by Henry James
XXXI
THOUGH she had forced herself to be calm, she preferred practising thisvirtue in private, and she forbore to show herself at tea—a repast which,on Sundays, at six o’clock, took the place of dinner. Dr. Sloper and hissister sat face to face, but Mrs. Penniman never met her brother’s eye.Late in the evening she went with him, but without Catherine, to theirsister Almond’s, where, between the two ladies, Catherine’s unhappysituation was discussed with a frankness that was conditioned by a gooddeal of mysterious reticence on Mrs. Penniman’s part.
“I am delighted he is not to marry her,” said Mrs. Almond, “but he oughtto be horsewhipped all the same.”
Mrs. Penniman, who was shocked at her sister’s coarseness, replied thathe had been actuated by the noblest of motives—the desire not toimpoverish Catherine.
“I am very happy that Catherine is not to be impoverished—but I hope hemay never have a penny too much! And what does the poor girl say to_you_?” Mrs. Almond asked.
“She says I have a genius for consolation,” said Mrs. Penniman.
This was the account of the matter that she gave to her sister, and itwas perhaps with the consciousness of genius that, on her return thatevening to Washington Square, she again presented herself for admittanceat Catherine’s door. Catherine came and opened it; she was apparentlyvery quiet.
“I only want to give you a little word of advice,” she said. “If yourfather asks you, say that everything is going on.”
Catherine stood there, with her hand on the knob looking at her aunt, butnot asking her to come in. “Do you think he will ask me?”
“I am sure he will. He asked me just now, on our way home from your AuntElizabeth’s. I explained the whole thing to your Aunt Elizabeth. I saidto your father I know nothing about it.”
“Do you think he will ask me when he sees—when he sees—?” But hereCatherine stopped.
“The more he sees the more disagreeable he will be,” said her aunt.
“He shall see as little as possible!” Catherine declared.
“Tell him you are to be married.”
“So I am,” said Catherine softly; and she closed the door upon her aunt.
She could not have said this two days later—for instance, on Tuesday,when she at last received a letter from Morris Townsend. It was anepistle of considerable length, measuring five large square pages, andwritten at Philadelphia. It was an explanatory document, and itexplained a great many things, chief among which were the considerationsthat had led the writer to take advantage of an urgent “professional”absence to try and banish from his mind the image of one whose path hehad crossed only to scatter it with ruins. He ventured to expect butpartial success in this attempt, but he could promise her that, whateverhis failure, he would never again interpose between her generous heartand her brilliant prospects and filial duties. He closed with anintimation that his professional pursuits might compel him to travel forsome months, and with the hope that when they should each haveaccommodated themselves to what was sternly involved in their respectivepositions—even should this result not be reached for years—they shouldmeet as friends, as fellow-sufferers, as innocent but philosophic victimsof a great social law. That her life should be peaceful and happy wasthe dearest wish of him who ventured still to subscribe himself her mostobedient servant. The letter was beautifully written, and Catherine, whokept it for many years after this, was able, when her sense of thebitterness of its meaning and the hollowness of its tone had grown lessacute, to admire its grace of expression. At present, for a long timeafter she received it, all she had to help her was the determination,daily more rigid, to make no appeal to the compassion of her father.
He suffered a week to elapse, and then one day, in the morning, at anhour at which she rarely saw him, he strolled into the back parlour. Hehad watched his time, and he found her alone. She was sitting with somework, and he came and stood in front of her. He was going out, he had onhis hat and was drawing on his gloves.
“It doesn’t seem to me that you are treating me just now with all theconsideration I deserve,” he said in a moment.
“I don’t know what I have done,” Catherine answered, with her eyes on herwork.
“You have apparently quite banished from your mind the request I made youat Liverpool, before we sailed; the request that you would notify me inadvance before leaving my house.”
“I have not left your house!” said Catherine.
“But you intend to leave it, and by what you gave me to understand, yourdeparture must be impending. In fact, though you are still here in body,you are already absent in spirit. Your mind has taken up its residencewith your prospective husband, and you might quite as well be lodgedunder the conjugal roof, for all the benefit we get from your society.”
“I will try and be more cheerful!” said Catherine.
“You certainly ought to be cheerful, you ask a great deal if you are not.To the pleasure of marrying a brilliant young man, you add that of havingyour own way; you strike me as a very lucky young lady!”
Catherine got up; she was suffocating. But she folded her work,deliberately and correctly, bending her burning face upon it. Her fatherstood where he had planted himself; she hoped he would go, but hesmoothed and buttoned his gloves, and then he rested his hands upon hiships.
“It would be a convenience to me to know when I may expect to have anempty house,” he went on. “When you go, your aunt marches.”
She looked at him at last, with a long silent gaze, which, in spite ofher pride and her resolution, uttered part of the appeal she had triednot to make. Her father’s cold grey eye sounded her own, and he insistedon his point.
“Is it to-morrow? Is it next week, or the week after?”
“I shall not go away!” said Catherine.
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “Has he backed out?”
“I have broken off my engagement.”
“Broken it off?”
“I have asked him to leave New York, and he has gone away for a longtime.”
The Doctor was both puzzled and disappointed, but he solved hisperplexity by saying to himself that his daughter simplymisrepresented—justifiably, if one would? but neverthelessmisrepresented—the facts; and he eased off his disappointment, which wasthat of a man losing a chance for a little triumph that he had rathercounted on, by a few words that he uttered aloud.
“How does he take his dismissal?”
“I don’t know!” said Catherine, less ingeniously than she had hithertospoken.
“You mean you don’t care? You are rather cruel, after encouraging himand playing with him for so long!”
The Doctor had his revenge, after all.
