Washington Square

HEY had of course immediately spoken of Catherine. “Did she send me a
message, or—or anything?” Morris asked. He appeared to think that she
might have sent him a trinket or a lock of her hair.

Mrs. Penniman was slightly embarrassed, for she had not told her niece of
her intended expedition. “Not exactly a message,” she said; “I didn’t
ask her for one, because I was afraid to—to excite her.”

“I am afraid she is not very excitable!” And Morris gave a smile of some
bitterness.

“She is better than that. She is steadfast—she is true!”

“Do you think she will hold fast, then?”

“To the death!”

“Oh, I hope it won’t come to that,” said Morris.

“We must be prepared for the worst, and that is what I wish to speak to
you about.”

“What do you call the worst?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Penniman, “my brother’s hard, intellectual nature.”

“Oh, the devil!”

“He is impervious to pity,” Mrs. Penniman added, by way of explanation.

“Do you mean that he won’t come round?”

“He will never be vanquished by argument. I have studied him. He will
be vanquished only by the accomplished fact.”

“The accomplished fact?”

“He will come round afterwards,” said Mrs. Penniman, with extreme
significance. “He cares for nothing but facts; he must be met by facts!”

“Well,” rejoined Morris, “it is a fact that I wish to marry his daughter.
I met him with that the other day, but he was not at all vanquished.”

Mrs. Penniman was silent a little, and her smile beneath the shadow of
her capacious bonnet, on the edge of which her black veil was arranged
curtain-wise, fixed itself upon Morris’s face with a still more tender
brilliancy. “Marry Catherine first and meet him afterwards!” she
exclaimed.

“Do you recommend that?” asked the young man, frowning heavily.

She was a little frightened, but she went on with considerable boldness.
“That is the way I see it: a private marriage—a private marriage.” She
repeated the phrase because she liked it.

“Do you mean that I should carry Catherine off? What do they call
it—elope with her?”

“It is not a crime when you are driven to it,” said Mrs. Penniman. “My
husband, as I have told you, was a distinguished clergyman; one of the
most eloquent men of his day. He once married a young couple that had
fled from the house of the young lady’s father. He was so interested in
their story. He had no hesitation, and everything came out beautifully.
The father was afterwards reconciled, and thought everything of the young
man. Mr. Penniman married them in the evening, about seven o’clock. The
church was so dark, you could scarcely see; and Mr. Penniman was
intensely agitated; he was so sympathetic. I don’t believe he could have
done it again.”

“Unfortunately Catherine and I have not Mr. Penniman to marry us,” said
Morris.

“No, but you have me!” rejoined Mrs. Penniman expressively. “I can’t
perform the ceremony, but I can help you. I can watch.”

“The woman’s an idiot,” thought Morris; but he was obliged to say
something different. It was not, however, materially more civil. “Was
it in order to tell me this that you requested I would meet you here?”

Mrs. Penniman had been conscious of a certain vagueness in her errand,
and of not being able to offer him any very tangible reward for his long
walk. “I thought perhaps you would like to see one who is so near to
Catherine,” she observed, with considerable majesty. “And also,” she
added, “that you would value an opportunity of sending her something.”

Morris extended his empty hands with a melancholy smile. “I am greatly
obliged to you, but I have nothing to send.”

“Haven’t you a word?” asked his companion, with her suggestive smile
coming back.

Morris frowned again. “Tell her to hold fast,” he said rather curtly.

“That is a good word—a noble word. It will make her happy for many days.
She is very touching, very brave,” Mrs. Penniman went on, arranging her
mantle and preparing to depart. While she was so engaged she had an
inspiration. She found the phrase that she could boldly offer as a
vindication of the step she had taken. “If you marry Catherine at all
risks” she said, “you will give my brother a proof of your being what he
pretends to doubt.”

“What he pretends to doubt?”

“Don’t you know what that is?” Mrs. Penniman asked almost playfully.

“It does not concern me to know,” said Morris grandly.

“Of course it makes you angry.”

“I despise it,” Morris declared.

“Ah, you know what it is, then?” said Mrs. Penniman, shaking her finger
at him. “He pretends that you like—you like the money.”

Morris hesitated a moment; and then, as if he spoke advisedly—“I do
like the money!”

“Ah, but not—but not as he means it. You don’t like it more than
Catherine?”

He leaned his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. “You
torture me!” he murmured. And, indeed, this was almost the effect of the
poor lady’s too importunate interest in his situation.

But she insisted on making her point. “If you marry her in spite of him,
he will take for granted that you expect nothing of him, and are prepared
to do without it. And so he will see that you are disinterested.”

Morris raised his head a little, following this argument, “And what shall
I gain by that?”

“Why, that he will see that he has been wrong in thinking that you wished
to get his money.”

“And seeing that I wish he would go to the deuce with it, he will leave
it to a hospital. Is that what you mean?” asked Morris.

“No, I don’t mean that; though that would be very grand!” Mrs. Penniman
quickly added. “I mean that having done you such an injustice, he will
think it his duty, at the end, to make some amends.”

Morris shook his head, though it must be confessed he was a little struck
with this idea. “Do you think he is so sentimental?”

“He is not sentimental,” said Mrs. Penniman; “but, to be perfectly fair
to him, I think he has, in his own narrow way, a certain sense of duty.”

There passed through Morris Townsend’s mind a rapid wonder as to what he
might, even under a remote contingency, be indebted to from the action of
this principle in Dr. Sloper’s breast, and the inquiry exhausted itself
in his sense of the ludicrous. “Your brother has no duties to me,” he
said presently, “and I none to him.”

“Ah, but he has duties to Catherine.”

“Yes, but you see that on that principle Catherine has duties to him as
well.”

Mrs. Penniman got up, with a melancholy sigh, as if she thought him very
unimaginative. “She has always performed them faithfully; and now, do
you think she has no duties to you?” Mrs. Penniman always, even in
conversation, italicised her personal pronouns.

“It would sound harsh to say so! I am so grateful for her love,” Morris
added.

“I will tell her you said that! And now, remember that if you need me, I
am there.” And Mrs. Penniman, who could think of nothing more to say,
nodded vaguely in the direction of Washington Square.

Morris looked some moments at the sanded floor of the shop; he seemed to
be disposed to linger a moment. At last, looking up with a certain
abruptness, “It is your belief that if she marries me he will cut her
off?” he asked.

Mrs. Penniman stared a little, and smiled. “Why, I have explained to you
what I think would happen—that in the end it would be the best thing to
do.”

“You mean that, whatever she does, in the long run she will get the
money?”

“It doesn’t depend upon her, but upon you. Venture to appear as
disinterested as you are!” said Mrs. Penniman ingeniously. Morris
dropped his eyes on the sanded floor again, pondering this; and she
pursued. “Mr. Penniman and I had nothing, and we were very happy.
Catherine, moreover, has her mother’s fortune, which, at the time my
sister-in-law married, was considered a very handsome one.”

“Oh, don’t speak of that!” said Morris; and, indeed, it was quite
superfluous, for he had contemplated the fact in all its lights.

“Austin married a wife with money—why shouldn’t you?”

“Ah! but your brother was a doctor,” Morris objected.

“Well, all young men can’t be doctors!”

“I should think it an extremely loathsome profession,” said Morris, with
an air of intellectual independence. Then in a moment, he went on rather
inconsequently, “Do you suppose there is a will already made in
Catherine’s favour?”

“I suppose so—even doctors must die; and perhaps a little in mine,” Mrs.
Penniman frankly added.

“And you believe he would certainly change it—as regards Catherine?”

“Yes; and then change it back again.”

“Ah, but one can’t depend on that!” said Morris.

“Do you want to depend on it?” Mrs. Penniman asked.

Morris blushed a little. “Well, I am certainly afraid of being the cause
of an injury to Catherine.”

“Ah! you must not be afraid. Be afraid of nothing, and everything will
go well!”

And then Mrs. Penniman paid for her cup of tea, and Morris paid for his
oyster stew, and they went out together into the dimly-lighted wilderness
of the Seventh Avenue. The dusk had closed in completely and the street
lamps were separated by wide intervals of a pavement in which cavities
and fissures played a disproportionate part. An omnibus, emblazoned with
strange pictures, went tumbling over the dislocated cobble-stones.

“How will you go home?” Morris asked, following this vehicle with an
interested eye. Mrs. Penniman had taken his arm.

She hesitated a moment. “I think this manner would be pleasant,” she
said; and she continued to let him feel the value of his support.

So he walked with her through the devious ways of the west side of the
town, and through the bustle of gathering nightfall in populous streets,
to the quiet precinct of Washington Square. They lingered a moment at
the foot of Dr. Sloper’s white marble steps, above which a spotless white
door, adorned with a glittering silver plate, seemed to figure, for
Morris, the closed portal of happiness; and then Mrs. Penniman’s
companion rested a melancholy eye upon a lighted window in the upper part
of the house.

“That is my room—my dear little room!” Mrs. Penniman remarked.

Morris started. “Then I needn’t come walking round the Square to gaze at
it.”

“That’s as you please. But Catherine’s is behind; two noble windows on
the second floor. I think you can see them from the other street.”

“I don’t want to see them, ma’am!” And Morris turned his back to the
house.

“I will tell her you have been here, at any rate,” said Mrs. Penniman,
pointing to the spot where they stood; “and I will give her your
message—that she is to hold fast!”

“Oh, yes! of course. You know I write her all that.”

“It seems to say more when it is spoken! And remember, if you need me,
that I am there”; and Mrs. Penniman glanced at the third floor.

On this they separated, and Morris, left to himself, stood looking at the
house a moment; after which he turned away, and took a gloomy walk round
the Square, on the opposite side, close to the wooden fence. Then he
came back, and paused for a minute in front of Dr. Sloper’s dwelling.
His eyes travelled over it; they even rested on the ruddy windows of Mrs.
Penniman’s apartment. He thought it a devilish comfortable house.