XXXIV
IT was her habit to remain in town very late in the summer; she preferredthe house in Washington Square to any other habitation whatever, and itwas under protest that she used to go to the seaside for the month ofAugust. At the sea she spent her month at an hotel. The year that herfather died she intermitted this custom altogether, not thinking itconsistent with deep mourning; and the year after that she put off herdeparture till so late that the middle of August found her still in theheated solitude of Washington Square. Mrs. Penniman, who was fond of achange, was usually eager for a visit to the country; but this year sheappeared quite content with such rural impressions as she could gather,at the parlour window, from the ailantus-trees behind the wooden paling.The peculiar fragrance of this vegetation used to diffuse itself in theevening air, and Mrs. Penniman, on the warm nights of July, often sat atthe open window and inhaled it. This was a happy moment for Mrs.Penniman; after the death of her brother she felt more free to obey herimpulses. A vague oppression had disappeared from her life, and sheenjoyed a sense of freedom of which she had not been conscious since thememorable time, so long ago, when the Doctor went abroad with Catherineand left her at home to entertain Morris Townsend. The year that hadelapsed since her brother’s death reminded her—of that happy time,because, although Catherine, in growing older, had become a person to bereckoned with, yet her society was a very different thing, as Mrs.Penniman said, from that of a tank of cold water. The elder lady hardlyknew what use to make of this larger margin of her life; she sat andlooked at it very much as she had often sat, with her poised needle inher hand, before her tapestry frame. She had a confident hope, however,that her rich impulses, her talent for embroidery, would still find theirapplication, and this confidence was justified before many months hadelapsed.
Catherine continued to live in her father’s house in spite of its beingrepresented to her that a maiden lady of quiet habits might find a moreconvenient abode in one of the smaller dwellings, with brown stonefronts, which had at this time begun to adorn the transversethoroughfares in the upper part of the town. She liked the earlierstructure—it had begun by this time to be called an “old” house—andproposed to herself to end her days in it. If it was too large for apair of unpretending gentlewomen, this was better than the oppositefault; for Catherine had no desire to find herself in closer quarterswith her aunt. She expected to spend the rest of her life in WashingtonSquare, and to enjoy Mrs. Penniman’s society for the whole of thisperiod; as she had a conviction that, long as she might live, her auntwould live at least as long, and always retain her brilliancy andactivity. Mrs. Penniman suggested to her the idea of a rich vitality.
On one of those warm evenings in July of which mention has been made, thetwo ladies sat together at an open window, looking out on the quietSquare. It was too hot for lighted lamps, for reading, or for work; itmight have appeared too hot even for conversation, Mrs. Penniman havinglong been speechless. She sat forward in the window, half on thebalcony, humming a little song. Catherine was within the room, in a lowrocking-chair, dressed in white, and slowly using a large palmetto fan.It was in this way, at this season, that the aunt and niece, after theyhad had tea, habitually spent their evenings.
“Catherine,” said Mrs. Penniman at last, “I am going to say somethingthat will surprise you.”
“Pray do,” Catherine answered; “I like surprises. And it is so quietnow.”
“Well, then, I have seen Morris Townsend.”
If Catherine was surprised, she checked the expression of it; she gaveneither a start nor an exclamation. She remained, indeed, for somemoments intensely still, and this may very well have been a symptom ofemotion. “I hope he was well,” she said at last.
“I don’t know; he is a great deal changed. He would like very much tosee you.”
“I would rather not see him,” said Catherine quickly.
“I was afraid you would say that. But you don’t seem surprised!”
“I am—very much.”
“I met him at Marian’s,” said Mrs. Penniman. “He goes to Marian’s, andthey are so afraid you will meet him there. It’s my belief that that’swhy he goes. He wants so much to see you.” Catherine made no responseto this, and Mrs. Penniman went on. “I didn’t know him at first; he isso remarkably changed. But he knew me in a minute. He says I am not inthe least changed. You know how polite he always was. He was comingaway when I came, and we walked a little distance together. He is stillvery handsome, only, of course, he looks older, and he is not so—soanimated as he used to be. There was a touch of sadness about him; butthere was a touch of sadness about him before—especially when he wentaway. I am afraid he has not been very successful—that he has never gotthoroughly established. I don’t suppose he is sufficiently plodding, andthat, after all, is what succeeds in this world.” Mrs. Penniman had notmentioned Morris Townsend’s name to her niece for upwards of the fifth ofa century; but now that she had broken the spell, she seemed to wish tomake up for lost time, as if there had been a sort of exhilaration inhearing herself talk of him. She proceeded, however, with considerablecaution, pausing occasionally to let Catherine give some sign. Catherinegave no other sign than to stop the rocking of her chair and the swayingof her fan; she sat motionless and silent. “It was on Tuesday last,”said Mrs. Penniman, “and I have been hesitating ever since about tellingyou. I didn’t know how you might like it. At last I thought that it wasso long ago that you would probably not have any particular feeling. Isaw him again, after meeting him at Marian’s. I met him in the street,and he went a few steps with me. The first thing he said was about you;he asked ever so many questions. Marian didn’t want me to speak to you;she didn’t want you to know that they receive him. I told him I was surethat after all these years you couldn’t have any feeling about that; youcouldn’t grudge him the hospitality of his own cousin’s house. I saidyou would be bitter indeed if you did that. Marian has the mostextraordinary ideas about what happened between you; she seems to thinkhe behaved in some very unusual manner. I took the liberty of remindingher of the real facts, and placing the story in its true light. _He_ hasno bitterness, Catherine, I can assure you; and he might be excused forit, for things have not gone well with him. He has been all over theworld, and tried to establish himself everywhere; but his evil star wasagainst him. It is most interesting to hear him talk of his evil star.Everything failed; everything but his—you know, you remember—his proud,high spirit. I believe he married some lady somewhere in Europe. Youknow they marry in such a peculiar matter-of-course way in Europe; amarriage of reason they call it. She died soon afterwards; as he said tome, she only flitted across his life. He has not been in New York forten years; he came back a few days ago. The first thing he did was toask me about you. He had heard you had never married; he seemed verymuch interested about that. He said you had been the real romance of hislife.”
Catherine had suffered her companion to proceed from point to point, andpause to pause, without interrupting her; she fixed her eyes on theground and listened. But the last phrase I have quoted was followed by apause of peculiar significance, and then, at last, Catherine spoke. Itwill be observed that before doing so she had received a good deal ofinformation about Morris Townsend. “Please say no more; please don’tfollow up that subject.”
“Doesn’t it interest you?” asked Mrs. Penniman, with a certain timorousarchness.
“It pains me,” said Catherine.
“I was afraid you would say that. But don’t you think you could get usedto it? He wants so much to see you.”
“Please don’t, Aunt Lavinia,” said Catherine, getting up from her seat.She moved quickly away, and went to the other window, which stood open tothe balcony; and here, in the embrasure, concealed from her aunt by thewhite curtains, she remained a long time, looking out into the warmdarkness. She had had a great shock; it was as if the gulf of the pasthad suddenly opened, and a spectral figure had risen out of it.
Therewere some things she believed she had got over, some feelings that shehad thought of as dead; but apparently there was a certain vitality inthem still. Mrs. Penniman had made them stir themselves. It was but amomentary agitation, Catherine said to herself; it would presently passaway. She was trembling, and her heart was beating so that she couldfeel it; but this also would subside. Then, suddenly, while she waitedfor a return of her calmness, she burst into tears. But her tears flowedvery silently, so that Mrs. Penniman had no observation of them. It wasperhaps, however, because Mrs. Penniman suspected them that she said nomore that evening about Morris Townsend.