XIX
IT was for reasons connected with this determination that on the morrowhe sought a few words of private conversation with Mrs. Penniman. Hesent for her to the library, and he there informed her that he hoped verymuch that, as regarded this affair of Catherine’s, she would mind her_p’s_ and _q’s_.
“I don’t know what you mean by such an expression,” said his sister.“You speak as if I were learning the alphabet.”
“The alphabet of common sense is something you will never learn,” theDoctor permitted himself to respond.
“Have you called me here to insult me?” Mrs. Penniman inquired.
“Not at all. Simply to advise you. You have taken up young Townsend;that’s your own affair. I have nothing to do with your sentiments, yourfancies, your affections, your delusions; but what I request of you isthat you will keep these things to yourself. I have explained my viewsto Catherine; she understands them perfectly, and anything that she doesfurther in the way of encouraging Mr. Townsend’s attentions will be indeliberate opposition to my wishes. Anything that you should do in theway of giving her aid and comfort will be—permit me theexpression—distinctly treasonable. You know high treason is a capitaloffence; take care how you incur the penalty.”
Mrs. Penniman threw back her head, with a certain expansion of the eyewhich she occasionally practised. “It seems to me that you talk like agreat autocrat.”
“I talk like my daughter’s father.”
“Not like your sister’s brother!” cried Lavinia. “My dear Lavinia,” saidthe Doctor, “I sometimes wonder whether I am your brother. We are soextremely different. In spite of differences, however, we can, at apinch, understand each other; and that is the essential thing just now.Walk straight with regard to Mr. Townsend; that’s all I ask. It ishighly probable you have been corresponding with him for the last threeweeks—perhaps even seeing him. I don’t ask you—you needn’t tell me.” Hehad a moral conviction that she would contrive to tell a fib about thematter, which it would disgust him to listen to. “Whatever you havedone, stop doing it. That’s all I wish.”
“Don’t you wish also by chance to murder our child?” Mrs. Pennimaninquired.
“On the contrary, I wish to make her live and be happy.”
“You will kill her; she passed a dreadful night.”
“She won’t die of one dreadful night, nor of a dozen. Remember that I ama distinguished physician.”
Mrs. Penniman hesitated a moment. Then she risked her retort. “Yourbeing a distinguished physician has not prevented you from already losing_two members_ of your family!”
She had risked it, but her brother gave her such a terribly incisivelook—a look so like a surgeon’s lancet—that she was frightened at hercourage. And he answered her in words that corresponded to the look: “Itmay not prevent me, either, from losing the society of still another.”
Mrs. Penniman took herself off, with whatever air of depreciated meritwas at her command, and repaired to Catherine’s room, where the poor girlwas closeted. She knew all about her dreadful night, for the two had metagain, the evening before, after Catherine left her father. Mrs.Penniman was on the landing of the second floor when her niece cameupstairs. It was not remarkable that a person of so much subtlety shouldhave discovered that Catherine had been shut up with the Doctor. It wasstill less remarkable that she should have felt an extreme curiosity tolearn the result of this interview, and that this sentiment, combinedwith her great amiability and generosity, should have prompted her toregret the sharp words lately exchanged between her niece and herself.As the unhappy girl came into sight, in the dusky corridor, she made alively demonstration of sympathy. Catherine’s bursting heart was equallyoblivious. She only knew that her aunt was taking her into her arms.Mrs. Penniman drew her into Catherine’s own room, and the two women satthere together, far into the small hours; the younger one with her headon the other’s lap, sobbing and sobbing at first in a soundless, stifledmanner, and then at last perfectly still. It gratified Mrs. Penniman tobe able to feel conscientiously that this scene virtually removed theinterdict which Catherine had placed upon her further communion withMorris Townsend. She was not gratified, however, when, in coming back toher niece’s room before breakfast, she found that Catherine had risen andwas preparing herself for this meal.
“You should not go to breakfast,” she said; “you are not well enough,after your fearful night.”
“Yes, I am very well, and I am only afraid of being late.”
“I can’t understand you!” Mrs. Penniman cried. “You should stay in bedfor three days.”
“Oh, I could never do that!” said Catherine, to whom this idea presentedno attractions.
Mrs. Penniman was in despair, and she noted, with extreme annoyance, thatthe trace of the night’s tears had completely vanished from Catherine’seyes. She had a most impracticable _physique_. “What effect do youexpect to have upon your father,” her aunt demanded, “if you comeplumping down, without a vestige of any sort of feeling, as if nothing inthe world had happened?”
“He would not like me to lie in bed,” said Catherine simply.
“All the more reason for your doing it. How else do you expect to movehim?”
Catherine thought a little. “I don’t know how; but not in that way. Iwish to be just as usual.” And she finished dressing, and, according toher aunt’s expression, went plumping down into the paternal presence.She was really too modest for consistent pathos.
And yet it was perfectly true that she had had a dreadful night. Evenafter Mrs. Penniman left her she had had no sleep. She lay staring atthe uncomforting gloom, with her eyes and ears filled with the movementwith which her father had turned her out of his room, and of the words inwhich he had told her that she was a heartless daughter. Her heart wasbreaking. She had heart enough for that. At moments it seemed to herthat she believed him, and that to do what she was doing, a girl mustindeed be bad. She _was_ bad; but she couldn’t help it. She would tryto appear good, even if her heart were perverted; and from time to timeshe had a fancy that she might accomplish something by ingeniousconcessions to form, though she should persist in caring for Morris.Catherine’s ingenuities were indefinite, and we are not called upon toexpose their hollowness. The best of them perhaps showed itself in thatfreshness of aspect which was so discouraging to Mrs. Penniman, who wasamazed at the absence of haggardness in a young woman who for a wholenight had lain quivering beneath a father’s curse. Poor Catherine wasconscious of her freshness; it gave her a feeling about the future whichrather added to the weight upon her mind. It seemed a proof that she wasstrong and solid and dense, and would live to a great age—longer thanmight be generally convenient; and this idea was depressing, for itappeared to saddle her with a pretension the more, just when thecultivation of any pretension was inconsistent with her doing right. Shewrote that day to Morris Townsend, requesting him to come and see her onthe morrow; using very few words, and explaining nothing. She wouldexplain everything face to face.