Washington Square

But she insisted on making her point.  “If you marry her in spite of him, he will take for granted that you expect nothing of him, and are prepared to do without it.  And so he will see that you are disinterested.”

Morris raised his head a little, following this argument, “And what shall I gain by that?”

“Why, that he will see that he has been wrong in thinking that you wished to get his money.”

“And seeing that I wish he would go to the deuce with it, he will leave it to a hospital.  Is that what you mean?” asked Morris.

“No, I don’t mean that; though that would be very grand!” Mrs. Penniman quickly added.  “I mean that having done you such an injustice, he will think it his duty, at the end, to make some amends.”

Morris shook his head, though it must be confessed he was a little struck with this idea.  “Do you think he is so sentimental?”

“He is not sentimental,” said Mrs. Penniman; “but, to be perfectly fair to him, I think he has, in his own narrow way, a certain sense of duty.”

There passed through Morris Townsend’s mind a rapid wonder as to what he might, even under a remote contingency, be indebted to from the action of this principle in Dr. Sloper’s breast, and the inquiry exhausted itself in his sense of the ludicrous.  “Your brother has no duties to me,” he said presently, “and I none to him.”

“Ah, but he has duties to Catherine.”

“Yes, but you see that on that principle Catherine has duties to him as well.”

Mrs. Penniman got up, with a melancholy sigh, as if she thought him very unimaginative.  “She has always performed them faithfully; and now, do you think she has no duties to you?”  Mrs. Penniman always, even in conversation, italicised her personal pronouns.

“It would sound harsh to say so!  I am so grateful for her love,” Morris added.

“I will tell her you said that!  And now, remember that if you need me, I am there.”  And Mrs. Penniman, who could think of nothing more to say, nodded vaguely in the direction of Washington Square.

Morris looked some moments at the sanded floor of the shop; he seemed to be disposed to linger a moment.  At last, looking up with a certain abruptness, “It is your belief that if she marries me he will cut her off?” he asked.

Mrs. Penniman stared a little, and smiled.  “Why, I have explained to you what I think would happen—that in the end it would be the best thing to do.”

“You mean that, whatever she does, in the long run she will get the money?”

“It doesn’t depend upon her, but upon you.  Venture to appear as disinterested as you are!” said Mrs. Penniman ingeniously.  Morris dropped his eyes on the sanded floor again, pondering this; and she pursued.  “Mr. Penniman and I had nothing, and we were very happy.  Catherine, moreover, has her mother’s fortune, which, at the time my sister-in-law married, was considered a very handsome one.”

“Oh, don’t speak of that!” said Morris; and, indeed, it was quite superfluous, for he had contemplated the fact in all its lights.

“Austin married a wife with money—why shouldn’t you?”

“Ah! but your brother was a doctor,” Morris objected.

“Well, all young men can’t be doctors!”

“I should think it an extremely loathsome profession,” said Morris, with an air of intellectual independence.  Then in a moment, he went on rather inconsequently, “Do you suppose there is a will already made in Catherine’s favour?”

“I suppose so—even doctors must die; and perhaps a little in mine,” Mrs. Penniman frankly added.

“And you believe he would certainly change it—as regards Catherine?”

“Yes; and then change it back again.”

“Ah, but one can’t depend on that!” said Morris.

“Do you want to depend on it?” Mrs. Penniman asked.

Morris blushed a little.  “Well, I am certainly afraid of being the cause of an injury to Catherine.”

“Ah! you must not be afraid.  Be afraid of nothing, and everything will go well!”

And then Mrs. Penniman paid for her cup of tea, and Morris paid for his oyster stew, and they went out together into the dimly-lighted wilderness of the Seventh Avenue.  The dusk had closed in completely and the street lamps were separated by wide intervals of a pavement in which cavities and fissures played a disproportionate part.  An omnibus, emblazoned with strange pictures, went tumbling over the dislocated cobble-stones.

“How will you go home?” Morris asked, following this vehicle with an interested eye.  Mrs. Penniman had taken his arm.

She hesitated a moment.  “I think this manner would be pleasant,” she said; and she continued to let him feel the value of his support.