บทที่ บทที่ 23 · 第23章

IF Morris Townsend was not to be included in this journey, no more was

Mrs. Penniman, who would have been thankful for an invitation, but who

(to do her justice) bore her disappointment in a perfectly ladylike

manner. “I should enjoy seeing the works of Raphael and the ruins—the

ruins of the Pantheon,” she said to Mrs. Almond; “but, on the other hand,

I shall not be sorry to be alone and at peace for the next few months in

Washington Square. I want rest; I have been through so much in the last

four months.” Mrs. Almond thought it rather cruel that her brother

should not take poor Lavinia abroad; but she easily understood that, if

the purpose of his expedition was to make Catherine forget her lover, it

was not in his interest to give his daughter this young man’s best friend

as a companion. “If Lavinia had not been so foolish, she might visit the

ruins of the Pantheon,” she said to herself; and she continued to regret

her sister’s folly, even though the latter assured her that she had often

heard the relics in question most satisfactorily described by Mr.

Penniman. Mrs. Penniman was perfectly aware that her brother’s motive in

undertaking a foreign tour was to lay a trap for Catherine’s constancy;

and she imparted this conviction very frankly to her niece.

“He thinks it will make you forget Morris,” she said (she always called

the young man “Morris” now); “out of sight, out of mind, you know. He

thinks that all the things you will see over there will drive him out of

your thoughts.”

Catherine looked greatly alarmed. “If he thinks that, I ought to tell

him beforehand.”

Mrs. Penniman shook her head. “Tell him afterwards, my dear! After he

has had all the trouble and the expense! That’s the way to serve him.”

And she added, in a softer key, that it must be delightful to think of

those who love us among the ruins of the Pantheon.

Her father’s displeasure had cost the girl, as we know, a great deal of

deep-welling sorrow—sorrow of the purest and most generous kind, without

a touch of resentment or rancour; but for the first time, after he had

dismissed with such contemptuous brevity her apology for being a charge

upon him, there was a spark of anger in her grief. She had felt his

contempt; it had scorched her; that speech about her bad taste made her

ears burn for three days. During this period she was less considerate;

she had an idea—a rather vague one, but it was agreeable to her sense of

injury—that now she was absolved from penance, and might do what she

chose. She chose to write to Morris Townsend to meet her in the Square

and take her to walk about the town. If she were going to Europe out of

respect to her father, she might at least give herself this satisfaction.

She felt in every way at present more free and more resolute; there was a

force that urged her. Now at last, completely and unreservedly, her

passion possessed her.

Morris met her at last, and they took a long walk. She told him

immediately what had happened—that her father wished to take her away.

It would be for six months, to Europe; she would do absolutely what

Morris should think best. She hoped inexpressibly that he would think it

best she should stay at home. It was some time before he said what he

thought: he asked, as they walked along, a great many questions. There

was one that especially struck her; it seemed so incongruous.

“Should you like to see all those celebrated things over there?”

“Oh no, Morris!” said Catherine, quite deprecatingly.

“Gracious Heaven, what a dull woman!” Morris exclaimed to himself.

“He thinks I will forget you,” said Catherine: “that all these things

will drive you out of my mind.”

“Well, my dear, perhaps they will!”

“Please don’t say that,” Catherine answered gently, as they walked along.

“Poor father will be disappointed.”

Morris gave a little laugh. “Yes, I verily believe that your poor father

will be disappointed! But you will have seen Europe,” he added

humorously. “What a take-in!”

“I don’t care for seeing Europe,” Catherine said.

“You ought to care, my dear. And it may mollify your father.”

Catherine, conscious of her obstinacy, expected little of this, and could

not rid herself of the idea that in going abroad and yet remaining firm,

she should play her father a trick. “Don’t you think it would be a kind

of deception?” she asked.

“Doesn’t he want to deceive you?” cried Morris. “It will serve him

right! I really think you had better go.”

“And not be married for so long?”

“Be married when you come back. You can buy your wedding clothes in

Paris.” And then Morris, with great kindness of tone, explained his view

of the matter. It would be a good thing that she should go; it would put

them completely in the right. It would show they were reasonable and

willing to wait. Once they were so sure of each other, they could afford

to wait—what had they to fear? If there was a particle of chance that

her father would be favourably affected by her going, that ought to

settle it; for, after all, Morris was very unwilling to be the cause of

her being disinherited. It was not for himself, it was for her and for

her children. He was willing to wait for her; it would be hard, but he

could do it. And over there, among beautiful scenes and noble monuments,

perhaps the old gentleman would be softened; such things were supposed to

exert a humanising influence. He might be touched by her gentleness, her

patience, her willingness to make any sacrifice but _that_ one; and if

she should appeal to him some day, in some celebrated spot—in Italy, say,

in the evening; in Venice, in a gondola, by moonlight—if she should be a

little clever about it and touch the right chord, perhaps he would fold

her in his arms and tell her that he forgave her. Catherine was

immensely struck with this conception of the affair, which seemed

eminently worthy of her lover’s brilliant intellect; though she viewed it

askance in so far as it depended upon her own powers of execution. The

idea of being “clever” in a gondola by moonlight appeared to her to

involve elements of which her grasp was not active. But it was settled

between them that she should tell her father that she was ready to follow

him obediently anywhere, making the mental reservation that she loved

Morris Townsend more than ever.

She informed the Doctor she was ready to embark, and he made rapid

arrangements for this event. Catherine had many farewells to make, but

with only two of them are we actively concerned. Mrs. Penniman took a

discriminating view of her niece’s journey; it seemed to her very proper

that Mr. Townsend’s destined bride should wish to embellish her mind by a

foreign tour.

“You leave him in good hands,” she said, pressing her lips to Catherine’s

forehead. (She was very fond of kissing people’s foreheads; it was an

involuntary expression of sympathy with the intellectual part.) “I shall

see him often; I shall feel like one of the vestals of old, tending the

sacred flame.”

“You behave beautifully about not going with us,” Catherine answered, not

presuming to examine this analogy.

“It is my pride that keeps me up,” said Mrs. Penniman, tapping the body

of her dress, which always gave forth a sort of metallic ring.

Catherine’s parting with her lover was short, and few words were

exchanged.

“Shall I find you just the same when I come back?” she asked; though the

question was not the fruit of scepticism.

“The same—only more so!” said Morris, smiling.

It does not enter into our scheme to narrate in detail Dr. Sloper’s

proceedings in the eastern hemisphere. He made the grand tour of Europe,

travelled in considerable splendour, and (as was to have been expected in

a man of his high cultivation) found so much in art and antiquity to

interest him, that he remained abroad, not for six months, but for

twelve. Mrs. Penniman, in Washington Square, accommodated herself to his

absence. She enjoyed her uncontested dominion in the empty house, and

flattered herself that she made it more attractive to their friends than

when her brother was at home. To Morris Townsend, at least, it would

have appeared that she made it singularly attractive. He was altogether

her most frequent visitor, and Mrs. Penniman was very fond of asking him

to tea. He had his chair—a very easy one at the fireside in the back

parlour (when the great mahogany sliding-doors, with silver knobs and

hinges, which divided this apartment from its more formal neighbour, were

closed), and he used to smoke cigars in the Doctor’s study, where he

often spent an hour in turning over the curious collections of its absent

proprietor. He thought Mrs. Penniman a goose, as we know; but he was no

goose himself, and, as a young man of luxurious tastes and scanty

resources, he found the house a perfect castle of indolence. It became

for him a club with a single member. Mrs. Penniman saw much less of her

sister than while the Doctor was at home; for Mrs. Almond had felt moved

to tell her that she disapproved of her relations with Mr. Townsend. She

had no business to be so friendly to a young man of whom their brother

thought so meanly, and Mrs. Almond was surprised at her levity in

foisting a most deplorable engagement upon Catherine.

“Deplorable?” cried Lavinia. “He will make her a lovely husband!”

“I don’t believe in lovely husbands,” said Mrs. Almond; “I only believe

in good ones. If he marries her, and she comes into Austin’s money, they

may get on. He will be an idle, amiable, selfish, and doubtless

tolerably good-natured fellow. But if she doesn’t get the money and he

finds himself tied to her, Heaven have mercy on her! He will have none.

He will hate her for his disappointment, and take his revenge; he will be

pitiless and cruel. Woe betide poor Catherine! I recommend you to talk

a little with his sister; it’s a pity Catherine can’t marry _her_!”

Mrs. Penniman had no appetite whatever for conversation with Mrs.

Montgomery, whose acquaintance she made no trouble to cultivate; and the

effect of this alarming forecast of her niece’s destiny was to make her

think it indeed a thousand pities that Mr. Townsend’s generous nature

should be embittered. Bright enjoyment was his natural element, and how

could he be comfortable if there should prove to be nothing to enjoy? It

became a fixed idea with Mrs. Penniman that he should yet enjoy her

brother’s fortune, on which she had acuteness enough to perceive that her

own claim was small.

“If he doesn’t leave it to Catherine, it certainly won’t be to leave it

to me,” she said.