by Henry James
XXVII
THE Doctor, of course, on his return, had a good deal of talk with hissisters. He was at no great pains to narrate his travels or tocommunicate his impressions of distant lands to Mrs. Penniman, upon whomhe contented himself with bestowing a memento of his enviable experience,in the shape of a velvet gown. But he conversed with her at some lengthabout matters nearer home, and lost no time in assuring her that he wasstill an inflexible father.
“I have no doubt you have seen a great deal of Mr. Townsend, and doneyour best to console him for Catherine’s absence,” he said. “I don’t askyou, and you needn’t deny it. I wouldn’t put the question to you for theworld, and expose you to the inconvenience of having to—a—excogitate ananswer. No one has betrayed you, and there has been no spy upon yourproceedings. Elizabeth has told no tales, and has never mentioned youexcept to praise your good looks and good spirits. The thing is simplyan inference of my own—an induction, as the philosophers say. It seemsto me likely that you would have offered an asylum to an interestingsufferer. Mr. Townsend has been a good deal in the house; there issomething in the house that tells me so. We doctors, you know, end byacquiring fine perceptions, and it is impressed upon my sensorium that hehas sat in these chairs, in a very easy attitude, and warmed himself atthat fire. I don’t grudge him the comfort of it; it is the only one hewill ever enjoy at my expense. It seems likely, indeed, that I shall beable to economise at his own. I don’t know what you may have said tohim, or what you may say hereafter; but I should like you to know that ifyou have encouraged him to believe that he will gain anything by hangingon, or that I have budged a hair’s-breadth from the position I took up ayear ago, you have played him a trick for which he may exact reparation.I’m not sure that he may not bring a suit against you. Of course youhave done it conscientiously; you have made yourself believe that I canbe tired out. This is the most baseless hallucination that ever visitedthe brain of a genial optimist. I am not in the least tired; I am asfresh as when I started; I am good for fifty years yet. Catherineappears not to have budged an inch either; she is equally fresh; so weare about where we were before. This, however, you know as well as I.What I wish is simply to give you notice of my own state of mind! Takeit to heart, dear Lavinia. Beware of the just resentment of a deludedfortune-hunter!”
“I can’t say I expected it,” said Mrs. Penniman. “And I had a sort offoolish hope that you would come home without that odious ironical tonewith which you treat the most sacred subjects.”
“Don’t undervalue irony, it is often of great use. It is not, however,always necessary, and I will show you how gracefully I can lay it aside.I should like to know whether you think Morris Townsend will hang on.”
“I will answer you with your own weapons,” said Mrs. Penniman. “You hadbetter wait and see!”
“Do you call such a speech as that one of my own weapons? I never saidanything so rough.”
“He will hang on long enough to make you very uncomfortable, then.”
“My dear Lavinia,” exclaimed the Doctor, “do you call that irony? I callit pugilism.”
Mrs. Penniman, however, in spite of her pugilism, was a good dealfrightened, and she took counsel of her fears. Her brother meanwhiletook counsel, with many reservations, of Mrs. Almond, to whom he was noless generous than to Lavinia, and a good deal more communicative.
“I suppose she has had him there all the while,” he said. “I must lookinto the state of my wine! You needn’t mind telling me now; I havealready said all I mean to say to her on the subject.”
“I believe he was in the house a good deal,” Mrs. Almond answered. “Butyou must admit that your leaving Lavinia quite alone was a great changefor her, and that it was natural she should want some society.”
“I do admit that, and that is why I shall make no row about the wine; Ishall set it down as compensation to Lavinia. She is capable of tellingme that she drank it all herself. Think of the inconceivable bad taste,in the circumstances, of that fellow making free with the house—or comingthere at all! If that doesn’t describe him, he is indescribable.”
“His plan is to get what he can. Lavinia will have supported him for ayear,” said Mrs. Almond. “It’s so much gained.”
“She will have to support him for the rest of his life, then!” cried theDoctor. “But without wine, as they say at the _tables d’hôte_.”
“Catherine tells me he has set up a business, and is making a great dealof money.”
The Doctor stared. “She has not told me that—and Lavinia didn’t deign.Ah!” he cried, “Catherine has given me up. Not that it matters, for allthat the business amounts to.”
“She has not given up Mr. Townsend,” said Mrs. Almond. “I saw that inthe first half minute. She has come home exactly the same.”
“Exactly the same; not a grain more intelligent. She didn’t notice astick or a stone all the while we were away—not a picture nor a view, nota statue nor a cathedral.”
“How could she notice? She had other things to think of; they are neverfor an instant out of her mind. She touches me very much.”
“She would touch me if she didn’t irritate me. That’s the effect she hasupon me now. I have tried everything upon her; I really have been quitemerciless. But it is of no use whatever; she is absolutely _glued_. Ihave passed, in consequence, into the exasperated stage. At first I hada good deal of a certain genial curiosity about it; I wanted to see ifshe really would stick. But, good Lord, one’s curiosity is satisfied! Isee she is capable of it, and now she can let go.”
“She will never let go,” said Mrs. Almond.
“Take care, or you will exasperate me too. If she doesn’t let go, shewill be shaken off—sent tumbling into the dust! That’s a nice positionfor my daughter. She can’t see that if you are going to be pushed youhad better jump. And then she will complain of her bruises.”
“She will never complain,” said Mrs. Almond.
“That I shall object to even more. But the deuce will be that I can’tprevent anything.”
“If she is to have a fall,” said Mrs. Almond, with a gentle laugh, “wemust spread as many carpets as we can.” And she carried out this idea byshowing a great deal of motherly kindness to the girl.
Mrs. Penniman immediately wrote to Morris Townsend. The intimacy betweenthese two was by this time consummate, but I must content myself withnoting but a few of its features. Mrs. Penniman’s own share in it was asingular sentiment, which might have been misinterpreted, but which initself was not discreditable to the poor lady. It was a romanticinterest in this attractive and unfortunate young man, and yet it was notsuch an interest as Catherine might have been jealous of. Mrs. Pennimanhad not a particle of jealousy of her niece. For herself, she felt as ifshe were Morris’s mother or sister—a mother or sister of an emotionaltemperament—and she had an absorbing desire to make him comfortable andhappy. She had striven to do so during the year that her brother lefther an open field, and her efforts had been attended with the successthat has been pointed out. She had never had a child of her own, andCatherine, whom she had done her best to invest with the importance thatwould naturally belong to a youthful Penniman, had only partly rewardedher zeal. Catherine, as an object of affection and solicitude, had neverhad that picturesque charm which (as it seemed to her) would have been anatural attribute of her own progeny. Even the maternal passion in Mrs.Penniman would have been romantic and factitious, and Catherine was notconstituted to inspire a romantic passion. Mrs. Penniman was as fond ofher as ever, but she had grown to feel that with Catherine she lackedopportunity. Sentimentally speaking, therefore, she had (though she hadnot disinherited her niece) adopted Morris Townsend, who gave heropportunity in abundance. She would have been very happy to have ahandsome and tyrannical son, and would have taken an extreme interest inhis love affairs. This was the light in which she had come to regardMorris, who had conciliated her at first, and made his impression by hisdelicate and c
alculated deference—a sort of exhibition to which Mrs.Penniman was particularly sensitive. He had largely abated his deferenceafterwards, for he economised his resources, but the impression was made,and the young man’s very brutality came to have a sort of filial value.If Mrs. Penniman had had a son, she would probably have been afraid ofhim, and at this stage of our narrative she was certainly afraid ofMorris Townsend. This was one of the results of his domestication inWashington Square. He took his ease with her—as, for that matter, hewould certainly have done with his own mother.