Washington Square

He turned away, and she followed him; he went faster, and was presently much in advance.  But from time to time he stopped, without turning round, to let her keep up with him, and she made her way forward with difficulty, her heart beating with the excitement of having for the first time spoken to him in violence.  By this time it had grown almost dark, and she ended by losing sight of him.  But she kept her course, and after a little, the valley making a sudden turn, she gained the road, where the carriage stood waiting.  In it sat her father, rigid and silent; in silence, too, she took her place beside him.

It seemed to her, later, in looking back upon all this, that for days afterwards not a word had been exchanged between them.  The scene had been a strange one, but it had not permanently affected her feeling towards her father, for it was natural, after all, that he should occasionally make a scene of some kind, and he had let her alone for six months.  The strangest part of it was that he had said he was not a good man; Catherine wondered a great deal what he had meant by that.  The statement failed to appeal to her credence, and it was not grateful to any resentment that she entertained.  Even in the utmost bitterness that she might feel, it would give her no satisfaction to think him less complete.  Such a saying as that was a part of his great subtlety—men so clever as he might say anything and mean anything.  And as to his being hard, that surely, in a man, was a virtue.

He let her alone for six months more—six months during which she accommodated herself without a protest to the extension of their tour.  But he spoke again at the end of this time; it was at the very last, the night before they embarked for New York, in the hotel at Liverpool.  They had been dining together in a great dim, musty sitting-room; and then the cloth had been removed, and the Doctor walked slowly up and down.  Catherine at last took her candle to go to bed, but her father motioned her to stay.

“What do you mean to do when you get home?” he asked, while she stood there with her candle in her hand.

“Do you mean about Mr. Townsend?”

“About Mr. Townsend.”

“We shall probably marry.”

The Doctor took several turns again while she waited.  “Do you hear from him as much as ever?”

“Yes; twice a month,” said Catherine promptly.

“And does he always talk about marriage?”

“Oh yes!  That is, he talks about other things too, but he always says something about that.”

“I am glad to hear he varies his subjects; his letters might otherwise be monotonous.”

“He writes beautifully,” said Catherine, who was very glad of a chance to say it.

“They always write beautifully.  However, in a given case that doesn’t diminish the merit.  So, as soon as you arrive, you are going off with him?”

This seemed a rather gross way of putting it, and something that there was of dignity in Catherine resented it.  “I cannot tell you till we arrive,” she said.

“That’s reasonable enough,” her father answered.  “That’s all I ask of you—that you do tell me, that you give me definite notice.  When a poor man is to lose his only child, he likes to have an inkling of it beforehand.”

“Oh, father, you will not lose me!” Catherine said, spilling her candle-wax.

“Three days before will do,” he went on, “if you are in a position to be positive then.  He ought to be very thankful to me, do you know.  I have done a mighty good thing for him in taking you abroad; your value is twice as great, with all the knowledge and taste that you have acquired.  A year ago, you were perhaps a little limited—a little rustic; but now you have seen everything, and appreciated everything, and you will be a most entertaining companion.  We have fattened the sheep for him before he kills it!” Catherine turned away, and stood staring at the blank door.  “Go to bed,” said her father; “and, as we don’t go aboard till noon, you may sleep late.  We shall probably have a most uncomfortable voyage.”

XXV

The voyage was indeed uncomfortable, and Catherine, on arriving in New York, had not the compensation of “going off,” in her father’s phrase, with Morris Townsend.  She saw him, however, the day after she landed; and, in the meantime, he formed a natural subject of conversation between our heroine and her Aunt Lavinia, with whom, the night she disembarked, the girl was closeted for a long time before either lady retired to rest.

“I have seen a great deal of him,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “He is not very easy to know.  I suppose you think you know him; but you don’t, my dear.  You will some day; but it will only be after you have lived with him.  I may almost say I have lived with him,” Mrs. Penniman proceeded, while Catherine stared.  “I think I know him now; I have had such remarkable opportunities.  You will have the same—or rather, you will have better!” and Aunt Lavinia smiled.  “Then you will see what I mean.  It’s a wonderful character, full of passion and energy, and just as true!”