“The rest? What is the rest?”
“Whatever it may be, there is sure to be plenty of it.”
“I know what you mean,” said Catherine, remembering how Morris had forewarned her. “You mean that he is mercenary.”
Her father looked up at her still, with his cold, quiet, reasonable eye. “If I meant it, my dear, I should say it! But there is an error I wish particularly to avoid—that of rendering Mr. Townsend more interesting to you by saying hard things about him.”
“I won’t think them hard if they are true,” said Catherine.
“If you don’t, you will be a remarkably sensible young woman!”
“They will be your reasons, at any rate, and you will want me to hear your reasons.”
The doctor smiled a little. “Very true. You have a perfect right to ask for them.” And he puffed his cigar a few moments. “Very well, then; without accusing Mr. Townsend of being in love only with your fortune—and with the fortune that you justly expect—I will say that there is every reason to suppose that these good things have entered into his calculation more largely than a tender solicitude for your happiness strictly requires. There is, of course, nothing impossible in an intelligent young man entertaining a disinterested affection for you. You are an honest, amiable girl, and an intelligent young man might easily find it out. But the principal thing that we know about this young man—who is, indeed, very intelligent—leads us to suppose that, however much he may value your personal merits, he values your money more. The principal thing we know about him is that he has led a life of dissipation, and has spent a fortune of his own in doing so. That is enough for me, my dear. I wish you to marry a young man with other antecedents—a young man who could give positive guarantees. If Morris Townsend has spent his own fortune in amusing himself, there is every reason to believe that he would spend yours.”
The doctor delivered himself of these remarks slowly, deliberately, with occasional pauses and prolongations of accent, which made no great allowance for poor Catherine’s suspense as to his conclusion. She sat down at last, with her head bent and her eyes still fixed upon him; and strangely enough—I hardly know how to tell it—even while she felt that what he said went so terribly against her, she admired his neatness and nobleness of expression. There was something hopeless and oppressive in having to argue with her father; but she too, on her side, must try to be clear. He was so quiet; he was not at all angry; and she, too, must be quiet. But her very effort to be quiet made her tremble.
“That is not the principal thing we know about him,” she said; and there was a touch of her tremor in her voice. “There are other things—many other things. He has very high abilities—he wants so much to do something. He is kind, and generous, and true,” said poor Catherine, who had not suspected hitherto the resources of her eloquence. “And his fortune—his fortune that he spent—was very small.”
“All the more reason he shouldn’t have spent it,” cried the doctor, getting up with a laugh. Then, as Catherine, who had also risen to her feet again, stood there in her rather angular earnestness, wishing so much and expressing so little, he drew her toward him and kissed her. “You won’t think me cruel?” he said, holding her a moment.
This question was not reassuring; it seemed to Catherine, on the contrary, to suggest possibilities which made her feel sick. But she answered coherently enough, “No, dear Father; because if you knew how I feel—and you must know, you know everything—you would be so kind, so gentle.”
“Yes, I think I know how you feel,” the doctor said. “I will be very kind—be sure of that. And I will see Mr. Townsend tomorrow. Meanwhile, and for the present, be so good as to mention to no one that you are engaged.”
CHAPTER 12
On the morrow, in the afternoon, he stayed at home, awaiting Mr. Townsend’s call—a proceeding by which it appeared to him (justly perhaps, for he was a very busy man) that he paid Catherine’s suitor great honor, and gave both these young people so much the less to complain of. Morris presented himself with a countenance sufficiently serene—he appeared to have forgotten the “insult” for which he had solicited Catherine’s sympathy two evenings before—and Doctor Sloper lost no time in letting him know that he had been prepared for his visit.
“Catherine told me yesterday what has been going on between you,” he said. “You must allow me to say that it would have been becoming of you to give me notice of your intentions before they had gone so far.”
“I should have done so,” Morris answered, “if you had not had so much the appearance of leaving your daughter at liberty. She seems to me quite her own mistress.”
“Literally, she is. But she has not emancipated herself morally quite so far, I trust, as to choose a husband without consulting me. I have left her at liberty, but I have not been in the least indifferent. The truth is, that your little affair has come to a head with a rapidity that surprises me. It was only the other day that Catherine made your acquaintance.”
“It was not long ago, certainly,” said Morris, with great gravity. “I admit that we have not been slow to—to arrive at an understanding. But that was very natural, from the moment we were sure of ourselves—and of each other. My interest in Miss Sloper began the first time I saw her.”
“Did it not by chance precede your first meeting?” the doctor asked.
Morris looked at him an instant. “I certainly had already heard that she was a charming girl.”
“A charming girl—that’s what you think her?”
“Assuredly. Otherwise I should not be sitting here.”
The doctor meditated a moment. “My dear young man,” he said at last, “you must be very susceptible. As Catherine’s father I have, I trust, a just and tender appreciation of her many good qualities; but I don’t mind telling you that I have never thought of her as a charming girl, and never expected anyone else to do so.”
Morris Townsend received this statement with a smile that was not wholly devoid of deference. “I don’t know what I might think of her if I were her father. I can’t put myself in that place. I speak from my own point of view.”
“You speak very well,” said the doctor, “but that is not all that is necessary. I told Catherine yesterday that I disapproved of her engagement.”
“She let me know as much, and I was very sorry to hear it. I am greatly disappointed.” And Morris sat in silence awhile, looking at the floor.
“Did you really expect I would say I was delighted, and throw my daughter into your arms?”
“Oh no; I had an idea you didn’t like me.”
“What gave you the idea?”
“The fact that I am poor.”
“That has a harsh sound,” said the doctor, “but it is about the truth—speaking of you strictly as a son-in-law. Your absence of means, of a profession, of visible resources or prospects, places you in a category from which it would be imprudent for me to select a husband for my daughter, who is a weak young woman with a large fortune. In any other capacity I am perfectly prepared to like you. As a son-in-law, I abominate you.”
Morris Townsend listened respectfully. “I don’t think Miss Sloper is a weak woman,” he presently said.
“Of course you must defend her—it’s the least you can do. But I have known my child twenty years, and you have known her six weeks. Even if she were not weak, however, you would still be a penniless man.”
“Ah, yes; that is my weakness! And therefore, you mean, I am mercenary—I only want your daughter’s money.”
“I don’t say that. I am not obliged to say it; and to say it, save under stress of compulsion, would be very bad taste. I say simply that you belong to the wrong category.”
“But your daughter doesn’t marry a category,” Townsend urged, with his handsome smile. “She marries an individual—an individual whom she is so good as to say she loves.”
“An individual who offers so little in return.”
“Is it possible to offer more than the most tender affection and a l
ifelong devotion?” the young man demanded.
“It depends how we take it. It is possible to offer a few other things besides, and not only is it possible, but it is the custom. A lifelong devotion is measured after the fact; and meanwhile it is usual in these cases to give a few material securities. What are yours? A very handsome face and figure, and a very good manner. They are excellent as far as they go, but they don’t go far enough.”
“There is one thing you should add to them,” said Morris, “the word of a gentleman.”
“The word of a gentleman that you will always love Catherine? You must be a fine gentleman to be sure of that.”
“The word of a gentleman that I am not mercenary; that my affection for Miss Sloper is as pure and disinterested a sentiment as was ever lodged in a human breast. I care no more for her fortune than for the ashes in that grate.”
“I take note—I take note,” said the doctor. “But, having done so, I turn to our category again. Even with that solemn vow on your lips, you take your place in it. There is nothing against you but an accident, if you will; but, with my thirty years’ medical practice, I have seen that accidents may have far-reaching consequences.”
Morris smoothed his hat—it was already remarkably glossy—and continued to display a self-control which, as the doctor was obliged to admit, was extremely creditable to him. But his disappointment was evidently keen.
“Is there nothing I can do to make you believe in me?”
“If there were, I should be sorry to suggest it, for—don’t you see?—I don’t want to believe in you,” said the doctor, smiling.
“I would go and dig in the fields.”
“That would be foolish.”
“I will take the first work that offers tomorrow.”
“Do so by all means—but for your own sake, not for mine.”
“I see; you think I am an idler!” Morris exclaimed, a little too much in the tone of a man who has made a discovery. But he saw his error immediately, and blushed.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, when once I have told you I don’t think of you as a son-in-law.”
But Morris persisted: “You think I would squander her money?”
The doctor smiled. “It doesn’t matter, as I say; but I plead guilty to that.”
“That’s because I spent my own, I suppose,” said Morris. “I frankly confess that. I have been wild; I have been foolish. I will tell you every crazy thing I ever did, if you like. There were some great follies among the number—I have never concealed that. But I have sown my wild oats. Isn’t there some proverb about a reformed rake? I was not a rake, but I assure you I have reformed. It is better to have amused one’s self for awhile and have done with it. Your daughter would never care for a milksop; and I will take the liberty of saying that you would like one quite as little. Besides, between my money and hers there is a great difference. I spent my own; it was because it was my own that I spent it. And I made no debts; when it was gone I stopped. I don’t owe a penny in the world.”
“Allow me to inquire what you are living on now—though I admit,” the doctor added, “that the question, on my part, is inconsistent.”
“I am living on the remnants of my property,” said Morris Townsend.
“Thank you,” the doctor gravely replied.
Yes, certainly, Morris’s self-control was laudable. “Even admitting I attach an undue importance to Miss Sloper’s fortune,” he went on, “would not that be in itself an assurance that I would take good care of it?”
“That you should take too much care would be quite as bad as that you should take too little. Catherine might suffer as much by your economy as by your extravagance.”
“I think you are very unjust!” The young man made this declaration decently, civilly, without violence.
“It is your privilege to think so, and I surrender my reputation to you! I certainly don’t flatter myself I gratify you.”
“Don’t you care a little to gratify your daughter? Do you enjoy the idea of making her miserable?”
“I am perfectly resigned to her thinking me a tyrant for a twelvemonth.”
“For a twelvemonth!” exclaimed Morris, with a laugh.
“For a lifetime, then. She may as well be miserable in that way as in the other.”
Here at last Morris lost his temper. “Ah, you are not polite, sir!” he cried.
“You push me to it—you argue too much.”
“I have a great deal at stake.”
“Well, whatever it is,” said the doctor, “you have lost it.”
“Are you sure of that?” asked Morris. “Are you sure your daughter will give me up?”
“I mean, of course, you have lost it as far as I am concerned. As for Catherine’s giving you up—no, I am not sure of it. But as I shall strongly recommend it, as I have a great fund of respect and affection in my daughter’s mind to draw upon, and as she has the sentiment of duty developed in a very high degree, I think it extremely possible.”
Morris Townsend began to smooth his hat again. “I, too, have a fund of affection to draw upon,” he observed, at last.
The doctor at this point showed his own first symptoms of irritation. “Do you mean to defy me?”
“Call it what you please, sir. I mean not to give your daughter up.”
The doctor shook his head. “I haven’t the least fear of your pining away your life. You are made to enjoy it.”
Morris gave a laugh. “Your opposition to my marriage is all the more cruel, then. Do you intend to forbid your daughter to see me again?”
“She is past the age at which people are forbidden, and I am not a father in an old-fashioned novel. But I shall strongly urge her to break with you.”
“I don’t think she will,” said Morris Townsend.
“Perhaps not; but I shall have done what I could.”
“She has gone too far—” Morris went on.
“To retreat? Then let her stop where she is.”
“Too far to stop, I mean.”
The doctor looked at him a moment; Morris had his hand on the door. “There is a great deal of impertinence in your saying it.”
“I will say no more, sir,” Morris answered; and, making his bow, he left the room.
CHAPTER 13
It may be thought the doctor was too positive and Mrs. Almond intimated as much. But, as he said, he had his impression; it seemed to him sufficient, and he had no wish to modify it. He had passed his life in estimating people (it was part of the medical trade), and in nineteen cases out of twenty he was right.
“Perhaps Mr. Townsend is the twentieth case,” said Mrs. Almond.
“Perhaps he is, though he doesn’t look to me at all like a twentieth case. But I will give him the benefit of the doubt, and, to make sure, I will go and talk with Mrs. Montgomery. She will almost certainly tell me I have done right; but it is just possible that she will prove to me that I have made the greatest mistake of my life. If she does, I will beg Mr. Townsend’s pardon. You needn’t invite her to meet me, as you kindly proposed; I will write her a frank letter, telling her how matters stand, and asking leave to come and see her.”
“I am afraid the frankness will be chiefly on your side. The poor little woman will stand up for her brother, whatever he may be.”
“Whatever he may be! I doubt that. People are not always so fond of their brothers.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Almond, “when it’s a question of thirty thousand a year coming into a family—”
“If she stands up for him on account of the money, she will be a humbug. If she is a humbug, I shall see it. If I see it, I won’t waste time with her.”
“She is not a humbug—she is an exemplary woman. She will not wish to play her brother a trick simply because he is selfish.”
“If she is worth talking to, she will sooner play him a trick than that he should play Catherine one. Has she seen Catherine, by the way—does she know her?”
“Not to my knowledge. Mr. Townse
nd can have had no particular interest in bringing them together.”
“If she is an exemplary woman, no. But we shall see to what extent she answers your description.”
“I shall be curious to hear her description of you,” said Mrs. Almond, with a laugh. “And, meanwhile, how is Catherine taking it?”
“As she takes everything—as a matter of course.”
“Doesn’t she make a noise? Hasn’t she made a scene?”
“She is not scenic.”
“I thought a lovelorn maiden was always scenic.”
“A ridiculous widow is more so. Lavinia has made me a speech; she thinks me very arbitrary.”
“She has a talent for being in the wrong,” said Mrs. Almond. “But I am very sorry for Catherine, all the same.”
“So am I. But she will get over it.”
“You believe she will give him up?”
“I count upon it. She has such an admiration for her father.”
“Oh, we know all about that. But it only makes me pity her the more. It makes her dilemma the more painful, and the effort of choosing between you and her lover almost impossible.”
“If she can’t choose, all the better.”
“Yes; but he will stand there entreating her to choose, and Lavinia will pull on that side.”
“I am glad she is not on my side; she is capable of ruining an excellent cause. The day Lavinia gets into your boat it capsizes. But she had better be careful,” said the doctor.
“I will have no treason in my house.”
“I suspect she will be careful; for she is at bottom very much afraid of you.”
“They are both afraid of me, harmless as I am,” the doctor answered. “And it is on that that I build—on the salutary terror I inspire.”
CHAPTER 14
He wrote his frank letter to Mrs. Montgomery, who punctually answered it, mentioning an hour at which he might present himself in the Second Avenue. She lived in a neat little house of red brick, which had been freshly painted, with the edges of the bricks very sharply marked out in white. It has now disappeared, with its companions, to make room for a row of structures more majestic. There were green shutters upon the windows, without slats, but pierced with little holes, arranged in groups; and before the house was a diminutive “yard,” ornamented with a bush of mysterious character, and surrounded by a low wooden paling, painted in the same green as the shutters. The place looked like a magnified baby-house, and might have been taken down from a shelf in a toy shop. Doctor Sloper, when he went to call, said to himself, as he glanced at the objects I have enumerated, that Mrs. Montgomery was evidently a thrifty and self-respecting little person—the modest proportions of her dwelling seemed to indicate that she was of small stature—who took a virtuous satisfaction in keeping herself tidy, and had resolved that, since she might not be splendid, she would at least be immaculate. She received him in a little parlor, which was precisely the parlor he had expected: a small unspeckled bower, ornamented with a desultory foliage of tissue paper, and with clusters of glass drops, amidst which—to carry out the analogy—the temperature of the leafy season was maintained by means of a cast-iron stove, emitting a dry blue flame, and smelling strongly of varnish. The walls were embellished with engravings swathed in pink gauze, and the tables ornamented with volumes of extracts from the poets, usually bound in black cloth stamped with florid designs in jaundiced gilt. The doctor had time to take cognizance of these details; for Mrs. Montgomery, whose conduct he pronounced under the circumstances inexcusable, kept him waiting some ten minutes before she appeared. At last, however, she rustled in, smoothing down a stiff poplin dress, with a little frightened flush in a gracefully rounded cheek.