Washington Square

Mrs. Penniman received this declaration in silence, though it made her heart beat a little.  It found her by no means unprepared, for she had accustomed herself to the thought that, if Morris should decidedly not be able to get her brother’s money, it would not do for him to marry Catherine without it.  “It would not do” was a vague way of putting the thing; but Mrs. Penniman’s natural affection completed the idea, which, though it had not as yet been so crudely expressed between them as in the form that Morris had just given it, had nevertheless been implied so often, in certain easy intervals of talk, as he sat stretching his legs in the Doctor’s well-stuffed armchairs, that she had grown first to regard it with an emotion which she flattered herself was philosophic, and then to have a secret tenderness for it.  The fact that she kept her tenderness secret proves, of course, that she was ashamed of it; but she managed to blink her shame by reminding herself that she was, after all, the official protector of her niece’s marriage.  Her logic would scarcely have passed muster with the Doctor.  In the first place, Morris must get the money, and she would help him to it.  In the second, it was plain it would never come to him, and it would be a grievous pity he should marry without it—a young man who might so easily find something better.  After her brother had delivered himself, on his return from Europe, of that incisive little address that has been quoted, Morris’s cause seemed so hopeless that Mrs. Penniman fixed her attention exclusively upon the latter branch of her argument.  If Morris had been her son, she would certainly have sacrificed Catherine to a superior conception of his future; and to be ready to do so as the case stood was therefore even a finer degree of devotion.  Nevertheless, it checked her breath a little to have the sacrificial knife, as it were, suddenly thrust into her hand.

Morris walked along a moment, and then he repeated harshly: “I must give her up!”

“I think I understand you,” said Mrs. Penniman gently.

“I certainly say it distinctly enough—brutally and vulgarly enough.”

He was ashamed of himself, and his shame was uncomfortable; and as he was extremely intolerant of discomfort, he felt vicious and cruel.  He wanted to abuse somebody, and he began, cautiously—for he was always cautious—with himself.

“Couldn’t you take her down a little?” he asked.

“Take her down?”

“Prepare her—try and ease me off.”

Mrs. Penniman stopped, looking at him very solemnly.

“My poor Morris, do you know how much she loves you?”

“No, I don’t.  I don’t want to know.  I have always tried to keep from knowing.  It would be too painful.”

“She will suffer much,” said Mrs. Penniman.

“You must console her.  If you are as good a friend to me as you pretend to be, you will manage it.”

Mrs. Penniman shook her head sadly.

“You talk of my ‘pretending’ to like you; but I can’t pretend to hate you.  I can only tell her I think very highly of you; and how will that console her for losing you?”

“The Doctor will help you.  He will be delighted at the thing being broken off, and, as he is a knowing fellow, he will invent something to comfort her.”

“He will invent a new torture!” cried Mrs. Penniman.  “Heaven deliver her from her father’s comfort.  It will consist of his crowing over her and saying, ‘I always told you so!’”

Morris coloured a most uncomfortable red.

“If you don’t console her any better than you console me, you certainly won’t be of much use!  It’s a damned disagreeable necessity; I feel it extremely, and you ought to make it easy for me.”

“I will be your friend for life!” Mrs. Penniman declared.

“Be my friend now!”  And Morris walked on.

She went with him; she was almost trembling.

“Should you like me to tell her?” she asked.  “You mustn’t tell her, but you can—you can—”  And he hesitated, trying to think what Mrs. Penniman could do.  “You can explain to her why it is.  It’s because I can’t bring myself to step in between her and her father—to give him the pretext he grasps at—so eagerly (it’s a hideous sight) for depriving her of her rights.”

Mrs. Penniman felt with remarkable promptitude the charm of this formula.

“That’s so like you,” she said; “it’s so finely felt.”

Morris gave his stick an angry swing.

“Oh, botheration!” he exclaimed perversely.

Mrs. Penniman, however, was not discouraged.