “Doesn’t like meeting me?”

  “Not in secret.”

  “It was not in secret; the place was full of people.”

  “But it was a secret place—away off in the Bowery.”

  Mrs. Penniman flinched a little. “Gentlemen enjoy such things,” she remarked, presently. “I know what gentlemen like.”

  “My father wouldn’t like it, if he knew.”

  “Pray, do you propose to inform him?” Mrs. Penniman inquired.

  “No, Aunt Lavinia. But please don’t do it again.”

  “If I do it again, you will inform him: is that what you mean? I do not share your dread of my brother; I have always known how to defend my own position. But I shall certainly never again take any step on your behalf; you are much too thankless. I knew you were not a spontaneous nature, but I believed you were firm, and I told your father that he would find you so. I am disappointed—but your father will not be!” And with this, Mrs. Penniman offered her niece a brief good-night, and withdrew to her own apartment.

  XVIII

  CATHERINE sat alone by the parlour fire—sat there for more than an hour, lost in her meditations. Her aunt seemed to her aggressive and foolish, and to see it so clearly—to judge Mrs. Penniman so positively—made her feel old and grave. She did not resent the imputation of weakness; it made no impression on her, for she had not the sense of weakness, and she was not hurt at not being appreciated. She had an immense respect for her father, and she felt that to displease him would be a misdemeanour analogous to an act of profanity in a great temple: but her purpose had slowly ripened, and she believed that her prayers had purified it of its violence. The evening advanced, and the lamp burned dim without her noticing it; her eyes were fixed upon her terrible plan. She knew her father was in his study—that he had been there all the evening; from time to time she expected to hear him move. She thought he would perhaps come, as he sometimes came, into the parlour. At last the clock struck eleven, and the house was wrapped in silence; the servants had gone to bed. Catherine got up and went slowly to the door of the library, where she waited a moment, motionless. Then she knocked, and then she waited again. Her father had answered her, but she had not the courage to turn the latch. What she had said to her aunt was true enough—she was afraid of him; and in saying that she had no sense of weakness she meant that she was not afraid of herself. She heard him move within, and he came and opened the door for her.

  “What is the matter?” asked the Doctor. “You are standing there like a ghost.”

  She went into the room, but it was some time before she contrived to say what she had come to say. Her father, who was in his dressing-gown and slippers, had been busy at his writing-table, and after looking at her for some moments, and waiting for her to speak, he went and seated himself at his papers again. His back was turned to her—she began to hear the scratching of his pen. She remained near the door, with her heart thumping beneath her bodice; and she was very glad that his back was turned, for it seemed to her that she could more easily address herself to this portion of his person than to his face. At last she began, watching it while she spoke.

  “You told me that if I should have anything more to say about Mr. Townsend you would be glad to listen to it.”

  “Exactly, my dear,” said the Doctor, not turning round, but stopping his pen.

  Catherine wished it would go on, but she herself continued. “I thought I would tell you that I have not seen him again, but that I should like to do so.”

  “To bid him good-bye?” asked the Doctor.

  The girl hesitated a moment. “He is not going away.”

  The Doctor wheeled slowly round in his chair, with a smile that seemed to accuse her of an epigram; but extremes meet, and Catherine had not intended one. “It is not to bid him good-bye, then?” her father said.

  “No, father, not that; at least, not for ever. I have not seen him again, but I should like to see him,” Catherine repeated.

  The Doctor slowly rubbed his under lip with the feather of his quill.

  “Have you written to him?”

  “Yes, four times.”

  “You have not dismissed him, then. Once would have done that.”

  “No,” said Catherine; “I have asked him—asked him to wait.”

  Her father sat looking at her, and she was afraid he was going to break out into wrath; his eyes were so fine and cold.

  “You are a dear, faithful child,” he said at last. “Come here to your father.” And he got up, holding out his hands toward her.

  The words were a surprise, and they gave her an exquisite joy. She went to him, and he put his arm round her tenderly, soothingly; and then he kissed her. After this he said—

  “Do you wish to make me very happy?”

  “I should like to—but I am afraid I can’t,” Catherine answered.

  “You can if you will. It all depends on your will.”

  “Is it to give him up?” said Catherine.

  “Yes, it is to give him up.”

  And he held her still, with the same tenderness, looking into her face and resting his eyes on her averted eyes. There was a long silence; she wished he would release her.

  “You are happier than I, father,” she said, at last.

  “I have no doubt you are unhappy just now. But it is better to be unhappy for three months and get over it, than for many years and never get over it.”

  “Yes, if that were so,” said Catherine.

  “It would be so; I am sure of that.” She answered nothing, and he went on. “Have you no faith in my wisdom, in my tenderness, in my solicitude for your future?”

  “Oh, father!” murmured the girl.

  “Don’t you suppose that I know something of men: their vices, their follies, their falsities?”

  She detached herself, and turned upon him. “He is not vicious—he is not false!”

  Her father kept looking at her with his sharp, pure eye. “You make nothing of my judgment, then?”

  “I can’t believe that!”

  “I don’t ask you to believe it, but to take it on trust.”

  Catherine was far from saying to herself that this was an ingenious sophism; but she met the appeal none the less squarely. “What has he done—what do you know?”

  “He has never done anything—he is a selfish idler.”

  “Oh, father, don’t abuse him!” she exclaimed, pleadingly.

  “I don’t mean to abuse him; it would be a great mistake. You may do as you choose,” he added, turning away.

  “I may see him again?”

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; “Just as you choose.”

  “Will you forgive me?”

  “By no means.”

  “It will only be for once.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by once. You must either give him up or continue the acquaintance.”

  “I wish to explain—to tell him to wait.”

  “To wait for what?”

  “Till you know him better—till you consent.”

  “Don’t tell him any such nonsense as that. I know him well enough, and I shall never consent.”

  “But we can wait a long time,” said poor Catherine, in a tone which was meant to express the humblest conciliation, but which had upon her father’s nerves the effect of an iteration not characterised by tact.

  The Doctor answered, however, quietly enough: “Of course you can wait till I die, if you like.”

  Catherine gave a cry of natural horror.

  “Your engagement will have one delightful effect upon you; it will make you extremely impatient for that event.”

  Catherine stood staring, and the Doctor enjoyed the point he had made. It came to Catherine with the force—or rather with the vague impressiveness—of a logical axiom which it was not in her province to controvert; and yet, though it was a scientific truth, she felt wholly unable to accept it.

  “I would rather not marry, if that were true,” she said.

  “Give me a proof of it, then; for it is beyond a question that by engaging yourself to Morris Townsend you simply wait for my death.”

  She turned away, feeling sick and faint; and the Doctor went on. “And if you wait for it with impatience, judge, if you please, what his eagerness will be!”

  Catherine turned it over—her father’s words had such an authority for her that her very thoughts were capable of obeying him. There was a dreadful ugliness in it, which seemed to glare at her through the interposing medium of her own feebler reason. Suddenly, however, she had an inspiration—she almost knew it to be an inspiration.

  “If I don’t marry before your death, I will not after,” she said.

  To her father, it must be admitted, this seemed only another epigram; and as obstinacy, in unaccomplished minds, does not usually select such a mode of expression, he was the more surprised at this wanton play of a fixed idea.