Washington Square

She passed and repassed Catherine’s door several times in the course of the evening, as if she expected to hear a plaintive moan behind it.  But the room remained perfectly still; and accordingly, the last thing before retiring to her own couch, she applied for admittance.  Catherine was sitting up, and had a book that she pretended to be reading.  She had no wish to go to bed, for she had no expectation of sleeping.  After Mrs. Penniman had left her she sat up half the night, and she offered her visitor no inducement to remain.  Her aunt came stealing in very gently, and approached her with great solemnity.

“I am afraid you are in trouble, my dear.  Can I do anything to help you?”

“I am not in any trouble whatever, and do not need any help,” said Catherine, fibbing roundly, and proving thereby that not only our faults, but our most involuntary misfortunes, tend to corrupt our morals.

“Has nothing happened to you?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Are you very sure, dear?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“And can I really do nothing for you?”

“Nothing, aunt, but kindly leave me alone,” said Catherine.

Mrs. Penniman, though she had been afraid of too warm a welcome before, was now disappointed at so cold a one; and in relating afterwards, as she did to many persons, and with considerable variations of detail, the history of the termination of her niece’s engagement, she was usually careful to mention that the young lady, on a certain occasion, had “hustled” her out of the room.  It was characteristic of Mrs. Penniman that she related this fact, not in the least out of malignity to Catherine, whom she very sufficiently pitied, but simply from a natural disposition to embellish any subject that she touched.

Catherine, as I have said, sat up half the night, as if she still expected to hear Morris Townsend ring at the door.  On the morrow this expectation was less unreasonable; but it was not gratified by the reappearance of the young man.  Neither had he written; there was not a word of explanation or reassurance.  Fortunately for Catherine she could take refuge from her excitement, which had now become intense, in her determination that her father should see nothing of it.  How well she deceived her father we shall have occasion to learn; but her innocent arts were of little avail before a person of the rare perspicacity of Mrs. Penniman.  This lady easily saw that she was agitated, and if there was any agitation going forward, Mrs. Penniman was not a person to forfeit her natural share in it.  She returned to the charge the next evening, and requested her niece to lean upon her—to unburden her heart.  Perhaps she should be able to explain certain things that now seemed dark, and that she knew more about than Catherine supposed.  If Catherine had been frigid the night before, to-day she was haughty.

“You are completely mistaken, and I have not the least idea what you mean.  I don’t know what you are trying to fasten on me, and I have never had less need of any one’s explanations in my life.”

In this way the girl delivered herself, and from hour to hour kept her aunt at bay.  From hour to hour Mrs. Penniman’s curiosity grew.  She would have given her little finger to know what Morris had said and done, what tone he had taken, what pretext he had found.  She wrote to him, naturally, to request an interview; but she received, as naturally, no answer to her petition.  Morris was not in a writing mood; for Catherine had addressed him two short notes which met with no acknowledgment.  These notes were so brief that I may give them entire.  “Won’t you give me some sign that you didn’t mean to be so cruel as you seemed on Tuesday?”—that was the first; the other was a little longer.  “If I was unreasonable or suspicious on Tuesday—if I annoyed you or troubled you in any way—I beg your forgiveness, and I promise never again to be so foolish.  I am punished enough, and I don’t understand.  Dear Morris, you are killing me!”  These notes were despatched on the Friday and Saturday; but Saturday and Sunday passed without bringing the poor girl the satisfaction she desired.  Her punishment accumulated; she continued to bear it, however, with a good deal of superficial fortitude.  On Saturday morning the Doctor, who had been watching in silence, spoke to his sister Lavinia.

“The thing has happened—the scoundrel has backed out!”

“Never!” cried Mrs. Penniman, who had bethought herself what she should say to Catherine, but was not provided with a line of defence against her brother, so that indignant negation was the only weapon in her hands.

“He has begged for a reprieve, then, if you like that better!”

“It seems to make you very happy that your daughter’s affections have been trifled with.”

“It does,” said the Doctor; ‘“for I had foretold it!  It’s a great pleasure to be in the right.”

“Your pleasures make one shudder!” his sister exclaimed.