Ragged Lady, Complete

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"Oh, always well." Belsky sat down, and the friends stared at each other.
"I have strange news for you."

"For me?"

"You. She is here."

"She?"

"Yes. The young girl of whom you told me. If I had not forbidden myself by
my loyalty to you--if I had not said to myself every moment in her
presence, 'No, it is for your friend alone that she is beautiful and
good!'--But you will have nothing to reproach me in that regard."

"What do you mean?" demanded Gregory.

"I mean that Miss Claxon is in Florence, with her protectress, the rich
Mrs. Lander. The most admired young lady in society, going everywhere,
and everywhere courted and welcomed; the favorite of the fashionable Miss
Milray. But why should this surprise you?"

"You said nothing about it in your letters. You--"

"I was not sure it was she; you never told me her name. When I had
divined the fact, I was so soon to see you, that I thought best to keep
it till we met."

Gregory tried to speak, but he let Belsky go on.

"If you think that the world has spoiled her, that she will be different
from what she was in her home among your mountains, let me reassure you.
In her you will find the miracle of a woman whom no flattery can turn the
head. I have watched her in your interest; I have tested her. She is what
you saw her last."

"Surely," asked Gregory, in an anguish for what he now dreaded, "you
haven't spoken to her of me?"

"Not by name, no. I could not have that indiscretion--"

"The name is nothing. Have you said that you knew me--Of course not! But
have you hinted at any knowledge--Because--"

"You will hear!" said Belsky; and he poured out upon Gregory the story of
what he had done. "She did not deny anything. She was greatly moved, but
she did not refuse to let me bid you hope--"

"Oh!" Gregory took his head between his hands. "You have spoiled my
life!"

"Spoiled" Belsky stopped aghast.

"I told you my story in a moment of despicable weakness--of impulsive
folly. But how could I dream that you would ever meet her? How could I
imagine that you would speak to her as you have done?" He groaned, and
began to creep giddily about the room in his misery. "Oh, oh, oh! What
shall I do?"

"But I do not understand!" Belsky began. "If I have committed an error--"

"Oh, an error that never could be put right in all eternity!"

"Then let me go to her--let me tell her--"

"Keep away from her!" shouted Gregory. "Do you hear? Never go near her
again!"

"Gregory!"

"Ah, I beg your pardon! I don't know what I'm doing-saying. What will she
think--what will she think of me!" He had ceased to speak to Belsky; he
collapsed into a chair, and hid his face in his arms stretched out on the
table before him.

Belsky watched him in the stupefaction which the artistic nature feels
when life proves sentient under its hand, and not the mere material of
situations and effects. He could not conceive the full measure of the
disaster he had wrought, the outrage of his own behavior had been lost to
him in his preoccupation with the romantic end to be accomplished. He had
meant to be the friend, the prophet, to these American lovers, whom he
was reconciling and interpreting to each other; but in some point he must
have misunderstood. Yet the error was not inexpiable; and in his
expiation he could put the seal to his devotion. He left the room, where
Gregory made no effort to keep him.

He walked down the street from the hotel to the Arno, and in a few
moments he stood on the bridge, where he had talked with that joker in
the morning, as they looked down together on the boiling river. He had a
strange wish that the joker might have been with him again, to learn that
there were some things which could not be joked away.

The night was blustering, and the wind that blew the ragged clouds across
the face of the moon, swooped in sudden gusts upon the bridge, and the
deluge rolling under it and hoarsely washing against its piers. Belsky
leaned over the parapet and looked down into the eddies and currents as
the fitful light revealed them. He had a fantastic pleasure in studying
them, and choosing the moment when he should leap the parapet and be lost
in them. The incident could not be used in any novel of his, and no one
else could do such perfect justice to the situation, but perhaps
afterwards, when the facts leading to his death should be known through
the remorse of the lovers whom he had sought to serve, some other
artist-nature could distil their subtlest meaning in a memoir delicate as
the aroma of a faded flower.

He was willing to make this sacrifice, too, and he stepped back a pace
from the parapet when the fitful blast caught his hat from his head, and
whirled it along the bridge. The whole current of his purpose changed,
and as if it had been impossible to drown himself in his bare head, he
set out in chase of his hat, which rolled and gamboled away, and escaped
from his clutch whenever he stooped for it, till a final whiff of wind
flung it up and tossed it over the bridge into the river, where he
helplessly watched it floating down the flood, till it was carried out of
sight.

XXV.

Gregory did not sleep, and he did not find peace in the prayers he put up
for guidance. He tried to think of some one with whom he might take
counsel; but he knew no one in Florence except the parents of his pupil,
and they were impossible. He felt himself abandoned to the impulse which
he dreaded, in going to Clementina, and he went without hope, willing to
suffer whatever penalty she should visit upon him, after he had disavowed
Belsky's action, and claimed the responsibility for it.

He was prepared for her refusal to see him; he had imagined her wounded
and pathetic; he had fancied her insulted and indignant; but she met him
eagerly and with a mystifying appeal in her welcome. He began at once,
without attempting to bridge the time since they had met with any
formalities.

"I have come to speak to you about--that--Russian, about Baron Belsky--"

"Yes, yes!" she returned, anxiously. "Then you have hea'd"

"He came to me last night, and--I want to say that I feel myself to blame
for what he has done."

"You?"

"Yes; I. I never spoke of you by name to him; I didn't dream of his ever
seeing you, or that he would dare to speak to you of what I told him. But
I believe he meant no wrong; and it was I who did the harm, whether I
authorized it or not."

"Yes, yes!" she returned, with the effect of putting his words aside as
something of no moment. "Have they head anything more?"

"How, anything more?" he returned, in a daze.

"Then, don't you know? About his falling into the river? I know he didn't
drown himself."

Gregory shook his head. "When--what makes them think"--He stopped and
stared at her.

"Why, they know that he went down to the Ponte Trinity last night;
somebody saw him going: And then that peasant found his hat with his name
in it in the drift-wood below the Cascine--"

"Yes," said Gregory, lifelessly. He let his arms drop forward, and his
helpless hands hang over his knees; his gaze fell from her face to the
floor.

Neither spoke for a time that seemed long, and then it was Clementina who
spoke. "But it isn't true!"

"Oh, yes, it is," said Gregory, as before.

"Mr. Hinkle doesn't believe it is," she urged.

"Mr. Hinkle?"

"He's an American who's staying in Florence. He came this mo'ning to tell
me about it. Even if he's drowned Mr. Hinkle believes he didn't mean to;
he must have just fallen in."

"What does it matter?" demanded Gregory, lifting his heavy eyes. "Whether
he meant it or not, I caused it. I drove him to it."

"You drove him?"

"Yes. He told me what he had said to you, and I--said that he had spoiled
my life--I don't know!"

"Well, he had no right to do it; but I didn't blame you," Clementina
began, compassionately.

"It's too late. It can't be helped now." Gregory turned from the mercy
that could no longer save him. He rose dizzily, and tried to get himself
away.

"You mustn't go!" she interposed. "I don't believe you made him do it.
Mr. Hinkle will be back soon, and he will--"

"If he should bring word that it was true?" Gregory asked.

"Well," said Clementina, "then we should have to bear it."

A sense of something finer than the surface meaning of her words pierced
his morbid egotism. "I'm ashamed," he said. "Will you let me stay?"

"Why, yes, you must," she said, and if there was any censure of him at
the bottom of her heart, she kept it there, and tried to talk him away
from his remorse, which was in his temperament, perhaps, rather than his
conscience; she made the time pass till there came a knock at the door,
and she opened it to Hinkle.

"I didn't send up my name; I thought I wouldn't stand upon ceremony just
now," he said.

"Oh, no!" she returned. "Mr. Hinkle, this is Mr. Gregory. Mr. Gregory
knew Mr. Belsky, and he thinks--"

She turned to Gregory for prompting, and he managed to say, "I don't
believe he was quite the sort of person to--And yet he might--he was in
trouble--"

"Money trouble?" asked Hinkle. "They say these Russians have a perfect
genius for debt. I had a little inspiration, since I saw you, but there
doesn't seems to be anything in it, so far." He addressed himself to
Clementina, but he included Gregory in what he said. "It struck me that
he might have been running his board, and had used this drowning episode
as a blind. But I've been around to his hotel, and he's settled up, all
fair and square enough. The landlord tried to think of something he
hadn't paid, but he couldn't; and I never saw a man try harder, either."
Clementina smiled; she put her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing;
but Gregory frowned his distress in the untimely droning.

"I don't give up my theory that it's a fake of some kind, though. He
could leave behind a good many creditors besides his landlord. The
authorities have sealed up his effects, and they've done everything but
call out the fire department; that's on duty looking after the freshet,
and it couldn't be spared. I'll go out now and slop round a little more
in the cause," Hinkle looked down at his shoes and his drabbled trousers,
and wiped the perspiration from his face, "but I thought I'd drop in, and
tell you not to worry about it, Miss Clementina. I would stake anything
you pleased on Mr. Belsky's safety. Mr. Gregory, here, looks like he
would be willing to take odds," he suggested.

Gregory commanded himself from his misery to say, "I wish I could
believe--I mean--"

"Of course, we don't want to think that the man's a fraud, any more than
that he's dead. Perhaps we might hit upon some middle course. At any
rate, it's worth trying."

"May I--do you object to my joining you?" Gregory asked.

"Why, come!" Hinkle hospitably assented. "Glad to have you. I'll be back
again, Miss Clementina!"

Gregory was going away without any form of leavetaking; but he turned
back to ask, "Will you let me come back, too?"

"Why, suttainly, Mr. Gregory," said Clementina, and she went to find Mrs.
Lander, whom she found in bed.

"I thought I'd lay down," she explained. "I don't believe I'm goin' to be
sick, but it's one of my pooa days, and I might just as well be in bed as
not." Clementina agreed with her, and Mrs. Lander asked: "You hea'd
anything moa?"

"No. Mr. Hinkle has just been he'a, but he hadn't any news."

Mrs. Lander turned her face toward the wall. "Next thing, he'll be
drownin' himself. I neva wanted you should have anything to do with the
fellas that go to that woman's. There ain't any of 'em to be depended
on."

It was the first time that her growing jealousy of Miss Milray had openly
declared itself; but Clementina had felt it before, without knowing how
to meet it. As an escape from it now she was almost willing to say, "Mrs.
Lander, I want to tell you that Mr. Gregory has just been he'a, too."

"Mr. Gregory?"

"Yes. Don't you remember? At the Middlemount? The first summa? He was the
headwaita--that student."

Mrs. Lander jerked her head round on the pillow. "Well, of all the--What
does he want, over he'a?"

"Nothing. That is--he's travelling with a pupil that he's preparing for
college, and--he came to see us--"

"D'you tell him I couldn't see him?"

"Yes"

"I guess he'd think I was a pretty changed pusson! Now, I want you should
stay with me, Clementina, and if anybody else comes--"

Maddalena entered the room with a card which she gave to the girl.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Lander demanded.

"Miss Milray."

"Of cou'se! Well, you may just send wo'd that you can't--Or, no; you
must! She'd have it all ova the place, by night, that I wouldn't let you
see her. But don't you make any excuse for me! If she asks after me,
don't you say I'm sick! You say I'm not at home."

"I've come about that little wretch," Miss Milray began, after kissing
Clementina. "I didn't know but you had heard something I hadn't, or I had
heard something you hadn't. You know I belong to the Hinkle persuasion: I
think Belsky's run his board--as Mr. Hinkle calls it."

Clementina explained how this part of the Hinkle theory had failed, and
then Miss Milray devolved upon the belief that he had run his tailor's
bill or his shoemaker's. "They are delightful, those Russians, but
they're born insolvent. I don't believe he's drowned himself. How," she
broke off to ask, in a burlesque whisper, "is-the-old-tabby?" She
laughed, for answer to her own question, and then with another sudden
diversion she demanded of a look in Clementina's face which would not be
laughed away, "Well, my dear, what is it?"

"Miss Milray," said the girl, "should you think me very silly, if I told
you something--silly?"

"Not in the least!" cried Miss Milray, joyously. "It's the final proof of
your wisdom that I've been waiting for?"

"It's because Mr. Belsky is all mixed up in it," said Clementina, as if
some excuse were necessary, and then she told the story of her love
affair with Gregory. Miss Milray punctuated the several facts with vivid
nods, but at the end she did not ask her anything, and the girl somehow
felt the freer to add: "I believe I will tell you his name. It is Mr.
Gregory--Frank Gregory--"

"And he's been in Egypt?"

"Yes, the whole winta."

"Then he's the one that my sister-in-law has been writing me about!"

"Oh, did he meet her the'a?"

"I should think so! And he'll meet her there, very soon. She's coming,
with my poor brother. I meant to tell you, but this ridiculous Belsky
business drove it out of my head."

"And do you think," Clementina entreated, "that he was to blame?"

"Why, I don't believe he's done it, you know."

"Oh, I didn't mean Mr. Belsky. I meant--Mr. Gregory. For telling Mr.
Belsky?"

"Certainly not. Men always tell those things to some one, I suppose.
Nobody was to blame but Belsky, for his meddling."

Miss Milray rose and shook out her plumes for flight, as if she were
rather eager for flight, but at the little sigh with which Clementina
said, "Yes, that is what I thought," she faltered.

"I was going to run away, for I shouldn't like to mix myself up in your
affair--it's certainly a very strange one--unless I was sure I could help
you. But if you think I can--"

Clementina shook her head. "I don't believe you can," she said, with a
candor so wistful that Miss Milray stopped quite short. "How does Mr.
Gregory take this Belsky business?" she asked.

"I guess he feels it moa than I do," said the girl.

"He shows his feeling more?"

"Yes--no--He believes he drove him to it."

Miss Milray took her hand, for parting, but did not kiss her. "I won't
advise you, my dear. In fact, you haven't asked me to. You'll know what
to do, if you haven't done it already; girls usually have, when they want
advice. Was there something you were going to say?"

"Oh, no. Nothing. Do you think," she hesitated, appealingly, "do you
think we are-engaged?"

"If he's anything of a man at all, he must think he is."

"Yes," said Clementina, wistfully, "I guess he does."

Miss Milray looked sharply at her. "And does he think you are?"

"I don't know--he didn't say."

"Well," said Miss Milray, rather dryly, "then it's something for you to
think over pretty carefully."

XXVI.

Hinkle came back in the afternoon to make a hopeful report of his failure
to learn anything more of Belsky, but Gregory did not come with him. He
came the next morning long before Clementina expected visitors, and he
was walking nervously up and down the room when she appeared. As if he
could not speak, he held toward her without speaking a telegram in
English, dated that day in Rome:

"Deny report of my death. Have written.

"Belsky."

She looked up at Gregory from the paper, when she had read it, with
joyful eyes. "Oh, I am so glad for you! I am so glad he is alive."

He took the dispatch from her hand. "I brought it to you as soon as it
came."

"Yes, yes! Of cou'se!"

"I must go now and do what he says--I don't know how yet." He stopped,
and then went on from a different impulse. "Clementina, it isn't a
question now of that wretch's life and death, and I wish I need never
speak of him again. But what he told you was true." He looked steadfastly
at her, and she realized how handsome he was, and how well dressed. His
thick red hair seemed to have grown darker above his forehead; his
moustache was heavier, and it curved in at the corners of his mouth; he
bore himself with a sort of self-disdain that enhanced his splendor. "I
have never changed toward you; I don't say it to make favor with you; I
don't expect to do that now; but it is true. That night, there at
Middlemount, I tried to take back what I said, because I believed that I
ought."

"Oh, yes, I knew that," said Clementina, in the pause he made.

"We were both too young; I had no prospect in life; I saw, the instant
after I had spoken, that I had no right to let you promise anything. I
tried to forget you; I couldn't. I tried to make you forget me." He
faltered, and she did not speak, but her head drooped a little. "I won't
ask how far I succeeded. I always hoped that the time would come when I
could speak to you again. When I heard from Fane that you were at
Woodlake, I wished to come out and see you, but I hadn't the courage, I
hadn't the right. I've had to come to you without either, now. Did he
speak to you about me?"

"I thought he was beginning to, once; but he neva did."

"It didn't matter; it could only have made bad worse. It can't help me to
say that somehow I was wishing and trying to do what was right; but I
was."

"Oh, I know that, Mr. Gregory," said Clementina, generously.

"Then you didn't doubt me, in spite of all?"

"I thought you would know what to do. No, I didn't doubt you, exactly."

"I didn't deserve your trust!" he cried. "How came that man to mention
me?" he demanded, abruptly, after a moment's silence.

"Mr. Belsky? It was the first night I saw him, and we were talking about
Americans, and he began to tell me about an American friend of his, who
was very conscientious. I thought it must be you the fust moment," said
Clementina, smiling with an impersonal pleasure in the fact.

"From the conscientiousness?" he asked, in bitter self-irony.

"Why, yes," she returned, simply. "That was what made me think of you.
And the last time when he began to talk about you, I couldn't stop him,
although I knew he had no right to."

"He had no right. But I gave him the power to do it! He meant no harm,
but I enabled him to do all the harm."

"Oh, if he's only alive, now, there is no harm!"

He looked into her eyes with a misgiving from which he burst impetuously.
"Then you do care for me still, after all that I have done to make you
detest me?" He started toward her, but she shrank back.

"I didn't mean that," she hesitated.

"You know that I love you,--that I have always loved you?"

"Yes," she assented. "But you might be sorry again that you had said it."
It sounded like coquetry, but he knew it was not coquetry.

"Never! I've wished to say it again, ever since that night at
Middlemount; I have always felt bound by what I said then, though I took
back my words for your sake. But the promise was always there, and my
life was in it. You believe that?"

"Why, I always believed what you said, Mr. Gregory."

"Well?"

Clementina paused, with her head seriously on one side. "I should want to
think about it before I said anything."

"You are right," he submitted, dropping his outstretched arms to his
side. "I have been thinking only of myself, as usual."

"No," she protested, compassionately. "But doesn't it seem as if we ought
to be su'a, this time? I did ca'e for you then, but I was very young, and
I don't know yet--I thought I had always felt just; as you did, but
now--Don't you think we had both betta wait a little while till we ah'
moa suttain?"

They stood looking at each other, and he said, with a kind of passionate
self-denial, "Yes, think it over for me, too. I will come back, if you
will let me."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried after him, gratefully, as if his forbearance
were the greatest favor.

When he was gone she tried to release herself from the kind of abeyance
in which she seemed to have gone back and been as subject to him as in
the first days when he had awed her and charmed her with his superiority
at Middlemount, and he again older and freer as she had grown since.

He came back late in the afternoon, looking jaded and distraught. Hinkle,
who looked neither, was with him. "Well," he began, "this is the greatest
thing in my experience. Belsky's not only alive and well, but Mr. Gregory
and I are both at large. I did think, one time, that the police would
take us into custody on account of our morbid interest in the thing, and
I don't believe we should have got off, if the Consul hadn't gone bail
for us, so to speak. I thought we had better take the Consul in, on our
way, and it was lucky we did."

Clementina did not understand all the implications, but she was willing
to take Mr. Hinkle's fun on trust. "I don't believe you'll convince Mrs.
Landa that Mr. Belsky's alive and well, till you bring him back to say
so."

"Is that so!" said Hinkle. "Well, we must have him brought back by the
authorities, then. Perhaps they'll bring him, anyway. They can't try him
for suicide, but as I understand the police, here, a man can't lose his
hat over a bridge in Florence with impunity, especially in a time of high
water. Anyway, they're identifying Belsky by due process of law in Rome,
now, and I guess Mr. Gregory"--he nodded toward Gregory, who sat silent
and absent "will be kept under surveillance till the whole mystery is
cleared up."

Clementina responded gayly still, but with less and less sincerity, and
she let Hinkle go at last with the feeling that he knew she wished him to
go. He made a brave show of not seeing this, and when he was gone, she
remembered that she had not thanked him for the trouble he had taken on
her account, and her heart ached after him with a sense of his sweetness
and goodness, which she had felt from the first through his quaint
drolling. It was as if the door which closed upon him shut her out of the
life she had been living of late, and into the life of the past where she
was subject again to the spell of Gregory's mood; it was hardly his will.

He began at once: "I wished to make you say something this morning that I
have no right to hear you say, yet; and I have been trying ever since to
think how I could ask you whether you could share my life with me, and
yet not ask you to do it. But I can't do anything without knowing--You
may not care for what my life is to be, at all!"

Clementina's head drooped a little, but she answered distinctly, "I do
ca'e, Mr. Gregory."

"Thank you for that much; I don't count upon more than you have said.
Clementina, I am going to be a missionary. I think I shall ask to be sent
to China; I've not decided yet. My life will be hard; it will be full of
danger and privation; it will be exile. You will have to think of sharing
such a life if you think--"

He stopped; the time had come for her to speak, and she said, "I knew you
wanted to be a missionary--"

"And--and--you would go with me? You would"--He started toward her, and
she did not shrink from him, now; but he checked himself. "But you
mustn't, you know, for my sake."

"I don't believe I quite undastand," she faltered.

"You must not do it for me, but for what makes me do it. Without that our
life, our work, could have no consecration."

She gazed at him in patient, faintly smiling bewilderment, as if it were
something he would unriddle for her when he chose.

"We mustn't err in this; it would be worse than error; it would be sin."
He took a turn about the room, and then stopped before her. "Will
you--will you join me in a prayer for guidance, Clementina?"

"I--I don't know," she hesitated. "I will, but--do you think I had
betta?"

He began, "Why, surely"--After a moment he asked gravely, "You believe
that our actions will be guided aright, if we seek help?"

"Oh, yes--yes--"

"And that if we do not, we shall stumble in our ignorance?"

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