by Henry James
IX
IT was a regular custom with the family in Washington Square to go andspend Sunday evening at Mrs. Almond’s. On the Sunday after theconversation I have just narrated, this custom was not intermitted and onthis occasion, towards the middle of the evening, Dr. Sloper found reasonto withdraw to the library, with his brother-in-law, to talk over amatter of business. He was absent some twenty minutes, and when he cameback into the circle, which was enlivened by the presence of severalfriends of the family, he saw that Morris Townsend had come in and hadlost as little time as possible in seating himself on a small sofa,beside Catherine. In the large room, where several different groups hadbeen formed, and the hum of voices and of laughter was loud, these twoyoung persons might confabulate, as the Doctor phrased it to himself,without attracting attention. He saw in a moment, however, that hisdaughter was painfully conscious of his own observation. She satmotionless, with her eyes bent down, staring at her open fan, deeplyflushed, shrinking together as if to minimise the indiscretion of whichshe confessed herself guilty.
The Doctor almost pitied her. Poor Catherine was not defiant; she had nogenius for bravado; and as she felt that her father viewed hercompanion’s attentions with an unsympathising eye, there was nothing butdiscomfort for her in the accident of seeming to challenge him. TheDoctor felt, indeed, so sorry for her that he turned away, to spare herthe sense of being watched; and he was so intelligent a man that, in histhoughts, he rendered a sort of poetic justice to her situation.
“It must be deucedly pleasant for a plain inanimate girl like that tohave a beautiful young fellow come and sit down beside her and whisper toher that he is her slave—if that is what this one whispers. No wondershe likes it, and that she thinks me a cruel tyrant; which of course shedoes, though she is afraid—she hasn’t the animation necessary—to admit itto herself. Poor old Catherine!” mused the Doctor; “I verily believe sheis capable of defending me when Townsend abuses me!”
And the force of this reflexion, for the moment, was such in making himfeel the natural opposition between his point of view and that of aninfatuated child, that he said to himself that he was perhaps, after all,taking things too hard and crying out before he was hurt. He must notcondemn Morris Townsend unheard. He had a great aversion to takingthings too hard; he thought that half the discomfort and many of thedisappointments of life come from it; and for an instant he asked himselfwhether, possibly, he did not appear ridiculous to this intelligent youngman, whose private perception of incongruities he suspected of beingkeen. At the end of a quarter of an hour Catherine had got rid of him,and Townsend was now standing before the fireplace in conversation withMrs. Almond.
“We will try him again,” said the Doctor. And he crossed the room andjoined his sister and her companion, making her a sign that she shouldleave the young man to him. She presently did so, while Morris looked athim, smiling, without a sign of evasiveness in his affable eye.
“He’s amazingly conceited!” thought the Doctor; and then he said aloud:“I am told you are looking out for a position.”
“Oh, a position is more than I should presume to call it,” MorrisTownsend answered. “That sounds so fine. I should like some quietwork—something to turn an honest penny.”
“What sort of thing should you prefer?”
“Do you mean what am I fit for? Very little, I am afraid. I havenothing but my good right arm, as they say in the melodramas.”
“You are too modest,” said the Doctor. “In addition to your good rightarm, you have your subtle brain. I know nothing of you but what I see;but I see by your physiognomy that you are extremely intelligent.”
“Ah,” Townsend murmured, “I don’t know what to answer when you say that!You advise me, then, not to despair?”
And he looked at his interlocutor as if the question might have a doublemeaning. The Doctor caught the look and weighed it a moment before hereplied. “I should be very sorry to admit that a robust andwell-disposed young man need ever despair. If he doesn’t succeed in onething, he can try another. Only, I should add, he should choose his linewith discretion.”
“Ah, yes, with discretion,” Morris Townsend repeated sympathetically.“Well, I have been indiscreet, formerly; but I think I have got over it.I am very steady now.” And he stood a moment, looking down at hisremarkably neat shoes. Then at last, “Were you kindly intending topropose something for my advantage?” he inquired, looking up and smiling.
“Damn his impudence!” the Doctor exclaimed privately. But in a moment hereflected that he himself had, after all, touched first upon thisdelicate point, and that his words might have been construed as an offerof assistance. “I have no particular proposal to make,” he presentlysaid; “but it occurred to me to let you know that I have you in my mind.Sometimes one hears of opportunities. For instance—should you object toleaving New York—to going to a distance?”
“I am afraid I shouldn’t be able to manage that. I must seek my fortunehere or nowhere. You see,” added Morris Townsend, “I have ties—I haveresponsibilities here. I have a sister, a widow, from whom I have beenseparated for a long time, and to whom I am almost everything. Ishouldn’t like to say to her that I must leave her. She rather dependsupon me, you see.”
“Ah, that’s very proper; family feeling is very proper,” said Dr. Sloper.“I often think there is not enough of it in our city. I think I haveheard of your sister.”
“It is possible, but I rather doubt it; she lives so very quietly.”
“As quietly, you mean,” the Doctor went on, with a short laugh, “as alady may do who has several young children.”
“Ah, my little nephews and nieces—that’s the very point! I am helping tobring them up,” said Morris Townsend. “I am a kind of amateur tutor; Igive them lessons.”
“That’s very proper, as I say; but it is hardly a career.”
“It won’t make my fortune!” the young man confessed.
“You must not be too much bent on a fortune,” said the Doctor. “But Iassure you I will keep you in mind; I won’t lose sight of you!”
“If my situation becomes desperate I shall perhaps take the liberty ofreminding you!” Morris rejoined, raising his voice a little, with abrighter smile, as his interlocutor turned away.
Before he left the house the Doctor had a few words with Mrs. Almond.
“I should like to see his sister,” he said. “What do you call her? Mrs.Montgomery. I should like to have a little talk with her.”
“I will try and manage it,” Mrs. Almond responded. “I will take thefirst opportunity of inviting her, and you shall come and meet her.Unless, indeed,” Mrs. Almond added, “she first takes it into her head tobe sick and to send for you.”
“Ah no, not that; she must have trouble enough without that. But itwould have its advantages, for then I should see the children. I shouldlike very much to see the children.”
“You are very thorough. Do you want to catechise them about theiruncle!”
“Precisely. Their uncle tells me he has charge of their education, thathe saves their mother the expense of school-bills. I should like to askthem a few questions in the commoner branches.”
“He certainly has not the cut of a schoolmaster!” Mrs. Almond said toherself a short time afterwards, as she saw Morris Townsend in a cornerbending over her niece, who was seated.
And there was, indeed, nothing in the young man’s discourse at thismoment that savoured of the pedagogue.
“Will you meet me somewhere to-morrow or next day?” he said, in a lowtone, to Catherine.
“Meet you?” she asked, lifting her frightened eyes.
“I have something particular to say to you—very particular.”
“Can’t you come to the house? Can’t you say it there?”
Townsend shook his head gloomily. “I can’t enter your doors again!”
“Oh, Mr. Townsend!” murmured Catherine. She trembled as she wonderedwhat had happened, whether
her father had forbidden it.
“I can’t in self-respect,” said the young man. “Your father has insultedme.”
“Insulted you!”
“He has taunted me with my poverty.”
“Oh, you are mistaken—you misunderstood him!” Catherine spoke withenergy, getting up from her chair.
“Perhaps I am too proud—too sensitive. But would you have me otherwise?”he asked tenderly.
“Where my father is concerned, you must not be sure. He is full ofgoodness,” said Catherine.
“He laughed at me for having no position! I took it quietly; but onlybecause he belongs to you.”
“I don’t know,” said Catherine; “I don’t know what he thinks. I am surehe means to be kind. You must not be too proud.”
“I will be proud only of you,” Morris answered. “Will you meet me in theSquare in the afternoon?”
A great blush on Catherine’s part had been the answer to the declarationI have just quoted. She turned away, heedless of his question.
“Will you meet me?” he repeated. “It is very quiet there; no one needsee us—toward dusk?”
“It is you who are unkind, it is you who laugh, when you say such thingsas that.”
“My dear girl!” the young man murmured.
“You know how little there is in me to be proud of. I am ugly andstupid.”
Morris greeted this remark with an ardent murmur, in which she recognisednothing articulate but an assurance that she was his own dearest.
But she went on. “I am not even—I am not even—” And she paused amoment.
“You are not what?”
“I am not even brave.”
“Ah, then, if you are afraid, what shall we do?”
She hesitated a while; then at last—“You must come to the house,” shesaid; “I am not afraid of that.”
“I would rather it were in the Square,” the young man urged. “You knowhow empty it is, often. No one will see us.”
“I don’t care who sees us! But leave me now.”
He left her resignedly; he had got what he wanted. Fortunately he wasignorant that half an hour later, going home with her father and feelinghim near, the poor girl, in spite of her sudden declaration of courage,began to tremble again. Her father said nothing; but she had an idea hiseyes were fixed upon her in the darkness. Mrs. Penniman also was silent;Morris Townsend had told her that her niece preferred, unromantically, aninterview in a chintz-covered parlour to a sentimental tryst beside afountain sheeted with dead leaves, and she was lost in wonderment at theoddity—almost the perversity—of the choice.
