XVII
MRS. PENNIMAN told Catherine that evening—the two ladies were sitting inthe back parlour—that she had had an interview with Morris Townsend; andon receiving this news the girl started with a sense of pain. She feltangry for the moment; it was almost the first time she had ever feltangry. It seemed to her that her aunt was meddlesome; and from this camea 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 mostpresumptuous speech of her life, and yet at the same time had an instinctthat she was right in doing so.
“But you wouldn’t, my dear,” Aunt Lavinia rejoined; “and I didn’t knowwhat might have become of him.”
“I have not seen him, because my father has forbidden it,” Catherine saidvery 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 keepawake!” she commented.
Catherine looked at her. “I don’t understand you. You seem to be verystrange.”
“Well, my dear, you will understand me some day!” And Mrs. Penniman, whowas reading the evening paper, which she perused daily from the firstline to the last, resumed her occupation. She wrapped herself insilence; she was determined Catherine should ask her for an account ofher interview with Morris. But Catherine was silent for so long, thatshe almost lost patience; and she was on the point of remarking to herthat 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 patienceagain; owing to which she at last volunteered the information that Morrislooked very handsome, but terribly haggard.
“Did he seem sad?” asked her niece.
“He was dark under the eyes,” said Mrs. Penniman. “So different fromwhen I first saw him; though I am not sure that if I had seen him in thiscondition the first time, I should not have been even more struck withhim. There is something brilliant in his very misery.”
This was, to Catherine’s sense, a vivid picture, and though shedisapproved, she felt herself gazing at it. “Where did you see him?” sheasked presently.
“In—in the Bowery; at a confectioner’s,” said Mrs. Penniman, who had ageneral 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, whereshe stood looking a while 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. Hesaid 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, shesaid—“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. Atlast she raised her head and looked at her aunt. “Why do you push meso?” 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, witha good deal of solemnity. “I am afraid you don’t feel the importance—”She paused a little; Catherine was looking at her. “The importance ofnot disappointing that gallant young heart!” And Mrs. Penniman went backto her chair, by the lamp, and, with a little jerk, picked up the eveningpaper again.
Catherine stood there before the fire, with her hands behind her, lookingat her aunt, to whom it seemed that the girl had never had just this darkfixedness in her gaze. “I don’t think you understand—or that you knowme,” 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 morenothing was said. But Mrs. Penniman’s imagination was restless, and theevening paper failed on this occasion to enchain it.
“If you succumb to the dread of your father’s wrath,” she said, “I don’tknow 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 littlesharp slap to her newspaper. She knew not what to make of her niece, whohad suddenly become stern and contradictious.
This tendency on Catherine’s part was presently even more apparent. “Youhad much better not make any more appointments with Mr. Townsend,” shesaid. “I don’t think it is right.”
Mrs. Penniman rose with considerable majesty. “My poor child, are youjealous 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 todeceive.”
“I certainly have not deceived _you_!”
“Yes; but I promised my father—”
“I have no doubt you promised your father. But I have promised himnothing!”
Catherine had to admit this, and she did so in silence. “I don’t believeMr. 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,” sheremarked 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 notshare your dread of my brother; I have always known how to defend my ownposition. But I shall certainly never again take any step on yourbehalf; you are much too thankless. I knew you were not a spontaneousnature, but I believed you were firm, and I told your father that hewould find you so. I am disappointed—but your father will not be!” Andwith this, Mrs. Penniman offered her niece a brief good-night, andwithdrew to her own apartment.