Washington Square

“Damn his impudence!” the Doctor exclaimed privately.  But in a moment he reflected that he himself had, after all, touched first upon this delicate point, and that his words might have been construed as an offer of assistance.  “I have no particular proposal to make,” he presently said; “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 to leaving New York—to going to a distance?”

“I am afraid I shouldn’t be able to manage that.  I must seek my fortune here or nowhere.  You see,” added Morris Townsend, “I have ties—I have responsibilities here.  I have a sister, a widow, from whom I have been separated for a long time, and to whom I am almost everything.  I shouldn’t like to say to her that I must leave her.  She rather depends upon 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 have heard 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 a lady may do who has several young children.”

“Ah, my little nephews and nieces—that’s the very point!  I am helping to bring them up,” said Morris Townsend.  “I am a kind of amateur tutor; I give 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 I assure 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 of reminding you!” Morris rejoined, raising his voice a little, with a brighter 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 the first opportunity of inviting her, and you shall come and meet her.  Unless, indeed,” Mrs. Almond added, “she first takes it into her head to be sick and to send for you.”

“Ah no, not that; she must have trouble enough without that.  But it would have its advantages, for then I should see the children.  I should like very much to see the children.”

“You are very thorough.  Do you want to catechise them about their uncle!”

“Precisely.  Their uncle tells me he has charge of their education, that he saves their mother the expense of school-bills.  I should like to ask them a few questions in the commoner branches.”

“He certainly has not the cut of a schoolmaster!” Mrs. Almond said to herself a short time afterwards, as she saw Morris Townsend in a corner bending over her niece, who was seated.

And there was, indeed, nothing in the young man’s discourse at this moment that savoured of the pedagogue.

“Will you meet me somewhere to-morrow or next day?” he said, in a low tone, 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 wondered what had happened, whether her father had forbidden it.

“I can’t in self-respect,” said the young man.  “Your father has insulted me.”

“Insulted you!”

“He has taunted me with my poverty.”

“Oh, you are mistaken—you misunderstood him!”  Catherine spoke with energy, 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 of goodness,” said Catherine.

“He laughed at me for having no position!  I took it quietly; but only because he belongs to you.”

“I don’t know,” said Catherine; “I don’t know what he thinks.  I am sure he means to be kind.  You must not be too proud.”

“I will be proud only of you,” Morris answered.  “Will you meet me in the Square in the afternoon?”

A great blush on Catherine’s part had been the answer to the declaration I have just quoted.  She turned away, heedless of his question.

“Will you meet me?” he repeated.  “It is very quiet there; no one need see us—toward dusk?”

“It is you who are unkind, it is you who laugh, when you say such things as that.”

“My dear girl!” the young man murmured.

“You know how little there is in me to be proud of.  I am ugly and stupid.”

Morris greeted this remark with an ardent murmur, in which she recognised nothing 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 a moment.

“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,” she said; “I am not afraid of that.”