Washington Square

She hesitated to bring it out, but at last it came.  “He is not very fond of me!”

“Oh, bother!” cried Morris angrily.

“I wouldn’t say such a thing without being sure.  I saw it, I felt it, in England, just before he came away.  He talked to me one night—the last night; and then it came over me.  You can tell when a person feels that way.  I wouldn’t accuse him if he hadn’t made me feel that way.  I don’t accuse him; I just tell you that that’s how it is.  He can’t help it; we can’t govern our affections.  Do I govern mine? mightn’t he say that to me?  It’s because he is so fond of my mother, whom we lost so long ago.  She was beautiful, and very, very brilliant; he is always thinking of her.  I am not at all like her; Aunt Penniman has told me that.  Of course, it isn’t my fault; but neither is it his fault.  All I mean is, it’s true; and it’s a stronger reason for his never being reconciled than simply his dislike for you.”

“‘Simply?’” cried Morris, with a laugh, “I am much obliged for that!”

“I don’t mind about his disliking you now; I mind everything less.  I feel differently; I feel separated from my father.”

“Upon my word,” said Morris, “you are a queer family!”

“Don’t say that—don’t say anything unkind,” the girl entreated.  “You must be very kind to me now, because, Morris—because,” and she hesitated a moment—“because I have done a great deal for you.”

“Oh, I know that, my dear!”

She had spoken up to this moment without vehemence or outward sign of emotion, gently, reasoningly, only trying to explain.  But her emotion had been ineffectually smothered, and it betrayed itself at last in the trembling of her voice.  “It is a great thing to be separated like that from your father, when you have worshipped him before.  It has made me very unhappy; or it would have made me so if I didn’t love you.  You can tell when a person speaks to you as if—as if—”

“As if what?”

“As if they despised you!” said Catherine passionately.  “He spoke that way the night before we sailed.  It wasn’t much, but it was enough, and I thought of it on the voyage, all the time.  Then I made up my mind.  I will never ask him for anything again, or expect anything from him.  It would not be natural now.  We must be very happy together, and we must not seem to depend upon his forgiveness.  And Morris, Morris, you must never despise me!”

This was an easy promise to make, and Morris made it with fine effect.  But for the moment he undertook nothing more onerous.

XXVII

The Doctor, of course, on his return, had a good deal of talk with his sisters.  He was at no great pains to narrate his travels or to communicate his impressions of distant lands to Mrs. Penniman, upon whom he contented himself with bestowing a memento of his enviable experience, in the shape of a velvet gown.  But he conversed with her at some length about matters nearer home, and lost no time in assuring her that he was still an inflexible father.