"I
very seldom think of Mr. Townsend."
"It will be very easy for you to go on, then. Promise me, after my
death, to do the same."
Again, for some moments, Catherine was silent; her father's request
deeply amazed her; it opened an old wound and made it ache afresh.
"I don't think I can promise that," she answered.
"It would be a great satisfaction," said her father.
"You don't understand. I can't promise that."
The Doctor was silent a minute. "I ask you for a particular reason.
I am altering my will."
This reason failed to strike Catherine; and indeed she scarcely
understood it. All her feelings were merged in the sense that he was
trying to treat her as he had treated her years before. She had
suffered from it then; and now all her experience, all her acquired
tranquillity and rigidity, protested. She had been so humble in her
youth that she could now afford to have a little pride, and there was
something in this request, and in her father's thinking himself so
free to make it, that seemed an injury to her dignity. Poor
Catherine's dignity was not aggressive; it never sat in state; but if
you pushed far enough you could find it. Her father had pushed very
far.
"I can't promise," she simply repeated.
"You are very obstinate," said the Doctor.
"I don't think you understand."
"Please explain, then."
"I can't explain," said Catherine. "And I can't promise.
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