Washington Square

“I met him at Marian’s,” said Mrs. Penniman.  “He goes to Marian’s, and they are so afraid you will meet him there.  It’s my belief that that’s why he goes.  He wants so much to see you.”  Catherine made no response to this, and Mrs. Penniman went on.  “I didn’t know him at first; he is so remarkably changed.  But he knew me in a minute.  He says I am not in the least changed.  You know how polite he always was.  He was coming away when I came, and we walked a little distance together.  He is still very handsome, only, of course, he looks older, and he is not so—so animated as he used to be.  There was a touch of sadness about him; but there was a touch of sadness about him before—especially when he went away.  I am afraid he has not been very successful—that he has never got thoroughly established.  I don’t suppose he is sufficiently plodding, and that, after all, is what succeeds in this world.”  Mrs. Penniman had not mentioned Morris Townsend’s name to her niece for upwards of the fifth of a century; but now that she had broken the spell, she seemed to wish to make up for lost time, as if there had been a sort of exhilaration in hearing herself talk of him.  She proceeded, however, with considerable caution, pausing occasionally to let Catherine give some sign.  Catherine gave no other sign than to stop the rocking of her chair and the swaying of her fan; she sat motionless and silent.  “It was on Tuesday last,” said Mrs. Penniman, “and I have been hesitating ever since about telling you.  I didn’t know how you might like it.  At last I thought that it was so long ago that you would probably not have any particular feeling.  I saw him again, after meeting him at Marian’s.  I met him in the street, and he went a few steps with me.  The first thing he said was about you; he asked ever so many questions.  Marian didn’t want me to speak to you; she didn’t want you to know that they receive him.  I told him I was sure that after all these years you couldn’t have any feeling about that; you couldn’t grudge him the hospitality of his own cousin’s house.  I said you would be bitter indeed if you did that.  Marian has the most extraordinary ideas about what happened between you; she seems to think he behaved in some very unusual manner.  I took the liberty of reminding her of the real facts, and placing the story in its true light.  He has no bitterness, Catherine, I can assure you; and he might be excused for it, for things have not gone well with him.  He has been all over the world, and tried to establish himself everywhere; but his evil star was against him.  It is most interesting to hear him talk of his evil star.  Everything failed; everything but his—you know, you remember—his proud, high spirit.  I believe he married some lady somewhere in Europe.  You know they marry in such a peculiar matter-of-course way in Europe; a marriage of reason they call it.  She died soon afterwards; as he said to me, she only flitted across his life.  He has not been in New York for ten years; he came back a few days ago.  The first thing he did was to ask me about you.  He had heard you had never married; he seemed very much interested about that.  He said you had been the real romance of his life.”

Catherine had suffered her companion to proceed from point to point, and pause to pause, without interrupting her; she fixed her eyes on the ground and listened.  But the last phrase I have quoted was followed by a pause of peculiar significance, and then, at last, Catherine spoke.  It will be observed that before doing so she had received a good deal of information about Morris Townsend.  “Please say no more; please don’t follow up that subject.”

“Doesn’t it interest you?” asked Mrs. Penniman, with a certain timorous archness.

“It pains me,” said Catherine.

“I was afraid you would say that.  But don’t you think you could get used to it?  He wants so much to see you.”