by Henry James
XX
ON the morrow, in the afternoon, she heard his voice at the door, and hisstep in the hall. She received him in the big, bright front parlour, andshe instructed the servant that if any one should call she wasparticularly engaged. She was not afraid of her father’s coming in, forat that hour he was always driving about town. When Morris stood therebefore her, the first thing that she was conscious of was that he waseven more beautiful to look at than fond recollection had painted him;the next was that he had pressed her in his arms. When she was freeagain it appeared to her that she had now indeed thrown herself into thegulf of defiance, and even, for an instant, that she had been married tohim.
He told her that she had been very cruel, and had made him very unhappy;and Catherine felt acutely the difficulty of her destiny, which forcedher to give pain in such opposite quarters. But she wished that, insteadof reproaches, however tender, he would give her help; he was certainlywise enough, and clever enough, to invent some issue from their troubles.She expressed this belief, and Morris received the assurance as if hethought it natural; but he interrogated, at first—as was naturaltoo—rather than committed himself to marking out a course.
“You should not have made me wait so long,” he said. “I don’t know how Ihave been living; every hour seemed like years. You should have decidedsooner.”
“Decided?” Catherine asked.
“Decided whether you would keep me or give me up.”
“Oh, Morris,” she cried, with a long tender murmur, “I never thought ofgiving you up!”
“What, then, were you waiting for?” The young man was ardently logical.
“I thought my father might—might—” and she hesitated.
“Might see how unhappy you were?”
“Oh no! But that he might look at it differently.”
“And now you have sent for me to tell me that at last he does so. Isthat it?”
This hypothetical optimism gave the poor girl a pang. “No, Morris,” shesaid solemnly, “he looks at it still in the same way.”
“Then why have you sent for me?”
“Because I wanted to see you!” cried Catherine piteously.
“That’s an excellent reason, surely. But did you want to look at meonly? Have you nothing to tell me?”
His beautiful persuasive eyes were fixed upon her face, and she wonderedwhat answer would be noble enough to make to such a gaze as that. For amoment her own eyes took it in, and then—“I _did_ want to look at you!”she said gently. But after this speech, most inconsistently, she hid herface.
Morris watched her for a moment, attentively. “Will you marry meto-morrow?” he asked suddenly.
“To-morrow?”
“Next week, then. Any time within a month.”
“Isn’t it better to wait?” said Catherine.
“To wait for what?”
She hardly knew for what; but this tremendous leap alarmed her. “Till wehave thought about it a little more.”
He shook his head, sadly and reproachfully. “I thought you had beenthinking about it these three weeks. Do you want to turn it over in yourmind for five years? You have given me more than time enough. My poorgirl,” he added in a moment, “you are not sincere!”
Catherine coloured from brow to chin, and her eyes filled with tears.“Oh, how can you say that?” she murmured.
“Why, you must take me or leave me,” said Morris, very reasonably. “Youcan’t please your father and me both; you must choose between us.”
“I have chosen you!” she said passionately.
“Then marry me next week.”
She stood gazing at him. “Isn’t there any other way?”
“None that I know of for arriving at the same result. If there is, Ishould be happy to hear of it.”
Catherine could think of nothing of the kind, and Morris’s luminosityseemed almost pitiless. The only thing she could think of was that herfather might, after all, come round, and she articulated, with an awkwardsense of her helplessness in doing so, a wish that this miracle mighthappen.
“Do you think it is in the least degree likely?” Morris asked.
“It would be, if he could only know you!”
“He can know me if he will. What is to prevent it?”
“His ideas, his reasons,” said Catherine. “They are so—so terriblystrong.” She trembled with the recollection of them yet.
“Strong?” cried Morris. “I would rather you should think them weak.”
“Oh, nothing about my father is weak!” said the girl.
Morris turned away, walking to the window, where he stood looking out.“You are terribly afraid of him!” he remarked at last.
She felt no impulse to deny it, because she had no shame in it; for if itwas no honour to herself, at least it was an honour to him. “I suppose Imust be,” she said simply.
“Then you don’t love me—not as I love you. If you fear your father morethan you love me, then your love is not what I hoped it was.”
“Ah, my friend!” she said, going to him.
“Do _I_ fear anything?” he demanded, turning round on her. “For yoursake what am I not ready to face?”
“You are noble—you are brave!” she answered, stopping short at a distancethat was almost respectful.
“Small good it does me, if you are so timid.”
“I don’t think that I am—_really_,” said Catherine.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘really.’ It is really enough to make usmiserable.”
“I should be strong enough to wait—to wait a long time.”
“And suppose after a long time your father should hate me worse thanever?”
“He wouldn’t—he couldn’t!”
“He would be touched by my fidelity? Is that what you mean? If he is soeasily touched, then why should you be afraid of him?”
This was much to the point, and Catherine was struck by it. “I will trynot to be,” she said. And she stood there submissively, the image, inadvance, of a dutiful and responsible wife. This image could not fail torecommend itself to Morris Townsend, and he continued to give proof ofthe high estimation in which he held her. It could only have been at theprompting of such a sentiment that he presently mentioned to her that thecourse recommended by Mrs. Penniman was an immediate union, regardless ofconsequences.
“Yes, Aunt Penniman would like that,” Catherine said simply—and yet witha certain shrewdness. It must, however, have been in pure simplicity,and from motives quite untouched by sarcasm, that, a few moments after,she went on to say to Morris that her father had given her a message forhim. It was quite on her conscience to deliver this message, and had themission been ten times more painful she would have as scrupulouslyperformed it. “He told me to tell you—to tell you very distinctly, anddirectly from himself, that if I marry without his consent, I shall notinherit a penny of his fortune. He made a great point of this. Heseemed to think—he seemed to think—”
Morris flushed, as any young man of spirit might have flushed at animputation of baseness.
“What did he seem to think?”
“That it would make a difference.”
“It _will_ make a difference—in many things. We shall be by manythousands of dollars the poorer; and that is a great difference. But itwill make none in my affection.”
“We shall not want the money,” said Catherine; “for you know I have agood deal myself.”
“Yes, my dear girl, I know you have something. And he can’t touch that!”
“He would never,” said Catherine. “My mother left it to me.”
Morris was silent a while. “He was very positive about this, was he?” heasked at last. “He thought such a message would annoy me terribly, andmake me throw off the mask, eh?”
“I don’t know what he thought,” said Catherine wearily.
“Please tell him that I care for his message as much as for that!” AndMorris snapped his fingers sonorously
.
“I don’t think I could tell him that.”
“Do you know you sometimes disappoint me?” said Morris.
“I should think I might. I disappoint every one—father and AuntPenniman.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter with me, because I am fonder of you than theyare.”
“Yes, Morris,” said the girl, with her imagination—what there was ofit—swimming in this happy truth, which seemed, after all, invidious to noone.
“Is it your belief that he will stick to it—stick to it for ever, to thisidea of disinheriting you?—that your goodness and patience will neverwear out his cruelty?”
“The trouble is that if I marry you, he will think I am not good. Hewill think that a proof.”
“Ah, then, he will never forgive you!”
This idea, sharply expressed by Morris’s handsome lips, renewed for amoment, to the poor girl’s temporarily pacified conscience, all itsdreadful vividness. “Oh, you must love me very much!” she cried.
“There is no doubt of that, my dear!” her lover rejoined. “You don’tlike that word ‘disinherited,’” he added in a moment.
“It isn’t the money; it is that he should—that he should feel so.”
“I suppose it seems to you a kind of curse,” said Morris. “It must bevery dismal. But don’t you think,” he went on presently, “that if youwere to try to be very clever, and to set rightly about it, you might inthe end conjure it away? Don’t you think,” he continued further, in atone of sympathetic speculation, “that a really clever woman, in yourplace, might bring him round at last? Don’t you think?”
Here, suddenly, Morris was interrupted; these ingenious inquiries had notreached Catherine’s ears. The terrible word “disinheritance,” with allits impressive moral reprobation, was still ringing there; seemed indeedto gather force as it lingered. The mortal chill of her situation struckmore deeply into her child-like heart, and she was overwhelmed by afeeling of loneliness and danger. But her refuge was there, close toher, and she put out her hands to grasp it. “Ah, Morris,” she said, witha shudder, “I will marry you as soon as you please.” And she surrenderedherself, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“My dear good girl!” he exclaimed, looking down at his prize. And thenhe looked up again, rather vaguely, with parted lips and lifted eyebrows.