Washington Square

“As much so as possible,” Morris promised.  “It won’t be much use, but I shall try.  I certainly would rather have you easily than have to fight for you.”

“Don’t talk about fighting; we shall not fight.”

“Ah, we must be prepared,” Morris rejoined; “you especially, because for you it must come hardest.  Do you know the first thing your father will say to you?”

“No, Morris; please tell me.”

“He will tell you I am mercenary.”

“Mercenary?”

“It’s a big word; but it means a low thing.  It means that I am after your money.”

“Oh!” murmured Catherine softly.

The exclamation was so deprecating and touching that Morris indulged in another little demonstration of affection.  “But he will be sure to say it,” he added.

“It will be easy to be prepared for that,” Catherine said.  “I shall simply say that he is mistaken—that other men may be that way, but that you are not.”

“You must make a great point of that, for it will be his own great point.”

Catherine looked at her lover a minute, and then she said, “I shall persuade him.  But I am glad we shall be rich,” she added.

Morris turned away, looking into the crown of his hat.  “No, it’s a misfortune,” he said at last.  “It is from that our difficulty will come.”

“Well, if it is the worst misfortune, we are not so unhappy.  Many people would not think it so bad.  I will persuade him, and after that we shall be very glad we have money.”

Morris Townsend listened to this robust logic in silence.  “I will leave my defence to you; it’s a charge that a man has to stoop to defend himself from.”

Catherine on her side was silent for a while; she was looking at him while he looked, with a good deal of fixedness, out of the window.  “Morris,” she said abruptly, “are you very sure you love me?”

He turned round, and in a moment he was bending over her.  “My own dearest, can you doubt it?”

“I have only known it five days,” she said; “but now it seems to me as if I could never do without it.”

“You will never be called upon to try!”  And he gave a little tender, reassuring laugh.  Then, in a moment, he added, “There is something you must tell me, too.”  She had closed her eyes after the last word she uttered, and kept them closed; and at this she nodded her head, without opening them.  “You must tell me,” he went on, “that if your father is dead against me, if he absolutely forbids our marriage, you will still be faithful.”

Catherine opened her eyes, gazing at him, and she could give no better promise than what he read there.

“You will cleave to me?” said Morris.  “You know you are your own mistress—you are of age.”

“Ah, Morris!” she murmured, for all answer.  Or rather not for all; for she put her hand into his own.  He kept it a while, and presently he kissed her again.  This is all that need be recorded of their conversation; but Mrs. Penniman, if she had been present, would probably have admitted that it was as well it had not taken place beside the fountain in Washington Square.

XI

Catherine listened for her father when he came in that evening, and she heard him go to his study.  She sat quiet, though her heart was beating fast, for nearly half an hour; then she went and knocked at his door—a ceremony without which she never crossed the threshold of this apartment.  On entering it now she found him in his chair beside the fire, entertaining himself with a cigar and the evening paper.

“I have something to say to you,” she began very gently; and she sat down in the first place that offered.

“I shall be very happy to hear it, my dear,” said her father.  He waited—waited, looking at her, while she stared, in a long silence, at the fire.  He was curious and impatient, for he was sure she was going to speak of Morris Townsend; but he let her take her own time, for he was determined to be very mild.

“I am engaged to be married!” Catherine announced at last, still staring at the fire.

The Doctor was startled; the accomplished fact was more than he had expected.  But he betrayed no surprise.  “You do right to tell me,” he simply said.  “And who is the happy mortal whom you have honoured with your choice?”

“Mr. Morris Townsend.”  And as she pronounced her lover’s name, Catherine looked at him.  What she saw was her father’s still grey eye and his clear-cut, definite smile.  She contemplated these objects for a moment, and then she looked back at the fire; it was much warmer.

“When was this arrangement made?” the Doctor asked.

“This afternoon—two hours ago.”

“Was Mr. Townsend here?”

“Yes, father; in the front parlour.”  She was very glad that she was not obliged to tell him that the ceremony of their betrothal had taken place out there under the bare ailantus-trees.

“Is it serious?” said the Doctor.

“Very serious, father.”

Her father was silent a moment.  “Mr. Townsend ought to have told me.”

“He means to tell you to-morrow.”

“After I know all about it from you?  He ought to have told me before.  Does he think I didn’t care—because I left you so much liberty?”

“Oh no,” said Catherine; “he knew you would care.  And we have been so much obliged to you for—for the liberty.”

The Doctor gave a short laugh.  “You might have made a better use of it, Catherine.”

“Please don’t say that, father,” the girl urged softly, fixing her dull and gentle eyes upon him.

He puffed his cigar awhile, meditatively.  “You have gone very fast,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Catherine answered simply; “I think we have.”

Her father glanced at her an instant, removing his eyes from the fire.  “I don’t wonder Mr. Townsend likes you.  You are so simple and so good.”

“I don’t know why it is—but he does like me.  I am sure of that.”

“And are you very fond of Mr. Townsend?”

“I like him very much, of course—or I shouldn’t consent to marry him.”

“But you have known him a very short time, my dear.”

“Oh,” said Catherine, with some eagerness, “it doesn’t take long to like a person—when once you begin.”

“You must have begun very quickly.  Was it the first time you saw him—that night at your aunt’s party?”