Washington Square

“I have only known it five days,” she said; “but now it seems to me as if I could never do without it.”

“You will never be called upon to try!”  And he gave a little tender, reassuring laugh.  Then, in a moment, he added, “There is something you must tell me, too.”  She had closed her eyes after the last word she uttered, and kept them closed; and at this she nodded her head, without opening them.  “You must tell me,” he went on, “that if your father is dead against me, if he absolutely forbids our marriage, you will still be faithful.”

Catherine opened her eyes, gazing at him, and she could give no better promise than what he read there.

“You will cleave to me?” said Morris.  “You know you are your own mistress—you are of age.”

“Ah, Morris!” she murmured, for all answer.  Or rather not for all; for she put her hand into his own.  He kept it a while, and presently he kissed her again.  This is all that need be recorded of their conversation; but Mrs. Penniman, if she had been present, would probably have admitted that it was as well it had not taken place beside the fountain in Washington Square.

XI

Catherine listened for her father when he came in that evening, and she heard him go to his study.  She sat quiet, though her heart was beating fast, for nearly half an hour; then she went and knocked at his door—a ceremony without which she never crossed the threshold of this apartment.  On entering it now she found him in his chair beside the fire, entertaining himself with a cigar and the evening paper.

“I have something to say to you,” she began very gently; and she sat down in the first place that offered.

“I shall be very happy to hear it, my dear,” said her father.  He waited—waited, looking at her, while she stared, in a long silence, at the fire.  He was curious and impatient, for he was sure she was going to speak of Morris Townsend; but he let her take her own time, for he was determined to be very mild.

“I am engaged to be married!” Catherine announced at last, still staring at the fire.

The Doctor was startled; the accomplished fact was more than he had expected.  But he betrayed no surprise.  “You do right to tell me,” he simply said.  “And who is the happy mortal whom you have honoured with your choice?”

“Mr. Morris Townsend.”  And as she pronounced her lover’s name, Catherine looked at him.  What she saw was her father’s still grey eye and his clear-cut, definite smile.  She contemplated these objects for a moment, and then she looked back at the fire; it was much warmer.

“When was this arrangement made?” the Doctor asked.

“This afternoon—two hours ago.”

“Was Mr. Townsend here?”

“Yes, father; in the front parlour.”  She was very glad that she was not obliged to tell him that the ceremony of their betrothal had taken place out there under the bare ailantus-trees.

“Is it serious?” said the Doctor.

“Very serious, father.”

Her father was silent a moment.  “Mr. Townsend ought to have told me.”

“He means to tell you to-morrow.”

“After I know all about it from you?  He ought to have told me before.  Does he think I didn’t care—because I left you so much liberty?”

“Oh no,” said Catherine; “he knew you would care.  And we have been so much obliged to you for—for the liberty.”

The Doctor gave a short laugh.  “You might have made a better use of it, Catherine.”

“Please don’t say that, father,” the girl urged softly, fixing her dull and gentle eyes upon him.

He puffed his cigar awhile, meditatively.  “You have gone very fast,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Catherine answered simply; “I think we have.”

Her father glanced at her an instant, removing his eyes from the fire.  “I don’t wonder Mr. Townsend likes you.  You are so simple and so good.”

“I don’t know why it is—but he does like me.  I am sure of that.”

“And are you very fond of Mr. Townsend?”

“I like him very much, of course—or I shouldn’t consent to marry him.”

“But you have known him a very short time, my dear.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, with some eagerness, “it doesn’t take long to like a person—when once you begin.”

“You must have begun very quickly.  Was it the first time you saw him—that night at your aunt’s party?”

“I don’t know, father,” the girl answered.  “I can’t tell you about that.”

“Of course; that’s your own affair.  You will have observed that I have acted on that principle.  I have not interfered, I have left you your liberty, I have remembered that you are no longer a little girl—that you have arrived at years of discretion.”

“I feel very old—and very wise,” said Catherine, smiling faintly.

“I am afraid that before long you will feel older and wiser yet.  I don’t like your engagement.”

“Ah!” Catherine exclaimed softly, getting up from her chair.

“No, my dear.  I am sorry to give you pain; but I don’t like it.  You should have consulted me before you settled it.  I have been too easy with you, and I feel as if you had taken advantage of my indulgence.  Most decidedly, you should have spoken to me first.”