第42章

ON THE MORROW, in the afternoon, she heard his voice at the door, and his step in the hall.She received him in the big, bright front parlor, and she instructed the servant that, if anyone should call, she was particularly engaged.She was not afraid of her father's coming in, for at that hour he was always driving about town.When Morris stood there before her, the first thing that she was conscious of was that he was even more beautiful to look at than fond recollection had painted him; the next was that he had pressed her in his arms.When she was free again it appeared to her that she had now indeed thrown herself into the gulf of defiance, and even, for an instant, that she had been married to him.

He told her that she had been very cruel, and had made him very unhappy; and Catherine felt acutely the difficulty of her destiny, which forced her to give pain in such opposite quarters.But she wished that, instead of reproaches, however tender, he would give her help; he was certainly wise enough and clever enough to invent some issue from their troubles.She expressed this belief, and Morris received the assurance as if he thought it natural; but he interrogated at first- as was natural too- rather than committed himself to marking out a course.

"You should not have made me wait so long," he said."I don't know how I have been living; every hour seemed like years.You should have decided sooner.""Decided?" Catherine asked.

"Decided whether you would keep me or give me up.""Oh, Morris," she cried, with a long, tender murmur, "I never thought of giving you up!""What, then, were you waiting for?" The young man was ardently logical.

"I thought my father might- might-" and she hesitated.

"Might see how unhappy you were?"

"Oh no.But that he might look at it differently.""And now you have sent for me to tell me that at last he does so.Is that it?"This hypothetical optimism gave the poor girl a pang."No, Morris," she said, solemnly, "he looks at it still in the same way.""Then why have you sent for me?"

"Because I wanted to see you," cried Catherine, piteously.

"That's an excellent reason, surely.But did you want to look at me only? Have you nothing to tell me?"His beautiful persuasive eyes were fixed upon her face, and she wondered what answer would be noble enough to make to such a gaze as that.For a moment her own eyes took it in, and then "I did want to look at you," she said, gently.But after this speech, most inconsistently, she hid her face.

Morris watched her for a moment attentively, "Will you marry me tomorrow?" he asked, suddenly.

"Tomorrow?"

"Next week, then- any time within a month?""Isn't it better to wait?" said Catherine.

"To wait for what?"

She hardly knew for what; but this tremendous leap alarmed her.

"Till we have thought about it a little more."He shook his head sadly and reproachfully."I thought you had been thinking about it these three weeks.Do you want to turn it over in your mind for five years? You have given me more than time enough.

My poor girl," he added, in a moment, "you are not sincere."Catherine colored from brow to chin, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, how can you say that?" she murmured.

"Why, you must take me or leave me," said Morris, very reasonably.

"You can't please your father and me both; you must choose between us.""I have chosen you," she said, passionately.

"Then marry me next week!"

She stood gazing at him."Isn't there any other way?""None that I know of for arriving at the same result.If there is, Ishould be happy to hear of it."

Catherine could think of nothing of the kind, and Morris's luminosity seemed almost pitiless.The only thing she could think of was that her father might, after all, come round; and she articulated, with an awkward sense of her helplessness in doing so, a wish that this miracle might happen.

"Do you think it is in the least degree likely?" Morris asked.

"It would be, if he could only know you.""He can know me if he will.What is to prevent it?""His ideas, his reasons," said Catherine."They are so- so terribly strong." She trembled with the recollection of them yet.

"Strong!" cried Morris."I would rather you should think them weak.""Oh, nothing about my father is weak," said the girl.

Morris turned away, walking to the window, where he stood looking out."You are terribly afraid of him," he remarked at last.

She felt no impulse to deny it, because she had no shame in it; for, if it was no honor to herself, at least it was an honor to him."Isuppose 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.