Washington Square

by Henry James

  XXIX

  HE came again, without managing the last parting; and again and again,without finding that Mrs. Penniman had as yet done much to pave the pathof retreat with flowers. It was devilish awkward, as he said, and hefelt a lively animosity for Catherine’s aunt, who, as he had now quiteformed the habit of saying to himself, had dragged him into the mess andwas bound in common charity to get him out of it. Mrs. Penniman, to tellthe truth, had, in the seclusion of her own apartment—and, I may add,amid the suggestiveness of Catherine’s, which wore in those days theappearance of that of a young lady laying out her _trousseau_—Mrs.Penniman had measured her responsibilities, and taken fright at theirmagnitude. The task of preparing Catherine and easing off Morrispresented difficulties which increased in the execution, and even led theimpulsive Lavinia to ask herself whether the modification of the youngman’s original project had been conceived in a happy spirit. A brilliantfuture, a wider career, a conscience exempt from the reproach ofinterference between a young lady and her natural rights—these excellentthings might be too troublesomely purchased. From Catherine herself Mrs.Penniman received no assistance whatever; the poor girl was apparentlywithout suspicion of her danger. She looked at her lover with eyes ofundiminished trust, and though she had less confidence in her aunt thanin a young man with whom she had exchanged so many tender vows, she gaveher no handle for explaining or confessing. Mrs. Penniman, faltering andwavering, declared Catherine was very stupid, put off the great scene, asshe would have called it, from day to day, and wandered about veryuncomfortably, primed, to repletion, with her apology, but unable tobring it to the light. Morris’s own scenes were very small ones justnow; but even these were beyond his strength. He made his visits asbrief as possible, and while he sat with his mistress, found terriblylittle to talk about. She was waiting for him, in vulgar parlance, toname the day; and so long as he was unprepared to be explicit on thispoint it seemed a mockery to pretend to talk about matters more abstract.She had no airs and no arts; she never attempted to disguise herexpectancy. She was waiting on his good pleasure, and would waitmodestly and patiently; his hanging back at this supreme time mightappear strange, but of course he must have a good reason for it.Catherine would have made a wife of the gentle old-fashionedpattern—regarding reasons as favours and windfalls, but no more expectingone every day than she would have expected a bouquet of camellias.During the period of her engagement, however, a young lady even of themost slender pretensions counts upon more bouquets than at other times;and there was a want of perfume in the air at this moment which at lastexcited the girl’s alarm.

  “Are you sick?” she asked of Morris. “You seem so restless, and you lookpale.”

  “I am not at all well,” said Morris; and it occurred to him that, if hecould only make her pity him enough, he might get off.

  “I am afraid you are overworked; you oughtn’t to work so much.”

  “I must do that.” And then he added, with a sort of calculatedbrutality, “I don’t want to owe you everything!”

  “Ah, how can you say that?”

  “I am too proud,” said Morris.

  “Yes—you are too proud!”

  “Well, you must take me as I am,” he went on, “you can never change me.”

  “I don’t want to change you,” she said gently. “I will take you as youare!” And she stood looking at him.

  “You know people talk tremendously about a man’s marrying a rich girl,”Morris remarked. “It’s excessively disagreeable.”

  “But I am not rich?” said Catherine.

  “You are rich enough to make me talked about!”

  “Of course you are talked about. It’s an honour!”

  “It’s an honour I could easily dispense with.”

  She was on the point of asking him whether it were not a compensation forthis annoyance that the poor girl who had the misfortune to bring it uponhim, loved him so dearly and believed in him so truly; but she hesitated,thinking that this would perhaps seem an exacting speech, and while shehesitated, he suddenly left her.

  The next time he came, however, she brought it out, and she told himagain that he was too proud. He repeated that he couldn’t change, andthis time she felt the impulse to say that with a little effort he mightchange.

  Sometimes he thought that if he could only make a quarrel with her itmight help him; but the question was how to quarrel with a young womanwho had such treasures of concession. “I suppose you think the effort isall on your side!” he was reduced to exclaiming. “Don’t you believe thatI have my own effort to make?”

  “It’s all yours now,” she said. “My effort is finished and done with!”

  “Well, mine is not.”

  “We must bear things together,” said Catherine. “That’s what we ought todo.”

  Morris attempted a natural smile. “There are some things which we can’tvery well bear together—for instance, separation.”

  “Why do you speak of separation?”

  “Ah! you don’t like it; I knew you wouldn’t!”

  “Where are you going, Morris?” she suddenly asked.

  He fixed his eye on her for a moment, and for a part of that moment shewas afraid of it. “Will you promise not to make a scene?”

  “A scene!—do I make scenes?”

  “All women do!” said Morris, with the tone of large experience.

  “I don’t. Where are you going?”

  “If I should say I was going away on business, should you think it verystrange?”

  She wondered a moment, gazing at him. “Yes—no. Not if you will take mewith you.”

  “Take you with me—on business?”

  “What is your business? Your business is to be with me.”

  “I don’t earn my living with you,” said Morris. “Or rather,” he criedwith a sudden inspiration, “that’s just what I do—or what the world saysI do!”

  This ought perhaps to have been a great stroke, but it miscarried.“Where are you going?” Catherine simply repeated.

  “To New Orleans. About buying some cotton.”

  “I am perfectly willing to go to New Orleans.” Catherine said.

  “Do you suppose I would take you to a nest of yellow fever?” criedMorris. “Do you suppose I would expose you at such a time as this?”

  “If there is yellow fever, why should you go? Morris, you must not go!”

  “It is to make six thousand dollars,” said Morris. “Do you grudge methat satisfaction?”

  “We have no need of six thousand dollars. You think too much aboutmoney!”

  “You can afford to say that? This is a great chance; we heard of it lastnight.” And he explained to her in what the chance consisted; and toldher a long story, going over more than once several of the details, aboutthe remarkable stroke of business which he and his partner had plannedbetween them.

  But Catherine’s imagination, for reasons best known to herself,absolutely refused to be fired. “If you can go to New Orleans, I cango,” she said. “Why shouldn’t you catch yellow fever quite as easily asI? I am every bit as strong as you, and not in the least afraid of anyfever. When we were in Europe, we were in very unhealthy places; myfather used to make me take some pills. I never caught anything, and Inever was nervous. What will be the use of six thousand dollars if youdie of a fever? When persons are going to be married they oughtn’t tothink so much about business. You shouldn’t think about cotton, youshould think about me. You can go to New Orleans some other time—therewill always be plenty of cotton. It isn’t the moment to choose—we havewaited too long already.” She spoke more forcibly and volubly than hehad ever heard her, and she held his arm in her two hands.

  “You said you wouldn’t make a scene!” cried Morris. “I call this ascene.”

  “It’s you that are making it! I have never asked you anything before.We have waited too long already.” And it was a comfort to her to thinkthat she had hitherto asked so little; it seemed
to make her right toinsist the greater now.

  Morris bethought himself a little. “Very well, then; we won’t talk aboutit any more. I will transact my business by letter.” And he began tosmooth his hat, as if to take leave.

  “You won’t go?” And she stood looking up at him.

  He could not give up his idea of provoking a quarrel; it was so much thesimplest way! He bent his eyes on her upturned face, with the darkestfrown he could achieve. “You are not discreet. You mustn’t bully me!”

  But, as usual, she conceded everything. “No, I am not discreet; I know Iam too pressing. But isn’t it natural? It is only for a moment.”

  “In a moment you may do a great deal of harm. Try and be calmer the nexttime I come.”

  “When will you come?”

  “Do you want to make conditions?” Morris asked. “I will come nextSaturday.”

  “Come to-morrow,” Catherine begged; “I want you to come to-morrow. Iwill be very quiet,” she added; and her agitation had by this time becomeso great that the assurance was not becoming. A sudden fear had comeover her; it was like the solid conjunction of a dozen disembodieddoubts, and her imagination, at a single bound, had traversed an enormousdistance. All her being, for the moment, centred in the wish to keep himin the room.

  Morris bent his head and kissed her forehead. “When you are quiet, youare perfection,” he said; “but when you are violent, you are not incharacter.”

  It was Catherine’s wish that there should be no violence about her savethe beating of her heart, which she could not help; and she went on, asgently as possible, “Will you promise to come to-morrow?”

  “I said Saturday!” Morris answered, smiling. He tried a frown at onemoment, a smile at another; he was at his wit’s end.

  “Yes, Saturday too,” she answered, trying to smile. “But to-morrowfirst.” He was going to the door, and she went with him quickly. Sheleaned her shoulder against it; it seemed to her that she would doanything to keep him.

  “If I am prevented from coming to-morrow, you will say I have deceivedyou!” he said.

  “How can you be prevented? You can come if you will.”

  “I am a busy man—I am not a dangler!” cried Morris sternly.

  His voice was so hard and unnatural that, with a helpless look at him,she turned away; and then he quickly laid his hand on the door-knob. Hefelt as if he were absolutely running away from her. But in an instantshe was close to him again, and murmuring in a tone none the lesspenetrating for being low, “Morris, you are going to leave me.”

  “Yes, for a little while.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till you are reasonable again.”

  “I shall never be reasonable in that way!” And she tried to keep himlonger; it was almost a struggle. “Think of what I have done!” she brokeout. “Morris, I have given up everything!”

  “You shall have everything back!”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t mean something. What is it?—whathas happened?—what have I done?—what has changed you?”

  “I will write to you—that is better,” Morris stammered.

  “Ah, you won’t come back!” she cried, bursting into tears.

  “Dear Catherine,” he said, “don’t believe that I promise you that youshall see me again!” And he managed to get away and to close the doorbehind him.