XVI
THEY had of course immediately spoken of Catherine. “Did she send me amessage, or—or anything?” Morris asked. He appeared to think that shemight have sent him a trinket or a lock of her hair.
Mrs. Penniman was slightly embarrassed, for she had not told her niece ofher intended expedition. “Not exactly a message,” she said; “I didn’task her for one, because I was afraid to—to excite her.”
“I am afraid she is not very excitable!” And Morris gave a smile of somebitterness.
“She is better than that. She is steadfast—she is true!”
“Do you think she will hold fast, then?”
“To the death!”
“Oh, I hope it won’t come to that,” said Morris.
“We must be prepared for the worst, and that is what I wish to speak toyou about.”
“What do you call the worst?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Penniman, “my brother’s hard, intellectual nature.”
“Oh, the devil!”
“He is impervious to pity,” Mrs. Penniman added, by way of explanation.
“Do you mean that he won’t come round?”
“He will never be vanquished by argument. I have studied him. He willbe vanquished only by the accomplished fact.”
“The accomplished fact?”
“He will come round afterwards,” said Mrs. Penniman, with extremesignificance. “He cares for nothing but facts; he must be met by facts!”
“Well,” rejoined Morris, “it is a fact that I wish to marry his daughter.I met him with that the other day, but he was not at all vanquished.”
Mrs. Penniman was silent a little, and her smile beneath the shadow ofher capacious bonnet, on the edge of which her black veil was arrangedcurtain-wise, fixed itself upon Morris’s face with a still more tenderbrilliancy. “Marry Catherine first and meet him afterwards!” sheexclaimed.
“Do you recommend that?” asked the young man, frowning heavily.
She was a little frightened, but she went on with considerable boldness.“That is the way I see it: a private marriage—a private marriage.” Sherepeated the phrase because she liked it.
“Do you mean that I should carry Catherine off? What do they callit—elope with her?”
“It is not a crime when you are driven to it,” said Mrs. Penniman. “Myhusband, as I have told you, was a distinguished clergyman; one of themost eloquent men of his day. He once married a young couple that hadfled from the house of the young lady’s father. He was so interested intheir story. He had no hesitation, and everything came out beautifully.The father was afterwards reconciled, and thought everything of the youngman. Mr. Penniman married them in the evening, about seven o’clock. Thechurch was so dark, you could scarcely see; and Mr. Penniman wasintensely agitated; he was so sympathetic. I don’t believe he could havedone it again.”
“Unfortunately Catherine and I have not Mr. Penniman to marry us,” saidMorris.
“No, but you have me!” rejoined Mrs. Penniman expressively. “I can’tperform the ceremony, but I can help you. I can watch.”
“The woman’s an idiot,” thought Morris; but he was obliged to saysomething different. It was not, however, materially more civil. “Wasit in order to tell me this that you requested I would meet you here?”
Mrs. Penniman had been conscious of a certain vagueness in her errand,and of not being able to offer him any very tangible reward for his longwalk. “I thought perhaps you would like to see one who is so near toCatherine,” she observed, with considerable majesty. “And also,” sheadded, “that you would value an opportunity of sending her something.”
Morris extended his empty hands with a melancholy smile. “I am greatlyobliged to you, but I have nothing to send.”
“Haven’t you a _word_?” asked his companion, with her suggestive smilecoming back.
Morris frowned again. “Tell her to hold fast,” he said rather curtly.
“That is a good word—a noble word. It will make her happy for many days.She is very touching, very brave,” Mrs. Penniman went on, arranging hermantle and preparing to depart. While she was so engaged she had aninspiration. She found the phrase that she could boldly offer as avindication of the step she had taken. “If you marry Catherine at allrisks” she said, “you will give my brother a proof of your being what hepretends to doubt.”
“What he pretends to doubt?”
“Don’t you know what that is?” Mrs. Penniman asked almost playfully.
“It does not concern me to know,” said Morris grandly.
“Of course it makes you angry.”
“I despise it,” Morris declared.
“Ah, you know what it is, then?” said Mrs. Penniman, shaking her fingerat him. “He pretends that you like—you like the money.”
Morris hesitated a moment; and then, as if he spoke advisedly—“I _do_like the money!”
“Ah, but not—but not as he means it. You don’t like it more thanCatherine?”
He leaned his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. “Youtorture me!” he murmured. And, indeed, this was almost the effect of thepoor lady’s too importunate interest in his situation.
But she insisted on making her point. “If you marry her in spite of him,he will take for granted that you expect nothing of him, and are preparedto do without it. And so he will see that you are disinterested.”
Morris raised his head a little, following this argument, “And what shallI gain by that?”
“Why, that he will see that he has been wrong in thinking that you wishedto get his money.”
“And seeing that I wish he would go to the deuce with it, he will leaveit to a hospital. Is that what you mean?” asked Morris.
“No, I don’t mean that; though that would be very grand!” Mrs. Pennimanquickly added. “I mean that having done you such an injustice, he willthink it his duty, at the end, to make some amends.”
Morris shook his head, though it must be confessed he was a little struckwith this idea. “Do you think he is so sentimental?”
“He is not sentimental,” said Mrs. Penniman; “but, to be perfectly fairto him, I think he has, in his own narrow way, a certain sense of duty.”
There passed through Morris Townsend’s mind a rapid wonder as to what hemight, even under a remote contingency, be indebted to from the action ofthis principle in Dr. Sloper’s breast, and the inquiry exhausted itselfin his sense of the ludicrous. “Your brother has no duties to me,” hesaid presently, “and I none to him.”
“Ah, but he has duties to Catherine.”
“Yes, but you see that on that principle Catherine has duties to him aswell.”
Mrs. Penniman got up, with a melancholy sigh, as if she thought him veryunimaginative. “She has always performed them faithfully; and now, doyou think she has no duties to _you_?” Mrs. Penniman always, even inconversation, italicised her personal pronouns.
“It would sound harsh to say so! I am so grateful for her love,” Morrisadded.
“I will tell her you said that! And now, remember that if you need me, Iam there.” And Mrs. Penniman, who could think of nothing more to say,nodded vaguely in the direction of Washington Square.
Morris looked some moments at the sanded floor of the shop; he seemed tobe disposed to linger a moment. At last, looking up with a certainabruptness, “It is your belief that if she marries me he will cut heroff?” he asked.
Mrs. Penniman stared a little, and smiled. “Why, I have explained to youwhat I think would happen—that in the end it would be the best thing todo.”
“You mean that, whatever she does, in the long run she will get themoney?”
“It doesn’t depend upon her, but upon you. Venture to appear asdisinterested as you are!” said Mrs. Penniman ingeniously. Morrisdropped his eyes on the sanded floor again, pondering this; and shepursued. “Mr. Penniman and I had nothing, and we were very happy.Catherine, moreover, has her mother’s fortune, which, at
the time mysister-in-law married, was considered a very handsome one.”
“Oh, don’t speak of that!” said Morris; and, indeed, it was quitesuperfluous, for he had contemplated the fact in all its lights.
“Austin married a wife with money—why shouldn’t you?”
“Ah! but your brother was a doctor,” Morris objected.
“Well, all young men can’t be doctors!”
“I should think it an extremely loathsome profession,” said Morris, withan air of intellectual independence. Then in a moment, he went on ratherinconsequently, “Do you suppose there is a will already made inCatherine’s favour?”
“I suppose so—even doctors must die; and perhaps a little in mine,” Mrs.Penniman frankly added.
“And you believe he would certainly change it—as regards Catherine?”
“Yes; and then change it back again.”
“Ah, but one can’t depend on that!” said Morris.
“Do you want to _depend_ on it?” Mrs. Penniman asked.
Morris blushed a little. “Well, I am certainly afraid of being the causeof an injury to Catherine.”
“Ah! you must not be afraid. Be afraid of nothing, and everything willgo well!”
And then Mrs. Penniman paid for her cup of tea, and Morris paid for hisoyster stew, and they went out together into the dimly-lighted wildernessof the Seventh Avenue. The dusk had closed in completely and the streetlamps were separated by wide intervals of a pavement in which cavitiesand fissures played a disproportionate part. An omnibus, emblazoned withstrange pictures, went tumbling over the dislocated cobble-stones.
“How will you go home?” Morris asked, following this vehicle with aninterested eye. Mrs. Penniman had taken his arm.
She hesitated a moment. “I think this manner would be pleasant,” shesaid; and she continued to let him feel the value of his support.
So he walked with her through the devious ways of the west side of thetown, and through the bustle of gathering nightfall in populous streets,to the quiet precinct of Washington Square. They lingered a moment atthe foot of Dr. Sloper’s white marble steps, above which a spotless whitedoor, adorned with a glittering silver plate, seemed to figure, forMorris, the closed portal of happiness; and then Mrs. Penniman’scompanion rested a melancholy eye upon a lighted window in the upper partof the house.
“That is my room—my dear little room!” Mrs. Penniman remarked.
Morris started. “Then I needn’t come walking round the Square to gaze atit.”
“That’s as you please. But Catherine’s is behind; two noble windows onthe second floor. I think you can see them from the other street.”
“I don’t want to see them, ma’am!” And Morris turned his back to thehouse.
“I will tell her you have been _here_, at any rate,” said Mrs. Penniman,pointing to the spot where they stood; “and I will give her yourmessage—that she is to hold fast!”
“Oh, yes! of course. You know I write her all that.”
“It seems to say more when it is spoken! And remember, if you need me,that I am _there_”; and Mrs. Penniman glanced at the third floor.
On this they separated, and Morris, left to himself, stood looking at thehouse a moment; after which he turned away, and took a gloomy walk roundthe Square, on the opposite side, close to the wooden fence. Then hecame back, and paused for a minute in front of Dr. Sloper’s dwelling.His eyes travelled over it; they even rested on the ruddy windows of Mrs.Penniman’s apartment. He thought it a devilish comfortable house.