CHAPTER V
He learned what he had asked some three or four days later, after
Morris Townsend, with his cousin, had called in Washington Square.
Mrs. Penniman did not tell her brother, on the drive home, that she
had intimated to this agreeable young man, whose name she did not
know, that, with her niece, she should be very glad to see him; but
she was greatly pleased, and even a little flattered, when, late on a
Sunday afternoon, the two gentlemen made their appearance. His
coming with Arthur Townsend made it more natural and easy; the latter
young man was on the point of becoming connected with the family, and
Mrs. Penniman had remarked to Catherine that, as he was going to
marry Marian, it would be polite in him to call. These events came
to pass late in the autumn, and Catherine and her aunt had been
sitting together in the closing dusk, by the firelight, in the high
back parlour.
Arthur Townsend fell to Catherine's portion, while his companion
placed himself on the sofa, beside Mrs. Penniman. Catherine had
hitherto not been a harsh critic; she was easy to please--she liked
to talk with young men. But Marian's betrothed, this evening, made
her feel vaguely fastidious; he sat looking at the fire and rubbing
his knees with his hands. As for Catherine, she scarcely even
pretended to keep up the conversation; her attention had fixed itself
on the other side of the room; she was listening to what went on
between the other Mr. Townsend and her aunt. Every now and then he
looked over at Catherine herself and smiled, as if to show that what
he said was for her benefit too. Catherine would have liked to
change her place, to go and sit near them, where she might see and
hear him better. But she was afraid of seeming bold--of looking
eager; and, besides, it would not have been polite to Marian's little
suitor. She wondered why the other gentleman had picked out her
aunt--how he came to have so much to say to Mrs. Penniman, to whom,
usually, young men were not especially devoted. She was not at all
jealous of Aunt Lavinia, but she was a little envious, and above all
she wondered; for Morris Townsend was an object on which she found
that her imagination could exercise itself indefinitely. His cousin
had been describing a house that he had taken in view of his union
with Marian, and the domestic conveniences he meant to introduce into
it; how Marian wanted a larger one, and Mrs. Almond recommended a
smaller one, and how he himself was convinced that he had got the
neatest house in New York.
"It doesn't matter," he said; "it's only for three or four years. At
the end of three or four years we'll move. That's the way to live in
New York--to move every three or four years. Then you always get the
last thing. It's because the city's growing so quick--you've got to
keep up with it. It's going straight up town--that's where New
York's going. If I wasn't afraid Marian would be lonely, I'd go up
there--right up to the top--and wait for it. Only have to wait ten
years--they'd all come up after you. But Marian says she wants some
neighbours--she doesn't want to be a pioneer. She says that if she's
got to be the first settler she had better go out to Minnesota. I
guess we'll move up little by little; when we get tired of one street
we'll go higher. So you see we'll always have a new house; it's a
great advantage to have a new house; you get all the latest
improvements. They invent everything all over again about every five
years, and it's a great thing to keep up with the new things. I
always try and keep up with the new things of every kind. Don't you
think that's a good motto for a young couple--to keep 'going higher'?
That's the name of that piece of poetry--what do they call it?--
Excelsior!"
Catherine bestowed on her junior visitor only just enough attention
to feel that this was not the way Mr. Morris Townsend had talked the
other night, or that he was talking now to her fortunate aunt. But
suddenly his aspiring kinsman became more interesting. He seemed to
have become conscious that she was affected by his companion's
presence, and he thought it proper to explain it.
"My cousin asked me to bring him, or I shouldn't have taken the
liberty. He seemed to want very much to come; you know he's awfully
sociable. I told him I wanted to ask you first, but he said Mrs.
Penniman had invited him. He isn't particular what he says when he
wants to come somewhere! But Mrs. Penniman seems to think it's all
right."
"We are very glad to see him," said Catherine. And she wished to
talk more about him; but she hardly knew what to say. "I never saw
him before," she went on presently.
Arthur Townsend stared.
"Why, he told me he talked with you for over half an hour the other
night."
"I mean before the other night. That was the first time."
"Oh, he has been away from New York--he has been all round the world.
He doesn't know many people here, but he's very sociable, and he
wants to know every one."
"Every one?" said Catherine.
"Well, I mean all the good ones. All the pretty young ladies--like
Mrs. Penniman!" and Arthur Townsend gave a private laugh.
"My aunt likes him very much," said Catherine.
"Most people like him--he's so brilliant."
"He's more like a foreigner," Catherine suggested.
"Well, I never knew a foreigner!" said young Townsend, in a tone
which seemed to indicate that his ignorance had been optional.
"Neither have I," Catherine confessed, with more humility. "They say
they are generally brilliant," she added vaguely.
"Well, the people of this city are clever enough for me. I know some
of them that think they are too clever for me; but they ain't!"
"I suppose you can't be too clever," said Catherine, still with
humility.
"I don't know. I know some people that call my cousin too clever."
Catherine listened to this statement with extreme interest, and a
feeling that if Morris Townsend had a fault it would naturally be
that one. But she did not commit herself, and in a moment she asked:
"Now that he has come back, will he stay here always?"
"Ah," said Arthur, "if he can get something to do."
"Something to do?"
"Some place or other; some business."
"Hasn't he got any?" said Catherine, who had never heard of a young
man--of the upper class--in this situation.
"No; he's looking round. But he can't find anything."
"I am very sorry," Catherine permitted herself to observe.
"Oh, he doesn't mind," said young Townsend. "He takes it easy--he
isn't in a hurry. He is very particular."
Catherine thought he naturally would be, and gave herself up for some
moments to the contemplation of this idea, in several of its
bearings.
"Won't his father take him into his business--his office?" she at
last inquired.
"He hasn't got any father--he has only got a sister. Your sister
can't help you much."
It seemed to Catherine that if she were his sister she would disprove
this axiom. "Is she--is she pleasant?" she asked in a moment.
"I don't know--I believe she's very respectable," said young
Townsend. And then he looked across to his cousin and began to
laugh. "Look here, we are talking about you," he added.
Morris Townsend paused in his conversation with Mrs. Penniman, and
stared, with a little smile. Then he got up, as if he were going.
"As far as you are concerned, I can't return the compliment," he said
to Catherine's companion. "But as regards Miss Sloper, it's another
affair."
Catherine thought this little speech wonderfully well turned; but she
was embarrassed by it, and she also got up. Morris Townsend stood
looking at her and smiling; he put out his hand for farewell. He was
going, without having said anything to her; but even on these terms
she was glad to have seen him.
"I will tell her what you have said--when you go!" said Mrs.
Penniman, with an insinuating laugh.
Catherine blushed, for she felt almost as if they were making sport
of her. What in the world could this beautiful young man have said?
He looked at her still, in spite of her blush; but very kindly and
respectfully.
"I have had no talk with you," he said, "and that was what I came
for. But it will be a good reason for coming another time; a little
pretext--if I am obliged to give one. I am not afraid of what your
aunt will say when I go."
With this the two young men took their departure; after which
Catherine, with her blush still lingering, directed a serious and
interrogative eye to Mrs. Penniman. She was incapable of elaborate
artifice, and she resorted to no jocular device--to no affectation of
the belief that she had been maligned--to learn what she desired.
"What did you say you would tell me?" she asked.
Mrs. Penniman came up to her, smiling and nodding a little, looked at
her all over, and gave a twist to the knot of ribbon in her neck.
"It's a great secret, my dear child; but he is coming a-courting!"
Catherine was serious still. "Is that what he told you!"
"He didn't say so exactly. But he left me to guess it. I'm a good
guesser."
"Do you mean a-courting me?"
"Not me, certainly, miss; though I must say he is a hundred times
more polite to a person who has no longer extreme youth to recommend
her than most of the young men. He is thinking of some one else."
And Mrs. Penniman gave her niece a delicate little kiss. "You must
be very gracious to him."
Catherine stared--she was bewildered. "I don't understand you," she
said; "he doesn't know me."
"Oh yes, he does; more than you think. I have told him all about
you."
"Oh, Aunt Penniman!" murmured Catherine, as if this had been a breach
of trust. "He is a perfect stranger--we don't know him." There was
infinite, modesty in the poor girl's "we."
Aunt Penniman, however, took no account of it; she spoke even with a
touch of acrimony. "My dear Catherine, you know very well that you
admire him!"
"Oh, Aunt Penniman!" Catherine could only murmur again. It might
very well be that she admired him--though this did not seem to her a
thing to talk about. But that this brilliant stranger--this sudden
apparition, who had barely heard the sound of her voice--took that
sort of interest in her that was expressed by the romantic phrase of
which Mrs. Penniman had just made use: this could only be a figment
of the restless brain of Aunt Lavinia, whom every one knew to be a
woman of powerful imagination.
