It was on her
conscience that she ought to live under his roof only so long as she
conformed to his wisdom. There was a great deal of glory in such a
position, but poor Catherine felt that she had forfeited her claim to
it. She had cast her lot with a young man against whom he had
solemnly warned her, and broken the contract under which he provided
her with a happy home. She could not give up the young man, so she
must leave the home; and the sooner the object of her preference
offered her another the sooner her situation would lose its awkward
twist. This was close reasoning; but it was commingled with an
infinite amount of merely instinctive penitence. Catherine's days at
this time were dismal, and the weight of some of her hours was almost
more than she could bear. Her father never looked at her, never
spoke to her. He knew perfectly what he was about, and this was part
of a plan. She looked at him as much as she dared (for she was
afraid of seeming to offer herself to his observation), and she
pitied him for the sorrow she had brought upon him. She held up her
head and busied her hands, and went about her daily occupations; and
when the state of things in Washington Square seemed intolerable, she
closed her eyes and indulged herself with an intellectual vision of
the man for whose sake she had broken a sacred law. Mrs. Penniman,
of the three persons in Washington Square, had much the most of the
manner that belongs to a great crisis.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167