Part 33

She felt no impulse to deny it, because she had no shame in it; for if it was no honour to herself, at least it was an honour to him. “I suppose I must be,” she said simply.

“Then you don’t love me—not as I love you. If you fear your father more than you love me, then your love is not what I hoped it was.”

“Ah, my friend!” she said, going to him.

“Do I fear anything?” he demanded, turning round on her. “For your sake what am I not ready to face?”

“You are noble—you are brave!” she answered, stopping short at a distance that was almost respectful.

“Small good it does me, if you are so timid.”

“I don’t think that I am—really,” said Catherine.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘really.’ It is really enough to make us miserable.”

“I should be strong enough to wait—to wait a long time.”

“And suppose after a long time your father should hate me worse than ever?”

“He wouldn’t—he couldn’t!”

“He would be touched by my fidelity? Is that what you mean? If he is so easily touched, then why should you be afraid of him?”

This was much to the point, and Catherine was struck by it. “I will try not to be,” she said. And she stood there submissively, the image, in advance, of a dutiful and responsible wife. This image could not fail to recommend itself to Morris Townsend, and he continued to give proof of the high estimation in which he held her. It could only have been at the prompting of such a sentiment that he presently mentioned to her that the course recommended by Mrs. Penniman was an immediate union, regardless of consequences.

“Yes, Aunt Penniman would like that,” Catherine said simply—and yet with a certain shrewdness. It must, however, have been in pure simplicity, and from motives quite untouched by sarcasm, that, a few moments after, she went on to say to Morris that her father had given her a message for him. It was quite on her conscience to deliver this message, and had the mission been ten times more painful she would have as scrupulously performed it. “He told me to tell you—to tell you very distinctly, and directly from himself, that if I marry without his consent, I shall not inherit a penny of his fortune. He made a great point of this. He seemed to think—he seemed to think—”

Morris flushed, as any young man of spirit might have flushed at an imputation of baseness.

“What did he seem to think?”

“That it would make a difference.”

“It will make a difference—in many things. We shall be by many thousands of dollars the poorer; and that is a great difference. But it will make none in my affection.”

“We shall not want the money,” said Catherine; “for you know I have a good deal myself.”

“Yes, my dear girl, I know you have something. And he can’t touch that!”

“He would never,” said Catherine. “My mother left it to me.”

Morris was silent a while. “He was very positive about this, was he?” he asked at last. “He thought such a message would annoy me terribly, and make me throw off the mask, eh?”

“I don’t know what he thought,” said Catherine wearily.

“Please tell him that I care for his message as much as for that!” And Morris snapped his fingers sonorously.

“I don’t think I could tell him that.”

“Do you know you sometimes disappoint me?” said Morris.

“I should think I might. I disappoint every one—father and Aunt Penniman.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter with me, because I am fonder of you than they are.”