by Henry James
“You told me that if I should have anything more to say about Mr. Townsend you would be glad to listen to it.”
“Exactly, my dear,” said the Doctor, not turning round, but stopping his pen.
Catherine wished it would go on, but she herself continued. “I thought I would tell you that I have not seen him again, but that I should like to do so.”
“To bid him good-bye?” asked the Doctor.
The girl hesitated a moment. “He is not going away.”
The Doctor wheeled slowly round in his chair, with a smile that seemed to accuse her of an epigram; but extremes meet, and Catherine had not intended one. “It is not to bid him good-bye, then?” her father said.
“No, father, not that; at least, not for ever. I have not seen him again, but I should like to see him,” Catherine repeated.
The Doctor slowly rubbed his under lip with the feather of his quill.
“Have you written to him?”
“Yes, four times.”
“You have not dismissed him, then. Once would have done that.”
“No,” said Catherine; “I have asked him—asked him to wait.”
Her father sat looking at her, and she was afraid he was going to break out into wrath; his eyes were so fine and cold.
“You are a dear, faithful child,” he said at last. “Come here to your father.” And he got up, holding out his hands toward her.
The words were a surprise, and they gave her an exquisite joy. She went to him, and he put his arm round her tenderly, soothingly; and then he kissed her. After this he said:
“Do you wish to make me very happy?”
“I should like to—but I am afraid I can’t,” Catherine answered.
“You can if you will. It all depends on your will.”
“Is it to give him up?” said Catherine.
“Yes, it is to give him up.”
And he held her still, with the same tenderness, looking into her face and resting his eyes on her averted eyes. There was a long silence; she wished he would release her.
“You are happier than I, father,” she said, at last.
“I have no doubt you are unhappy just now. But it is better to be unhappy for three months and get over it, than for many years and never get over it.”
“Yes, if that were so,” said Catherine.
“It would be so; I am sure of that.” She answered nothing, and he went on. “Have you no faith in my wisdom, in my tenderness, in my solicitude for your future?”
“Oh, father!” murmured the girl.
“Don’t you suppose that I know something of men: their vices, their follies, their falsities?”
She detached herself, and turned upon him. “He is not vicious—he is not false!”
Her father kept looking at her with his sharp, pure eye. “You make nothing of my judgement, then?”
“I can’t believe that!”
“I don’t ask you to believe it, but to take it on trust.”
Catherine was far from saying to herself that this was an ingenious sophism; but she met the appeal none the less squarely. “What has he done—what do you know?”
“He has never done anything—he is a selfish idler.”
“Oh, father, don’t abuse him!” she exclaimed pleadingly.
“I don’t mean to abuse him; it would be a great mistake. You may do as you choose,” he added, turning away.
“I may see him again?”
“Just as you choose.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“By no means.”
“It will only be for once.”
“I don’t know what you mean by once. You must either give him up or continue the acquaintance.”
“I wish to explain—to tell him to wait.”
“To wait for what?”
“Till you know him better—till you consent.”
“Don’t tell him any such nonsense as that. I know him well enough, and I shall never consent.”
“But we can wait a long time,” said poor Catherine, in a tone which was meant to express the humblest conciliation, but which had upon her father’s nerves the effect of an iteration not characterised by tact.
The Doctor answered, however, quietly enough: “Of course you can wait till I die, if you like.” Catherine gave a cry of natural horror.
“Your engagement will have one delightful effect upon you; it will make you extremely impatient for that event.”
Catherine stood staring, and the Doctor enjoyed the point he had made. It came to Catherine with the force—or rather with the vague impressiveness—of a logical axiom which it was not in her province to controvert; and yet, though it was a scientific truth, she felt wholly unable to accept it.
“I would rather not marry, if that were true,” she said.
“Give me a proof of it, then; for it is beyond a question that by engaging yourself to Morris Townsend you simply wait for my death.”
She turned away, feeling sick and faint; and the Doctor went on. “And if you wait for it with impatience, judge, if you please, what HIS eagerness will be!”
Catherine turned it over—her father’s words had such an authority for her that her very thoughts were capable of obeying him. There was a dreadful ugliness in it, which seemed to glare at her through the interposing medium of her own feebler reason. Suddenly, however, she had an inspiration—she almost knew it to be an inspiration.
“If I don’t marry before your death, I will not after,” she said.
To her father, it must be admitted, this seemed only another epigram; and as obstinacy, in unaccomplished minds, does not usually select such a mode of expression, he was the more surprised at this wanton play of a fixed idea.
“Do you mean that for an impertinence?” he inquired; an inquiry of which, as he made it, he quite perceived the grossness.
“An impertinence? Oh, father, what terrible things you say!”
“If you don’t wait for my death, you might as well marry immediately; there is nothing else to wait for.”
For some time Catherine made no answer; but finally she said:
“I think Morris—little by little—might persuade you.”
“I shall never let him speak to me again. I dislike him too much.”
Catherine gave a long, low sigh; she tried to stifle it, for she had made up her mind that it was wrong to make a parade of her trouble, and to endeavour to act upon her father by the meretricious aid of emotion. Indeed, she even thought it wrong—in the sense of being inconsiderate—to attempt to act upon his feelings at all; her part was to effect some gentle, gradual change in his intellectual perception of poor Morris’s character. But the means of effecting such a change were at present shrouded in mystery, and she felt miserably helpless and hopeless. She had exhausted all arguments, all replies. Her father might have pitied her, and in fact he did so; but he was sure he was right.
“There is one thing you can tell Mr. Townsend when you see him again,” he said: “that if you marry without my consent, I don’t leave you a farthing of money. That will interest him more than anything else you can tell him.”
“That would be very right,” Catherine answered. “I ought not in that case to have a farthing of your money.”
“My dear child,” the Doctor observed, laughing, “your simplicity is touching. Make that remark, in that tone, and with that expression of countenance, to Mr. Townsend, and take a note of his answer. It won’t be polite—it will, express irritation; and I shall be glad of that, as it will put me in the right; unless, indeed—which is perfectly possible—you should like him the better for being rude to you.”
“He will never be rude to me,” said Catherine gently.
“Tell him what I say, all the same.”
She looked at her father, and her quiet eyes filled with tears.
“I think I will see him, then,” she murmured, in her timid voice.
“Exactly as you choose!” And he went to the door and opened it for her to go
out. The movement gave her a terrible sense of his turning her off.
“It will be only once, for the present,” she added, lingering a moment.
“Exactly as you choose,” he repeated, standing there with his hand on the door. “I have told you what I think. If you see him, you will be an ungrateful, cruel child; you will have given your old father the greatest pain of his life.”
This was more than the poor girl could bear; her tears overflowed, and she moved towards her grimly consistent parent with a pitiful cry. Her hands were raised in supplication, but he sternly evaded this appeal. Instead of letting her sob out her misery on his shoulder, he simply took her by the arm and directed her course across the threshold, closing the door gently but firmly behind her. After he had done so, he remained listening. For a long time there was no sound; he knew that she was standing outside. He was sorry for her, as I have said; but he was so sure he was right. At last he heard her move away, and then her footstep creaked faintly upon the stairs.
The Doctor took several turns round his study, with his hands in his pockets, and a thin sparkle, possibly of irritation, but partly also of something like humour, in his eye. “By Jove,” he said to himself, “I believe she will stick—I believe she will stick!” And this idea of Catherine “sticking” appeared to have a comical side, and to offer a prospect of entertainment. He determined, as he said to himself, to see it out.
CHAPTER 19
It was for reasons connected with this determination that on the morrow he sought a few words of private conversation with Mrs. Penniman. He sent for her to the library, and he there informed her that he hoped very much that, as regarded this affair of Catherine’s, she would mind her p’s and q’s.
“I don’t know what you mean by such an expression,” said his sister. “You speak as if I were learning the alphabet.”
“The alphabet of common sense is something you will never learn,” the Doctor permitted himself to respond.
“Have you called me here to insult me?” Mrs. Penniman inquired.
“Not at all. Simply to advise you. You have taken up young Townsend; that’s your own affair. I have nothing to do with your sentiments, your fancies, your affections, your delusions; but what I request of you is that you will keep these things to yourself. I have explained my views to Catherine; she understands them perfectly, and anything that she does further in the way of encouraging Mr. Townsend’s attentions will be in deliberate opposition to my wishes. Anything that you should do in the way of giving her aid and comfort will be—permit me the expression—distinctly treasonable. You know high treason is a capital offence; take care how you incur the penalty.”
Mrs. Penniman threw back her head, with a certain expansion of the eye which she occasionally practised. “It seems to me that you talk like a great autocrat.”
“I talk like my daughter’s father.”
“Not like your sister’s brother!” cried Lavinia. “My dear Lavinia,” said the Doctor, “I sometimes wonder whether I am your brother. We are so extremely different. In spite of differences, however, we can, at a pinch, understand each other; and that is the essential thing just now. Walk straight with regard to Mr. Townsend; that’s all I ask. It is highly probable you have been corresponding with him for the last three weeks—perhaps even seeing him. I don’t ask you—you needn’t tell me.” He had a moral conviction that she would contrive to tell a fib about the matter, which it would disgust him to listen to. “Whatever you have done, stop doing it. That’s all I wish.”
“Don’t you wish also by chance to murder our child?” Mrs. Penniman inquired.
“On the contrary, I wish to make her live and be happy.”
“You will kill her; she passed a dreadful night.”
“She won’t die of one dreadful night, nor of a dozen. Remember that I am a distinguished physician.”
Mrs. Penniman hesitated a moment. Then she risked her retort. “Your being a distinguished physician has not prevented you from already losing TWO MEMBERS of your family!”
She had risked it, but her brother gave her such a terribly incisive look—a look so like a surgeon’s lancet—that she was frightened at her courage. And he answered her in words that corresponded to the look: “It may not prevent me, either, from losing the society of still another.”
Mrs. Penniman took herself off, with whatever air of depreciated merit was at her command, and repaired to Catherine’s room, where the poor girl was closeted. She knew all about her dreadful night, for the two had met again, the evening before, after Catherine left her father. Mrs. Penniman was on the landing of the second floor when her niece came upstairs. It was not remarkable that a person of so much subtlety should have discovered that Catherine had been shut up with the Doctor. It was still less remarkable that she should have felt an extreme curiosity to learn the result of this interview, and that this sentiment, combined with her great amiability and generosity, should have prompted her to regret the sharp words lately exchanged between her niece and herself. As the unhappy girl came into sight, in the dusky corridor, she made a lively demonstration of sympathy. Catherine’s bursting heart was equally oblivious. She only knew that her aunt was taking her into her arms. Mrs. Penniman drew her into Catherine’s own room, and the two women sat there together, far into the small hours; the younger one with her head on the other’s lap, sobbing and sobbing at first in a soundless, stifled manner, and then at last perfectly still. It gratified Mrs. Penniman to be able to feel conscientiously that this scene virtually removed the interdict which Catherine had placed upon her further communion with Morris Townsend. She was not gratified, however, when, in coming back to her niece’s room before breakfast, she found that Catherine had risen and was preparing herself for this meal.
“You should not go to breakfast,” she said; “you are not well enough, after your fearful night.”
“Yes, I am very well, and I am only afraid of being late.”
“I can’t understand you!” Mrs. Penniman cried. “You should stay in bed for three days.”
“Oh, I could never do that!” said Catherine, to whom this idea presented no attractions.
Mrs. Penniman was in despair, and she noted, with extreme annoyance, that the trace of the night’s tears had completely vanished from Catherine’s eyes. She had a most impracticable physique. “What effect do you expect to have upon your father,” her aunt demanded, “if you come plumping down, without a vestige of any sort of feeling, as if nothing in the world had happened?”
“He would not like me to lie in bed,” said Catherine simply.
“All the more reason for your doing it. How else do you expect to move him?”
Catherine thought a little. “I don’t know how; but not in that way. I wish to be just as usual.” And she finished dressing, and, according to her aunt’s expression, went plumping down into the paternal presence. She was really too modest for consistent pathos.
And yet it was perfectly true that she had had a dreadful night. Even after Mrs. Penniman left her she had had no sleep. She lay staring at the uncomforting gloom, with her eyes and ears filled with the movement with which her father had turned her out of his room, and of the words in which he had told her that she was a heartless daughter. Her heart was breaking. She had heart enough for that. At moments it seemed to her that she believed him, and that to do what she was doing, a girl must indeed be bad. She WAS bad; but she couldn’t help it. She would try to appear good, even if her heart were perverted; and from time to time she had a fancy that she might accomplish something by ingenious concessions to form, though she should persist in caring for Morris. Catherine’s ingenuities were indefinite, and we are not called upon to expose their hollowness. The best of them perhaps showed itself in that freshness of aspect which was so discouraging to Mrs. Penniman, who was amazed at the absence of haggardness in a young woman who for a whole night had lain quivering beneath a father’s curse. Poor Catherine was conscious of her freshness; it gave her a feeling about t
he future which rather added to the weight upon her mind. It seemed a proof that she was strong and solid and dense, and would live to a great age—longer than might be generally convenient; and this idea was depressing, for it appeared to saddle her with a pretension the more, just when the cultivation of any pretension was inconsistent with her doing right. She wrote that day to Morris Townsend, requesting him to come and see her on the morrow; using very few words, and explaining nothing. She would explain everything face to face.
CHAPTER 20
On the morrow, in the afternoon, she heard his voice at the door, and his step in the hall. She received him in the big, bright front parlour, and she instructed the servant that if any one should call she was particularly engaged. She was not afraid of her father’s coming in, for at that hour he was always driving about town. When Morris stood there before her, the first thing that she was conscious of was that he was even 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 free again it appeared to her that she had now indeed thrown herself into the gulf of defiance, and even, for an instant, that she had been married to him.
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 forced her to give pain in such opposite quarters. But she wished that, instead of reproaches, however tender, he would give her help; he was certainly wise enough, and clever enough, to invent some issue from their troubles. She expressed this belief, and Morris received the assurance as if he thought it natural; but he interrogated, at first—as was natural too—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 I have been living; every hour seemed like years. You should have decided sooner.”
“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 of giving you up!”