Washington Square

XVI

They had of course immediately spoken of Catherine.  “Did she send me a message, or—or anything?” Morris asked.  He appeared to think that she might have sent him a trinket or a lock of her hair.

Mrs. Penniman was slightly embarrassed, for she had not told her niece of her intended expedition.  “Not exactly a message,” she said; “I didn’t ask her for one, because I was afraid to—to excite her.”

“I am afraid she is not very excitable!”  And Morris gave a smile of some bitterness.

“She is better than that.  She is steadfast—she is true!”

“Do you think she will hold fast, then?”

“To the death!”

“Oh, I hope it won’t come to that,” said Morris.

“We must be prepared for the worst, and that is what I wish to speak to you about.”

“What do you call the worst?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Penniman, “my brother’s hard, intellectual nature.”

“Oh, the devil!”

“He is impervious to pity,” Mrs. Penniman added, by way of explanation.

“Do you mean that he won’t come round?”

“He will never be vanquished by argument.  I have studied him.  He will be vanquished only by the accomplished fact.”

“The accomplished fact?”

“He will come round afterwards,” said Mrs. Penniman, with extreme significance.  “He cares for nothing but facts; he must be met by facts!”

“Well,” rejoined Morris, “it is a fact that I wish to marry his daughter.  I met him with that the other day, but he was not at all vanquished.”

Mrs. Penniman was silent a little, and her smile beneath the shadow of her capacious bonnet, on the edge of which her black veil was arranged curtain-wise, fixed itself upon Morris’s face with a still more tender brilliancy.  “Marry Catherine first and meet him afterwards!” she exclaimed.

“Do you recommend that?” asked the young man, frowning heavily.

She was a little frightened, but she went on with considerable boldness.  “That is the way I see it: a private marriage—a private marriage.”  She repeated the phrase because she liked it.

“Do you mean that I should carry Catherine off?  What do they call it—elope with her?”

“It is not a crime when you are driven to it,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “My husband, as I have told you, was a distinguished clergyman; one of the most eloquent men of his day.  He once married a young couple that had fled from the house of the young lady’s father.  He was so interested in their story.  He had no hesitation, and everything came out beautifully.  The father was afterwards reconciled, and thought everything of the young man.  Mr. Penniman married them in the evening, about seven o’clock.  The church was so dark, you could scarcely see; and Mr. Penniman was intensely agitated; he was so sympathetic.  I don’t believe he could have done it again.”

“Unfortunately Catherine and I have not Mr. Penniman to marry us,” said Morris.

“No, but you have me!” rejoined Mrs. Penniman expressively.  “I can’t perform the ceremony, but I can help you.  I can watch.”

“The woman’s an idiot,” thought Morris; but he was obliged to say something different.  It was not, however, materially more civil.  “Was it in order to tell me this that you requested I would meet you here?”

Mrs. Penniman had been conscious of a certain vagueness in her errand, and of not being able to offer him any very tangible reward for his long walk.  “I thought perhaps you would like to see one who is so near to Catherine,” she observed, with considerable majesty.  “And also,” she added, “that you would value an opportunity of sending her something.”

Morris extended his empty hands with a melancholy smile.  “I am greatly obliged to you, but I have nothing to send.”

“Haven’t you a word?” asked his companion, with her suggestive smile coming back.

Morris frowned again.  “Tell her to hold fast,” he said rather curtly.

“That is a good word—a noble word.  It will make her happy for many days.  She is very touching, very brave,” Mrs. Penniman went on, arranging her mantle and preparing to depart.  While she was so engaged she had an inspiration.  She found the phrase that she could boldly offer as a vindication of the step she had taken.  “If you marry Catherine at all risks” she said, “you will give my brother a proof of your being what he pretends to doubt.”

“What he pretends to doubt?”

“Don’t you know what that is?” Mrs. Penniman asked almost playfully.

“It does not concern me to know,” said Morris grandly.

“Of course it makes you angry.”

“I despise it,” Morris declared.

“Ah, you know what it is, then?” said Mrs. Penniman, shaking her finger at him.  “He pretends that you like—you like the money.”

Morris hesitated a moment; and then, as if he spoke advisedly—“I do like the money!”

“Ah, but not—but not as he means it.  You don’t like it more than Catherine?”

He leaned his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands.  “You torture me!” he murmured.  And, indeed, this was almost the effect of the poor lady’s too importunate interest in his situation.