Ragged Lady, Complete

W >> William Dean Howells >> Ragged Lady, Complete

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The girl had forgiven Mrs. Milray, but she could not go back to any trust
in her; and she could only passively assent to her praise. When Mrs.
Lander pressed her for anything more explicit she said what she thought,
and then Mrs. Lander accused her of hating Mrs. Milray, who was more her
friend than some that flattered her up for everything, and tried to make
a fool of her.

"I undastand now," she said one day, "what that recta meant by wantin' me
to make life ba'd for you; he saw how easy you was to spoil. Miss Milray
is one to praise you to your face, and disgrace you be hind your back,
and so I tell you. When Mrs. Milray thought you done wrong she come and
said so; and you can't forgive her."

Clementina did not answer. She had mastered the art of reticence in her
relations with Mrs. Lander, and even when Miss Milray tempted her one day
to give way, she still had strength to resist. But she could not deny
that Mrs. Lander did things at times to worry her, though she ended
compassionately with the reflection: "She's sick."

"I don't think she's very sick, now," retorted her friend.

"No; that's the reason she's so worrying. When she's really sick, she's
betta."

"Because she's frightened, I suppose. And how long do you propose to
stand it?

"I don't know," Clementina listlessly answered.

"She couldn't get along without me. I guess I can stand it till we go
home; she says she is going home in the fall."

Miss Milray sat looking at the girl a moment.

"Shall you be glad to go home?"

"Oh yes, indeed!"

"To that place in the woods?"

"Why, yes! What makes you ask?"

"Nothing. But Clementina, sometimes I think you don't quite understand
yourself. Don't you know that you are very pretty and very charming? I've
told you that often enough! But shouldn't you like to be a great success
in the world? Haven't you ever thought of that? Don't you care for
society?"

The girl sighed. "Yes, I think that's all very nice I did ca'e, one
while, there in Florence, last winter!"

"My dear, you don't know how much you were admired. I used to tell you,
because I saw there was no spoiling you; but I never told you half. If
you had only had the time for it you could have been the greatest sort of
success; you were formed for it. It wasn't your beauty alone; lots of
pretty girls don't make anything of their beauty; it was your
temperament. You took things easily and naturally, and that's what the
world likes. It doesn't like your being afraid of it, and you were not
afraid, and you were not bold; you were just right." Miss Milray grew
more and more exhaustive in her analysis, and enjoyed refining upon it.
"All that you needed was a little hard-heartedness, and that would have
come in time; you would have learned how to hold your own, but the chance
was snatched from you by that old cat! I could weep over you when I think
how you have been wasted on her, and now you're actually willing to go
back and lose yourself in the woods!"

"I shouldn't call it being lost, Miss Milray."

"I don't mean that, and you must excuse me, my dear. But surely your
people--your father and mother--would want to have you get on in the
world--to make a brilliant match--"

Clementina smiled to think how far such a thing was from their
imaginations. "I don't believe they would ca'e. You don't undastand about
them, and I couldn't make you. Fatha neva liked the notion of my being
with such a rich woman as Mrs. Lander, because it would look as if we
wanted her money."

"I never could have imagined that of you, Clementina!"

"I didn't think you could," said the girl gratefully. "But now, if I left
her when she was sick and depended on me, it would look wohse, yet--as if
I did it because she was going to give her money to Mr. Landa's family.
She wants to do that, and I told her to; I think that would be right;
don't you?"

"It would be right for you, Clementina, if you preferred it--and--I
should prefer it. But it wouldn't be right for her. She has given you
hopes--she has made promises--she has talked to everybody."

"I don't ca'e for that. I shouldn't like to feel beholden to any one, and
I think it really belongs to his relations; it was HIS."

Miss Milray did not say anything to this. She asked, "And if you went
back, what would you do there? Labor in the fields, as poor little Belsky
advised?"

Clementina laughed. "No; but I expect you'll think it's almost as crazy.
You know how much I like dancing? Well, I think I could give dancing
lessons at the Middlemount. There are always a good many children, and
girls that have not grown up, and I guess I could get pupils enough, as
long as the summa lasted; and come winter, I'm not afraid but what I
could get them among the young folks at the Center. I used to teach them
before I left home."

Miss Milray sat looking at her. "I don't know about such things; but it
sounds sensible--like everything about you, my dear. It sounds queer,
perhaps because you're talking of such a White Mountain scheme here in
Venice."

"Yes, don't it?" said Clementina, sympathetically. "I was thinking of
that, myself. But I know I could do it. I could go round to different
hotels, different days. Yes, I should like to go home, and they would be
glad to have me. You can't think how pleasantly we live; and we're
company enough for each other. I presume I should miss the things I've
got used to ova here, at fust; but I don't believe I should care a great
while. I don't deny but what the wo'ld is nice; but you have to pay for
it; I don't mean that you would make me--"

"No, no! We understand each other. Go on!"

Miss Milray leaned towards her and pressed the girl's arm reassuringly.

As often happens with people when they are told to go on, Clementina
found that she had not much more to say. "I think I could get along in
the wo'ld, well enough. Yes, I believe I could do it. But I wasn't bohn
to it, and it would be a great deal of trouble--a great deal moa than if
I had been bohn to it. I think it would be too much trouble. I would
rather give it up and go home, when Mrs. Landa wants to go back."

Miss Milray did not speak for a time. "I know that you are serious,
Clementina; and you're wise always, and good--"

"It isn't that, exactly," said Clementina. "But is it--I don't know how
to express it very well--is it wo'th while?"

Miss Milray looked at her as if she doubted the girl's sincerity. Even
when the world, in return for our making it our whole life, disappoints
and defeats us with its prizes, we still question the truth of those who
question the value of these prizes; we think they must be hopeless of
them, or must be governed by some interest momentarily superior.

Clementina pursued, "I know that you have had all you wanted of the
wo'ld--"

"Oh, no!" the woman broke out, almost in anguish. "Not what I wanted!
What I tried for. It never gave me what I wanted. It--couldn't!"

"Well?"

"It isn't worth while in that sense. But if you can't have what you
want,--if there's been a hollow left in your life--why the world goes a
great way towards filling up the aching void." The tone of the last words
was lighter than their meaning, but Clementina weighed them aright.

"Miss Milray," she said, pinching the edge of the table by which she sat,
a little nervously, and banging her head a little, "I think I can have
what I want."

"Then, give the whole world for it, child!"

"There is something I should like to tell you."

"Yes!"

"For you to advise me about."

"I will, my dear, gladly and truly!"

"He was here before you came. He asked me--"

Miss Milray gave a start of alarm. She said, to gain time: "How did he
get here? I supposed he was in Germany with his--"

"No; he was here the whole of May."

"Mr. Gregory!"

"Mr. Gregory?" Clementina's face flushed and drooped Still lower. "I
meant Mr. Hinkle. But if you think I oughtn't--"

"I don't think anything; I'm so glad! I supposed from what you said about
the world, that it must be--But if it isn't, all the better. If it's Mr.
Hinkle that you can have--"

"I'm not sure I can. I should like to tell you just how it is, and then
you will know." It needed fewer words for this than she expected, and
then Clementina took a letter from her pocket, and gave it to Miss
Milray. "He wrote it on the train, going away, and it's not very plain;
but I guess you can make it out."

Miss Milray received the penciled leaves, which seemed to be pages torn
out of a note-book. They were dated the day Hinkle left Venice, and the
envelope bore the postmark of Verona. They were not addressed, but began
abruptly: "I believe I have made a mistake; I ought not to have given you
up till I knew something that no one but you can tell me. You are not
bound to any body unless you wish to be so. That is what I see now, and I
will not give you up if I can help it. Even if you had made a promise,
and then changed your mind, you would not be bound in such a thing as
this. I say this, and I know you will not believe I say it because I want
you. I do want you, but I would not urge you to break your faith. I only
ask you to realize that if you kept your word when your heart had gone
out of it, you would be breaking your faith; and if you broke your word
you would be keeping your faith. But if your heart is still in your word,
I have no more to say. Nobody knows but you. I would get out and take the
first train back to Venice if it were not for two things. I know it would
be hard on me; and I am afraid it might be hard on you. But if you will
write me a line at Milan, when you get this, or if you will write to me
at London before July; or at New York at any time--for I expect to wait
as long as I live--"

The letter ended here in the local addresses which the writer gave.

Miss Milray handed the leaves back to Clementina, who put them into her
pocket, and apparently waited for her questions.

"And have you written?"

"No," said the girl, slowly and thoughtfully, "I haven't. I wanted to, at
fust; and then, I thought that if he truly meant what he said he would be
willing to wait."

"And why did you want to wait?"

Clementina replied with a question of her own. "Miss Milray, what do you
think about Mr. Gregory?"

"Oh, you mustn't ask me that, my dear! I was afraid I had told you too
plainly, the last time."

"I don't mean about his letting me think he didn't ca'e for me, so long.
But don't you think he wants to do what is right! Mr. Gregory, I mean."

"Well, if you put me on my honor, I'm afraid I do."

"You see," Clementina resumed. "He was the fust one, and I did ca'e for
him a great deal; and I might have gone on caring for him, if--When I
found out that I didn't care any longer, or so much, it seemed to me as
if it must be wrong. Do you think it was?"

"No-no."

"When I got to thinking about some one else at fust it was only not
thinking about him--I was ashamed. Then I tried to make out that I was
too young in the fust place, to know whether I really ca'ed for any one
in the right way; but after I made out that I was, I couldn't feel
exactly easy--and I've been wanting to ask you, Miss Milray--"

"Ask me anything you like, my dear!"

"Why, it's only whether a person ought eva to change."

"We change whether we ought, or not. It isn't a matter of duty, one way
or another."

"Yes, but ought we to stop caring for somebody, when perhaps we shouldn't
if somebody else hadn't come between? That is the question."

"No," Miss Milray retorted, "that isn't at all the question. The question
is which you want and whether you could get him. Whichever you want most
it is right for you to have."

"Do you truly think so?"

"I do, indeed. This is the one thing in life where one may choose safest
what one likes best; I mean if there is nothing bad in the man himself."

"I was afraid it would be wrong! That was what I meant by wanting to be
fai'a with Mr. Gregory when I told you about him there in Florence. I
don't believe but what it had begun then."

"What had begun?"

"About Mr. Hinkle."

Miss Milray burst into a laugh. "Clementina, you're delicious!" The girl
looked hurt, and Miss Milray asked seriously, "Why do you like Mr. Hinkle
best--if you do?"

Clementina sighed. "Oh, I don't know. He's so resting."

"Then that settles it. From first to last, what we poor women want is
rest. It would be a wicked thing for you to throw your life away on some
one who would worry you out of it. I don't wish to say any thing against
Mr. Gregory. I dare say he is good--and conscientious; but life is a
struggle, at the best, and it's your duty to take the best chance for
resting."

Clementina did not look altogether convinced, whether it was Miss
Milray's logic or her morality that failed to convince her. She said,
after a moment, "I should like to see Mr. Gregory again."

"What good would that do?"

"Why, then I should know."

"Know what?"

"Whether I didn't really ca'e for him any more--or so much."

"Clementina," said Miss Milray, "you mustn't make me lose patience with
you--"

"No. But I thought you said that it was my duty to do what I wished."

"Well, yes. That is what I said," Miss Milray consented. "But I supposed
that you knew already."

"No," said Clementina, candidly, "I don't believe I do."

"And what if you don't see him?"

"I guess I shall have to wait till I do. The'e will be time enough."

Miss Milray sighed, and then she laughed. "You ARE young!"

XXXII.

Miss Milray went from Clementina to call upon her sister-in-law, and
found her brother, which was perhaps what she hoped might happen.

"Do you know," she said, "that that old wretch is going to defraud that
poor thing, after all, and leave her money to her husband's half-sister's
children?"

"You wish me to infer the Mrs. Lander--Clementina situation?" Milray
returned.

"Yes!"

"I'm glad you put it in terms that are not actionable, then; for your
words are decidedly libellous."

"What do you mean?"

"I've just been writing Mrs. Lander's will for her, and she's left all
her property to Clementina, except five thousand apiece to the
half-sister's three children."

"I can't believe it!"

"Well," said Milray, with his gentle smile, "I think that's safe ground
for you. Mrs. Lander will probably have time enough to change her will as
well as her mind several times yet before she dies. The half-sister's
children may get their rights yet."

"I wish they might!" said Miss Milray, with an impassioned sigh. "Then
perhaps I should get Clementina--for a while."

Her brother laughed. "Isn't there somebody else wants Clementina?

"Oh, plenty. But she's not sure she wants anybody else."

"Does she want you?"

"No, I can't say she does. She wants to go home."

"That's not a bad scheme. I should like to go home myself if I had one.
What would you have done with Clementina if you had got her, Jenny?"

"What would any one have done with her? Married her brilliantly, of
course."

"But you say she isn't sure she wishes to be married at all?"

Miss Milray stated the case of Clementina's divided mind, and her belief
that she would take Hinkle in the end, together with the fear that she
might take Gregory. "She's very odd," Miss Milray concluded. "She puzzles
me. Why did you ever send her to me?"

Milray laughed. "I don't know. I thought she would amuse you, and I
thought it would be a pleasure to her."

They began to talk of some affairs of their own, from which Miss Milray
returned to Clementina with the ache of an imperfectly satisfied
intention. If she had meant to urge her brother to seek justice for the
girl from Mrs. Lander, she was not so well pleased to have found justice
done already. But the will had been duly signed and witnessed before the
American vice-consul, and she must get what good she could out of an
accomplished fact. It was at least a consolation to know that it put an
end to her sister-in-law's patronage of the girl, and it would be
interesting to see Mrs. Milray adapt her behavior to Clementina's
fortunes. She did not really dislike her sister-in-law enough to do her a
wrong; she was only willing that she should do herself a wrong. But one
of the most disappointing things in all hostile operations is that you
never can know what the enemy would be at; and Mrs. Milray's manoeuvres
were sometimes dictated by such impulses that her strategy was peculiarly
baffling. The thought of her past unkindness to Clementina may still have
rankled in her, or she may simply have felt the need of outdoing Miss
Milray by an unapproachable benefaction. It is certain that when Baron
Belsky came to Venice a few weeks after her own arrival, they began to
pose at each other with reference to Clementina; she with a measure of
consciousness, he with the singleness of a nature that was all pose. In
his forbearance to win Clementina from Gregory he had enjoyed the
distinction of an unique suffering; and in allowing the fact to impart
itself to Mrs. Milray, he bathed in the warmth of her flattering
sympathy. Before she withdrew this, as she must when she got tired of
him, she learned from him where Gregory was; for it seemed that Gregory
had so far forgiven the past that they had again written to each other.

During the fortnight of Belsky's stay in Venice Mrs. Lander was much
worse, and Clementina met him only once, very briefly--She felt that he
had behaved like a very silly person, but that was all over now, and she
had no wish to punish him for it. At the end of his fortnight he went
northward into the Austrian Tyrol, and a few days later Gregory came down
from the Dolomites to Venice.

It was in his favor with Clementina that he yielded to the impulse he had
to come directly to her; and that he let her know with the first words
that he had acted upon hopes given him through Belsky from Mrs. Milray.
He owned that he doubted the authority of either to give him these hopes,
but he said he could not abandon them without a last effort to see her,
and learn from her whether they were true or false.

If she recognized the design of a magnificent reparation in what Mrs.
Milray had done, she did not give it much thought. Her mind was upon
distant things as she followed Gregory's explanation of his presence, and
in the muse in which she listened she seemed hardly to know when he
ceased speaking.

"I know it must seem to take something for granted which I've no right to
take for granted. I don't believe you could think that I cared for
anything but you, or at all for what Mrs. Lander has done for you."

"Do you mean her leaving me her money?" asked Clementina, with that
boldness her sex enjoys concerning matters of finance and affection.

"Yes," said Gregory, blushing for her. "As far as I should ever have a
right to care, I could wish there were no money. It could bring no
blessing to our life. We could do no good with it; nothing but the
sacrifice of ourselves in poverty could be blessed to us."

"That is what I thought, too," Clementina replied.

"Oh, then you did think--"

"But afterwards, I changed my Mind. If she wants to give me her money I
shall take it."

Gregory was blankly silent again.

"I shouldn't know how to refuse, and I don't know as I should have any
right to." Gregory shrank a little from her reyankeefied English, as well
as from the apparent cynicism of her speech; but he shrank in silence
still. She startled him by asking with a kindness that was almost
tenderness, "Mr. Gregory, how do you think anything has changed?"

"Changed?"

"You know how it was when you went away from Florence. Do you think
differently now? I don't. I don't think I ought to do something for you,
and pretend that I was doing it for religion. I don't believe the way you
do; and I know I neva shall. Do you want me in spite of my saying that I
can neva help you in your work because I believe in it?"

"But if you believe in me--"

She shook her bead compassionately. "You know we ahgued that out before.
We are just whe'e we were. I am sorry. Nobody had any right to tell you
to come he'e. But I am glad you came--" She saw the hope that lighted up
his face, but she went on unrelentingly--"I think we had betta be free."

"Free?"

"Yes, from each other. I don't know how you have felt, but I have not
felt free. It has seemed to me that I promised you something. If I did, I
want to take my promise back and be free."

Her frankness appealed to his own. "You are free. I never held you bound
to me in my fondest hopes. You have always done right."

"I have tried to. And I am not going to let you go away thinking that the
reason I said is the only reason. It isn't. I wish to be free
because--there is some one else, now." It was hard to tell him this, but
she knew that she must not do less; and the train that carried him from
Venice that night bore a letter from her to Hinkle.

XXXIII.

Clementina told Miss Milray what had happened, but with Mrs. Milray the
girl left the sudden departure of Gregory to account for itself.

They all went a week later, and Mrs. Milray having now done her whole
duty to Clementina had the easiest mind concerning her. Miss Milray felt
that she was leaving her to greater trials than ever with Mrs. Lander;
but since there was nothing else, she submitted, as people always do with
the trials of others, and when she was once away she began to forget her.

By this time, however, it was really better for her. With no one to
suspect of tampering with her allegiance, Mrs. Lander returned to her
former fondness for the girl, and they were more peaceful if not happier
together again. They had long talks, such as they used to have, and in
the first of these Clementina told her how and why she had written to Mr.
Hinkle. Mrs. Lander said that it suited her exactly.

"There ha'n't but just two men in Europe behaved like gentlemen to me,
and one is Mr. Hinkle, and the other is that lo'd; and between the two I
ratha you'd have Mr. Hinkle; I don't know as I believe much in American
guls marryin' lo'ds, the best of 'em."

Clementina laughed. "Why, Mrs. Landa, Lo'd Lioncou't never thought of me
in the wo'ld!"

"You can't eva know. Mrs. Milray was tellin' that he's what they call a
pooa lo'd, and that he was carryin' on with the American girls like
everything down there in Egypt last winta. I guess if it comes to money
you'd have enough to buy him and sell him again."

The mention of money cast a chill upon their talk; and Mrs. Lander said
gloomily, "I don't know as I ca'e so much for that will Mr. Milray made
for me, after all. I did want to say ten thousand apiece for Mr. Landa's
relations; but I hated to befo'e him; I'd told the whole kit of 'em so
much about you, and I knew what they would think."

She looked at Clementina with recurring grudge, and the girl could not
bear it.

"Then why don't you tear it up, and make another? I don't want anything,
unless you want me to have it; and I'd ratha not have anything."

"Yes, and what would folks say, afta youa taken' care of me?"

"Do you think I do it fo' that?"

"What do you do it fo'?"

"What did you want me to come with you fo'?"

"That's true." Mrs. Lander brightened and warmed again. "I guess it's all
right. I guess I done right, and I got to be satisfied. I presume I could
get the consul to make me a will any time."

Clementina did not relent so easily. "Mrs. Landa, whateva you do I don't
ca'e to know it; and if you talk to me again about this I shall go home.
I would stay with you as long as you needed me, but I can't if you keep
bringing this up."

"I suppose you think you don't need me any moa! Betta not be too su'a."

The girl jumped to her feet, and Mrs. Lander interposed. "Well, the'a! I
didn't mean anything, and I won't pesta you about it any moa. But I think
it's pretty ha'd. Who am I going to talk it ova with, then?"

"You can talk it ova with the vice-consul," paid Clementina, at random.

"Well, that's so." Mrs. Lander let Clementina get her ready for the
night, in sign of returning amity; when she was angry with her she always
refused her help, and made her send Maddalena.

The summer heat increased, and the sick woman suffered from it, but she
could not be persuaded that she had strength to get away, though the
vice-consul, whom she advised with, used all his logic with her. He was a
gaunt and weary widower, who described himself as being officially
between hay and grass; the consul who appointed him had resigned after
going home, and a new consul had not yet been sent out to remove him. On
what she called her well days Mrs. Lander went to visit him, and she did
not mind his being in his shirt-sleeves, in the bit of garden where she
commonly found him, with his collar and cravat off, and clouded in his
own smoke; when she was sick she sent for him, to visit her. He made
excuses as often as she could, and if he saw Mrs. Lander's gondola coming
down the Grand Canal to his house he hurried on his cast clothing, and
escaped to the Piazza, at whatever discomfort and risk from the heat.

"I don't know how you stand it, Miss Claxon," he complained to
Clementina, as soon as he learned that she was not a blood relation of
Mrs. Lander's, and divined that she had her own reservations concerning
her. "But that woman will be the death of me if she keeps this up. What
does she think I'm here for? If this goes on much longer I'll resign. The
salary won't begin to pay for it. What am I going to do? I don't want to
hurt her feelings, or not to help her; but I know ten times as much about
Mrs. Lander's liver as I do about my own, now."

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