XXVI
IF she had disturbed her niece’s temper—she began from this momentforward to talk a good deal about Catherine’s temper, an article which upto that time had never been mentioned in connexion with ourheroine—Catherine had opportunity, on the morrow, to recover herserenity. Mrs. Penniman had given her a message from Morris Townsend, tothe effect that he would come and welcome her home on the day after herarrival. He came in the afternoon but, as may be imagined, he was noton this occasion made free of Dr. Sloper’s study. He had been coming andgoing, for the past year, so comfortably and irresponsibly, that he had acertain sense of being wronged by finding himself reminded that he mustnow limit his horizon to the front parlour, which was Catherine’sparticular province.
“I am very glad you have come back,” he said; “it makes me very happy tosee you again.” And he looked at her, smiling, from head to foot; thoughit did not appear, afterwards, that he agreed with Mrs. Penniman (who,womanlike, went more into details) in thinking her embellished.
To Catherine he appeared resplendent; it was some time before she couldbelieve again that this beautiful young man was her own exclusiveproperty. They had a great deal of characteristic lovers’ talk—a softexchange of inquiries and assurances. In these matters Morris had anexcellent grace, which flung a picturesque interest even over the accountof his début in the commission business—a subject as to which hiscompanion earnestly questioned him. From time to time he got up from thesofa where they sat together, and walked about the room; after which hecame back, smiling and passing his hand through his hair. He wasunquiet, as was natural in a young man who has just been reunited to along-absent mistress, and Catherine made the reflexion that she had neverseen him so excited. It gave her pleasure, somehow, to note this fact.He asked her questions about her travels, to some of which she was unableto reply, for she had forgotten the names of places, and the order of herfather’s journey. But for the moment she was so happy, so lifted up bythe belief that her troubles at last were over, that she forgot to beashamed of her meagre answers. It seemed to her now that she could marryhim without the remnant of a scruple or a single tremor save those thatbelonged to joy. Without waiting for him to ask, she told him that herfather had come back in exactly the same state of mind—that he had notyielded an inch.
“We must not expect it now,” she said, “and we must do without it.”
Morris sat looking and smiling. “My poor dear girl!” he exclaimed.
“You mustn’t pity me,” said Catherine; “I don’t mind it now—I am used toit.”
Morris continued to smile, and then he got up and walked about again.“You had better let me try him!”
“Try to bring him over? You would only make him worse,” Catherineanswered resolutely.
“You say that because I managed it so badly before. But I should manageit differently now. I am much wiser; I have had a year to think of it.I have more tact.”
“Is that what you have been thinking of for a year?”
“Much of the time. You see, the idea sticks in my crop. I don’t like tobe beaten.”
“How are you beaten if we marry?”
“Of course, I am not beaten on the main issue; but I am, don’t you see,on all the rest of it—on the question of my reputation, of my relationswith your father, of my relations with my own children, if we should haveany.”
“We shall have enough for our children—we shall have enough foreverything. Don’t you expect to succeed in business?”
“Brilliantly, and we shall certainly be very comfortable. But it isn’tof the mere material comfort I speak; it is of the moral comfort,” saidMorris—“of the intellectual satisfaction!”
“I have great moral comfort now,” Catherine declared, very simply.
“Of course you have. But with me it is different. I have staked mypride on proving to your father that he is wrong; and now that I am atthe head of a flourishing business, I can deal with him as an equal. Ihave a capital plan—do let me go at him!”
He stood before her with his bright face, his jaunty air, his hands inhis pockets; and she got up, with her eyes resting on his own. “Pleasedon’t, Morris; please don’t,” she said; and there was a certain mild, sadfirmness in her tone which he heard for the first time. “We must ask nofavours of him—we must ask nothing more. He won’t relent, and nothinggood will come of it. I know it now—I have a very good reason.”
“And pray; what is your reason?”
She hesitated to bring it out, but at last it came. “He is not very fondof me!”
“Oh, bother!” cried Morris angrily.
“I wouldn’t say such a thing without being sure. I saw it, I felt it, inEngland, just before he came away. He talked to me one night—the lastnight; and then it came over me. You can tell when a person feels thatway. I wouldn’t accuse him if he hadn’t made me feel that way. I don’taccuse him; I just tell you that that’s how it is. He can’t help it; wecan’t govern our affections. Do I govern mine? mightn’t he say that tome? It’s because he is so fond of my mother, whom we lost so long ago.She was beautiful, and very, very brilliant; he is always thinking ofher. I am not at all like her; Aunt Penniman has told me that. Ofcourse, it isn’t my fault; but neither is it his fault. All I mean is,it’s true; and it’s a stronger reason for his never being reconciled thansimply his dislike for you.”
“‘Simply?’” cried Morris, with a laugh, “I am much obliged for that!”
“I don’t mind about his disliking you now; I mind everything less. Ifeel differently; I feel separated from my father.”
“Upon my word,” said Morris, “you are a queer family!”
“Don’t say that—don’t say anything unkind,” the girl entreated. “Youmust be very kind to me now, because, Morris—because,” and she hesitateda moment—“because I have done a great deal for you.”
“Oh, I know that, my dear!”
She had spoken up to this moment without vehemence or outward sign ofemotion, gently, reasoningly, only trying to explain. But her emotionhad been ineffectually smothered, and it betrayed itself at last in thetrembling of her voice. “It is a great thing to be separated like thatfrom your father, when you have worshipped him before. It has made mevery unhappy; or it would have made me so if I didn’t love you. You cantell when a person speaks to you as if—as if—”
“As if what?”
“As if they despised you!” said Catherine passionately. “He spoke thatway the night before we sailed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough, and Ithought of it on the voyage, all the time. Then I made up my mind. Iwill never ask him for anything again, or expect anything from him. Itwould not be natural now. We must be very happy together, and we mustnot seem to depend upon his forgiveness. And Morris, Morris, you mustnever despise me!”
This was an easy promise to make, and Morris made it with fine effect.But for the moment he undertook nothing more onerous.