by Henry James
XXIV
THE Doctor, during the first six months he was abroad, never spoke to hisdaughter of their little difference; partly on system, and partly becausehe had a great many other things to think about. It was idle to attemptto ascertain the state of her affections without direct inquiry, because,if she had not had an expressive manner among the familiar influences ofhome, she failed to gather animation from the mountains of Switzerland orthe monuments of Italy. She was always her father’s docile andreasonable associate—going through their sight-seeing in deferentialsilence, never complaining of fatigue, always ready to start at the hourhe had appointed over-night, making no foolish criticisms and indulgingin no refinements of appreciation. “She is about as intelligent as thebundle of shawls,” the Doctor said; her main superiority being that whilethe bundle of shawls sometimes got lost, or tumbled out of the carriage,Catherine was always at her post, and had a firm and ample seat. But herfather had expected this, and he was not constrained to set down herintellectual limitations as a tourist to sentimental depression she hadcompletely divested herself of the characteristics of a victim, andduring the whole time that they were abroad she never uttered an audiblesigh. He supposed she was in correspondence with Morris Townsend; but heheld his peace about it, for he never saw the young man’s letters, andCatherine’s own missives were always given to the courier to post. Sheheard from her lover with considerable regularity, but his letters cameenclosed in Mrs. Penniman’s; so that whenever the Doctor handed her apacket addressed in his sister’s hand, he was an involuntary instrumentof the passion he condemned. Catherine made this reflexion, and sixmonths earlier she would have felt bound to give him warning; but now shedeemed herself absolved. There was a sore spot in her heart that his ownwords had made when once she spoke to him as she thought honour prompted;she would try and please him as far as she could, but she would neverspeak that way again. She read her lover’s letters in secret.
One day at the end of the summer, the two travellers found themselves ina lonely valley of the Alps. They were crossing one of the passes, andon the long ascent they had got out of the carriage and had wandered muchin advance. After a while the Doctor descried a footpath which, leadingthrough a transverse valley, would bring them out, as he justly supposed,at a much higher point of the ascent. They followed this devious way,and finally lost the path; the valley proved very wild and rough, andtheir walk became rather a scramble. They were good walkers, however,and they took their adventure easily; from time to time they stopped,that Catherine might rest; and then she sat upon a stone and looked abouther at the hard-featured rocks and the glowing sky. It was late in theafternoon, in the last of August; night was coming on, and, as they hadreached a great elevation, the air was cold and sharp. In the west therewas a great suffusion of cold, red light, which made the sides of thelittle valley look only the more rugged and dusky. During one of theirpauses, her father left her and wandered away to some high place, at adistance, to get a view. He was out of sight; she sat there alone, inthe stillness, which was just touched by the vague murmur, somewhere, ofa mountain brook. She thought of Morris Townsend, and the place was sodesolate and lonely that he seemed very far away. Her father remainedabsent a long time; she began to wonder what had become of him. But atlast he reappeared, coming towards her in the clear twilight, and she gotup, to go on. He made no motion to proceed, however, but came close toher, as if he had something to say. He stopped in front of her and stoodlooking at her, with eyes that had kept the light of the flushingsnow-summits on which they had just been fixed. Then, abruptly, in a lowtone, he asked her an unexpected question:
“Have you given him up?”
The question was unexpected, but Catherine was only superficiallyunprepared.
“No, father!” she answered.
He looked at her again for some moments, without speaking.
“Does he write to you?” he asked.
“Yes—about twice a month.”
The Doctor looked up and down the valley, swinging his stick; then hesaid to her, in the same low tone:
“I am very angry.”
She wondered what he meant—whether he wished to frighten her. If he did,the place was well chosen; this hard, melancholy dell, abandoned by thesummer light, made her feel her loneliness. She looked around her, andher heart grew cold; for a moment her fear was great. But she couldthink of nothing to say, save to murmur gently, “I am sorry.”
“You try my patience,” her father went on, “and you ought to know what Iam, I am not a very good man. Though I am very smooth externally, atbottom I am very passionate; and I assure you I can be very hard.”
She could not think why he told her these things. Had he brought herthere on purpose, and was it part of a plan? What was the plan?Catherine asked herself. Was it to startle her suddenly into aretractation—to take an advantage of her by dread? Dread of what? Theplace was ugly and lonely, but the place could do her no harm. There wasa kind of still intensity about her father, which made him dangerous, butCatherine hardly went so far as to say to herself that it might be partof his plan to fasten his hand—the neat, fine, supple hand of adistinguished physician—in her throat. Nevertheless, she receded a step.“I am sure you can be anything you please,” she said. And it was hersimple belief.
“I am very angry,” he replied, more sharply.
“Why has it taken you so suddenly?”
“It has not taken me suddenly. I have been raging inwardly for the lastsix months. But just now this seemed a good place to flare out. It’s soquiet, and we are alone.”
“Yes, it’s very quiet,” said Catherine vaguely, looking about her.“Won’t you come back to the carriage?”
“In a moment. Do you mean that in all this time you have not yielded aninch?”
“I would if I could, father; but I can’t.”
The Doctor looked round him too. “Should you like to be left in such aplace as this, to starve?”
“What do you mean?” cried the girl.
“That will be your fate—that’s how he will leave you.”
He would not touch her, but he had touched Morris. The warmth came backto her heart. “That is not true, father,” she broke out, “and you oughtnot to say it! It is not right, and it’s not true!”
He shook his head slowly. “No, it’s not right, because you won’t believeit. But it _is_ true. Come back to the carriage.”
He turned away, and she followed him; he went faster, and was presentlymuch in advance. But from time to time he stopped, without turninground, to let her keep up with him, and she made her way forward withdifficulty, her heart beating with the excitement of having for the firsttime spoken to him in violence. By this time it had grown almost dark,and she ended by losing sight of him. But she kept her course, and aftera little, the valley making a sudden turn, she gained the road, where thecarriage stood waiting. In it sat her father, rigid and silent; insilence, too, she took her place beside him.
It seemed to her, later, in looking back upon all this, that for daysafterwards not a word had been exchanged between them. The scene hadbeen a strange one, but it had not permanently affected her feelingtowards her father, for it was natural, after all, that he shouldoccasionally make a scene of some kind, and he had let her alone for sixmonths. The strangest part of it was that he had said he was not a goodman; Catherine wondered a great deal what he had meant by that. Thestatement failed to appeal to her credence, and it was not grateful toany resentment that she entertained. Even in the utmost bitterness thatshe might feel, it would give her no satisfaction to think him lesscomplete. Such a saying as that was a part of his great subtlety—men soclever as he might say anything and mean anything. And as to his beinghard, that surely, in a man, was a virtue.
He let her alone for six months more—six months during which sheaccommodated herself without a protest to the extension of their tour.But he spoke again at the end of this time; it was at the very last, theni
ght before they embarked for New York, in the hotel at Liverpool. Theyhad been dining together in a great dim, musty sitting-room; and then thecloth had been removed, and the Doctor walked slowly up and down.Catherine at last took her candle to go to bed, but her father motionedher to stay.
“What do you mean to do when you get home?” he asked, while she stoodthere with her candle in her hand.
“Do you mean about Mr. Townsend?”
“About Mr. Townsend.”
“We shall probably marry.”
The Doctor took several turns again while she waited. “Do you hear fromhim as much as ever?”
“Yes; twice a month,” said Catherine promptly.
“And does he always talk about marriage?”
“Oh yes! That is, he talks about other things too, but he always sayssomething about that.”
“I am glad to hear he varies his subjects; his letters might otherwise bemonotonous.”
“He writes beautifully,” said Catherine, who was very glad of a chance tosay it.
“They always write beautifully. However, in a given case that doesn’tdiminish the merit. So, as soon as you arrive, you are going off withhim?”
This seemed a rather gross way of putting it, and something that therewas of dignity in Catherine resented it. “I cannot tell you till wearrive,” she said.
“That’s reasonable enough,” her father answered. “That’s all I ask ofyou—that you _do_ tell me, that you give me definite notice. When a poorman is to lose his only child, he likes to have an inkling of itbeforehand.”
“Oh, father, you will not lose me!” Catherine said, spilling hercandle-wax.
“Three days before will do,” he went on, “if you are in a position to bepositive then. He ought to be very thankful to me, do you know. I havedone a mighty good thing for him in taking you abroad; your value istwice as great, with all the knowledge and taste that you have acquired.A year ago, you were perhaps a little limited—a little rustic; but nowyou have seen everything, and appreciated everything, and you will be amost entertaining companion. We have fattened the sheep for him beforehe kills it!” Catherine turned away, and stood staring at the blank door.“Go to bed,” said her father; “and, as we don’t go aboard till noon, youmay sleep late. We shall probably have a most uncomfortable voyage.”