Bab Bab 7 · 第7章

HE was, however, by no means so much in earnest as this might seem to

indicate; and, indeed, he was more than anything else amused with the

whole situation. He was not in the least in a state of tension or of

vigilance with regard to Catherine’s prospects; he was even on his guard

against the ridicule that might attach itself to the spectacle of a house

thrown into agitation by its daughter and heiress receiving attentions

unprecedented in its annals. More than this, he went so far as to

promise himself some entertainment from the little drama—if drama it

was—of which Mrs. Penniman desired to represent the ingenious Mr.

Townsend as the hero. He had no intention, as yet, of regulating the

_dénouement_. He was perfectly willing, as Elizabeth had suggested, to

give the young man the benefit of every doubt. There was no great danger

in it; for Catherine, at the age of twenty-two, was, after all, a rather

mature blossom, such as could be plucked from the stem only by a vigorous

jerk. The fact that Morris Townsend was poor—was not of necessity

against him; the Doctor had never made up his mind that his daughter

should marry a rich man. The fortune she would inherit struck him as a

very sufficient provision for two reasonable persons, and if a penniless

swain who could give a good account of himself should enter the lists, he

should be judged quite upon his personal merits. There were other things

besides. The Doctor thought it very vulgar to be precipitate in accusing

people of mercenary motives, inasmuch as his door had as yet not been in

the least besieged by fortune-hunters; and, lastly, he was very curious

to see whether Catherine might really be loved for her moral worth. He

smiled as he reflected that poor Mr. Townsend had been only twice to the

house, and he said to Mrs. Penniman that the next time he should come she

must ask him to dinner.

He came very soon again, and Mrs. Penniman had of course great pleasure

in executing this mission. Morris Townsend accepted her invitation with

equal good grace, and the dinner took place a few days later. The Doctor

had said to himself, justly enough, that they must not have the young man

alone; this would partake too much of the nature of encouragement. So

two or three other persons were invited; but Morris Townsend, though he

was by no means the ostensible, was the real, occasion of the feast.

There is every reason to suppose that he desired to make a good

impression; and if he fell short of this result, it was not for want of a

good deal of intelligent effort. The Doctor talked to him very little

during dinner; but he observed him attentively, and after the ladies had

gone out he pushed him the wine and asked him several questions. Morris

was not a young man who needed to be pressed, and he found quite enough

encouragement in the superior quality of the claret. The Doctor’s wine

was admirable, and it may be communicated to the reader that while he

sipped it Morris reflected that a cellar-full of good liquor—there was

evidently a cellar-full here—would be a most attractive idiosyncrasy in a

father-in-law. The Doctor was struck with his appreciative guest; he saw

that he was not a commonplace young man. “He has ability,” said

Catherine’s father, “decided ability; he has a very good head if he

chooses to use it. And he is uncommonly well turned out; quite the sort

of figure that pleases the ladies. But I don’t think I like him.” The

Doctor, however, kept his reflexions to himself, and talked to his

visitors about foreign lands, concerning which Morris offered him more

information than he was ready, as he mentally phrased it, to swallow.

Dr. Sloper had travelled but little, and he took the liberty of not

believing everything this anecdotical idler narrated. He prided himself

on being something of a physiognomist, and while the young man, chatting

with easy assurance, puffed his cigar and filled his glass again, the

Doctor sat with his eyes quietly fixed on his bright, expressive face.

“He has the assurance of the devil himself,” said Morris’s host; “I don’t

think I ever saw such assurance. And his powers of invention are most

remarkable. He is very knowing; they were not so knowing as that in my

time. And a good head, did I say? I should think so—after a bottle of

Madeira and a bottle and a half of claret!”

After dinner Morris Townsend went and stood before Catherine, who was

standing before the fire in her red satin gown.

“He doesn’t like me—he doesn’t like me at all!” said the young man.

“Who doesn’t like you?” asked Catherine.

“Your father; extraordinary man!”

“I don’t see how you know,” said Catherine, blushing.

“I feel; I am very quick to feel.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Ah, well; you ask him and you will see.”

“I would rather not ask him, if there is any danger of his saying what

you think.”

Morris looked at her with an air of mock melancholy.

“It wouldn’t give you any pleasure to contradict him?”

“I never contradict him,” said Catherine.

“Will you hear me abused without opening your lips in my defence?”

“My father won’t abuse you. He doesn’t know you enough.”

Morris Townsend gave a loud laugh, and Catherine began to blush again.

“I shall never mention you,” she said, to take refuge from her confusion.

“That is very well; but it is not quite what I should have liked you to

say. I should have liked you to say: ‘If my father doesn’t think well of

you, what does it matter?’”

“Ah, but it would matter; I couldn’t say that!” the girl exclaimed.

He looked at her for a moment, smiling a little; and the Doctor, if he

had been watching him just then, would have seen a gleam of fine

impatience in the sociable softness of his eye. But there was no

impatience in his rejoinder—none, at least, save what was expressed in a

little appealing sigh. “Ah, well, then, I must not give up the hope of

bringing him round!”

He expressed it more frankly to Mrs. Penniman later in the evening. But

before that he sang two or three songs at Catherine’s timid request; not

that he flattered himself that this would help to bring her father round.

He had a sweet, light tenor voice, and when he had finished every one

made some exclamation—every one, that is, save Catherine, who remained

intensely silent. Mrs. Penniman declared that his manner of singing was

“most artistic,” and Dr. Sloper said it was “very taking—very taking

indeed”; speaking loudly and distinctly, but with a certain dryness.

“He doesn’t like me—he doesn’t like me at all,” said Morris Townsend,

addressing the aunt in the same manner as he had done the niece. “He

thinks I’m all wrong.”

Unlike her niece, Mrs. Penniman asked for no explanation. She only

smiled very sweetly, as if she understood everything; and, unlike

Catherine too, she made no attempt to contradict him. “Pray, what does

it matter?” she murmured softly.

“Ah, you say the right thing!” said Morris, greatly to the gratification

of Mrs. Penniman, who prided herself on always saying the right thing.

The Doctor, the next time he saw his sister Elizabeth, let her know that

he had made the acquaintance of Lavinia’s _protégé_.

“Physically,” he said, “he’s uncommonly well set up. As an anatomist, it

is really a pleasure to me to see such a beautiful structure; although,

if people were all like him, I suppose there would be very little need

for doctors.”

“Don’t you see anything in people but their bones?” Mrs. Almond rejoined.

“What do you think of him as a father?”

“As a father? Thank Heaven I am not his father!”

“No; but you are Catherine’s. Lavinia tells me she is in love.”

“She must get over it. He is not a gentleman.”

“Ah, take care! Remember that he is a branch of the Townsends.”

“He is not what I call a gentleman. He has not the soul of one. He is

extremely insinuating; but it’s a vulgar nature. I saw through it in a

minute. He is altogether too familiar—I hate familiarity. He is a

plausible coxcomb.”

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Almond; “if you make up your mind so easily, it’s a

great advantage.”

“I don’t make up my mind easily. What I tell you is the result of thirty

years of observation; and in order to be able to form that judgement in a

single evening, I have had to spend a lifetime in study.”

“Very possibly you are right. But the thing is for Catherine to see it.”

“I will present her with a pair of spectacles!” said the Doctor.