Washington Square

“I don’t know, father,” the girl answered.  “I can’t tell you about that.”

“Of course; that’s your own affair.  You will have observed that I have acted on that principle.  I have not interfered, I have left you your liberty, I have remembered that you are no longer a little girl—that you have arrived at years of discretion.”

“I feel very old—and very wise,” said Catherine, smiling faintly.

“I am afraid that before long you will feel older and wiser yet.  I don’t like your engagement.”

“Ah!” Catherine exclaimed softly, getting up from her chair.

“No, my dear.  I am sorry to give you pain; but I don’t like it.  You should have consulted me before you settled it.  I have been too easy with you, and I feel as if you had taken advantage of my indulgence.  Most decidedly, you should have spoken to me first.”

Catherine hesitated a moment, and then—“It was because I was afraid you wouldn’t like it!” she confessed.

“Ah, there it is!  You had a bad conscience.”

“No, I have not a bad conscience, father!” the girl cried out, with considerable energy.  “Please don’t accuse me of anything so dreadful.”  These words, in fact, represented to her imagination something very terrible indeed, something base and cruel, which she associated with malefactors and prisoners.  “It was because I was afraid—afraid—” she went on.

“If you were afraid, it was because you had been foolish!”

“I was afraid you didn’t like Mr. Townsend.”

“You were quite right.  I don’t like him.”

“Dear father, you don’t know him,” said Catherine, in a voice so timidly argumentative that it might have touched him.

“Very true; I don’t know him intimately.  But I know him enough.  I have my impression of him.  You don’t know him either.”

She stood before the fire, with her hands lightly clasped in front of her; and her father, leaning back in his chair and looking up at her, made this remark with a placidity that might have been irritating.

I doubt, however, whether Catherine was irritated, though she broke into a vehement protest.  “I don’t know him?” she cried.  “Why, I know him—better than I have ever known any one!”

“You know a part of him—what he has chosen to show you.  But you don’t know the rest.”

“The rest?  What is the rest?”

“Whatever it may be.  There is sure to be plenty of it.”

“I know what you mean,” said Catherine, remembering how Morris had forewarned her.  “You mean that he is mercenary.”

Her father looked up at her still, with his cold, quiet reasonable eye.  “If I meant it, my dear, I should say it!  But there is an error I wish particularly to avoid—that of rendering Mr. Townsend more interesting to you by saying hard things about him.”

“I won’t think them hard if they are true,” said Catherine.

“If you don’t, you will be a remarkably sensible young woman!”

“They will be your reasons, at any rate, and you will want me to hear your reasons.”

The Doctor smiled a little.  “Very true.  You have a perfect right to ask for them.”  And he puffed his cigar a few moments.  “Very well, then, without accusing Mr. Townsend of being in love only with your fortune—and with the fortune that you justly expect—I will say that there is every reason to suppose that these good things have entered into his calculation more largely than a tender solicitude for your happiness strictly requires.  There is, of course, nothing impossible in an intelligent young man entertaining a disinterested affection for you.  You are an honest, amiable girl, and an intelligent young man might easily find it out.  But the principal thing that we know about this young man—who is, indeed, very intelligent—leads us to suppose that, however much he may value your personal merits, he values your money more.  The principal thing we know about him is that he has led a life of dissipation, and has spent a fortune of his own in doing so.  That is enough for me, my dear.  I wish you to marry a young man with other antecedents—a young man who could give positive guarantees.  If Morris Townsend has spent his own fortune in amusing himself, there is every reason to believe that he would spend yours.”

The Doctor delivered himself of these remarks slowly, deliberately, with occasional pauses and prolongations of accent, which made no great allowance for poor Catherine’s suspense as to his conclusion.  She sat down at last, with her head bent and her eyes still fixed upon him; and strangely enough—I hardly know how to tell it—even while she felt that what he said went so terribly against her, she admired his neatness and nobleness of expression.  There was something hopeless and oppressive in having to argue with her father; but she too, on her side, must try to be clear.  He was so quiet; he was not at all angry; and she too must be quiet.  But her very effort to be quiet made her tremble.

“That is not the principal thing we know about him,” she said; and there was a touch of her tremor in her voice.  “There are other things—many other things.  He has very high abilities—he wants so much to do something.  He is kind, and generous, and true,” said poor Catherine, who had not suspected hitherto the resources of her eloquence.  “And his fortune—his fortune that he spent—was very small!”

“All the more reason he shouldn’t have spent it,” cried the Doctor, getting up, with a laugh.  Then as Catherine, who had also risen to her feet again, stood there in her rather angular earnestness, wishing so much and expressing so little, he drew her towards him and kissed her.  “You won’t think me cruel?” he said, holding her a moment.

This question was not reassuring; it seemed to Catherine, on the contrary, to suggest possibilities which made her feel sick.  But she answered coherently enough—“No, dear father; because if you knew how I feel—and you must know, you know everything—you would be so kind, so gentle.”

“Yes, I think I know how you feel,” the Doctor said.  “I will be very kind—be sure of that.  And I will see Mr. Townsend to-morrow.  Meanwhile, and for the present, be so good as to mention to no one that you are engaged.”

XII

On the morrow, in the afternoon, he stayed at home, awaiting Mr. Townsend’s call—a proceeding by which it appeared to him (justly perhaps, for he was a very busy man) that he paid Catherine’s suitor great honour, and gave both these young people so much the less to complain of.  Morris presented himself with a countenance sufficiently serene—he appeared to have forgotten the “insult” for which he had solicited Catherine’s sympathy two evenings before, and Dr. Sloper lost no time in letting him know that he had been prepared for his visit.

“Catherine told me yesterday what has been going on between you,” he said.  “You must allow me to say that it would have been becoming of you to give me notice of your intentions before they had gone so far.”

“I should have done so,” Morris answered, “if you had not had so much the appearance of leaving your daughter at liberty.  She seems to me quite her own mistress.”

“Literally, she is.  But she has not emancipated herself morally quite so far, I trust, as to choose a husband without consulting me.  I have left her at liberty, but I have not been in the least indifferent.  The truth is that your little affair has come to a head with a rapidity that surprises me.  It was only the other day that Catherine made your acquaintance.”

“It was not long ago, certainly,” said Morris, with great gravity.  “I admit that we have not been slow to—to arrive at an understanding.  But that was very natural, from the moment we were sure of ourselves—and of each other.  My interest in Miss Sloper began the first time I saw her.”

“Did it not by chance precede your first meeting?” the Doctor asked.

Morris looked at him an instant.  “I certainly had already heard that she was a charming girl.”

“A charming girl—that’s what you think her?”

“Assuredly.  Otherwise I should not be sitting here.”

The Doctor meditated a moment.  “My dear young man,” he said at last, “you must be very susceptible.  As Catherine’s father, I have, I trust, a just and tender appreciation of her many good qualities; but I don’t mind telling you that I have never thought of her as a charming girl, and never expected any one else to do so.”

Morris Townsend received this statement with a smile that was not wholly devoid of deference.  “I don’t know what I might think of her if I were her father.  I can’t put myself in that place.  I speak from my own point of view.”

“You speak very well,” said the Doctor; “but that is not all that is necessary.  I told Catherine yesterday that I disapproved of her engagement.”

“She let me know as much, and I was very sorry to hear it.  I am greatly disappointed.”  And Morris sat in silence awhile, looking at the floor.

“Did you really expect I would say I was delighted, and throw my daughter into your arms?”

“Oh no; I had an idea you didn’t like me.”

“What gave you the idea?”

“The fact that I am poor.”

“That has a harsh sound,” said the Doctor, “but it is about the truth—speaking of you strictly as a son-in-law.  Your absence of means, of a profession, of visible resources or prospects, places you in a category from which it would be imprudent for me to select a husband for my daughter, who is a weak young woman with a large fortune.  In any other capacity I am perfectly prepared to like you.  As a son-in-law, I abominate you!”

Morris Townsend listened respectfully.  “I don’t think Miss Sloper is a weak woman,” he presently said.