Six years after Miss Milray parted with Clementina in Venice she found
herself, towards the close of the summer, at Middlemount. She had
definitely ceased to live in Florence, where she had meant to die, and
had come home to close her eyes. She was in no haste to do this, and
in the meantime she was now at Middlemount with her brother, who had
expressed a wish to revisit the place in memory of Mrs. Milray. It
was the second anniversary of her divorce, which had remained, after a
married life of many vicissitudes, almost the only experience untried in
that relation, and which had been happily accomplished in the courts of
Dacotah, upon grounds that satisfied the facile justice of that State.
Milray had dealt handsomely with his widow, as he unresentfully called
her, and the money he assigned her was of a destiny perhaps as honored
as its origin. She employed it in the negotiation of a second marriage,
in which she redressed the balance of her first by taking a husband
somewhat younger than herself.
Both Milray and his sister had a wish which was much more than a
curiosity to know what had become of Clementina; they had heard that her
husband was dead, and that she had come back to Middlemount; and Miss
Milray was going to the office, the afternoon following their arrival,
to ask the landlord about her, when she was arrested at the door of the
ball-room by a sight that she thought very pretty. At the bottom of the
room, clearly defined against the long windows behind her, stood the
figure of a lady in the middle of the floor. In rows on either side sat
little girls and little boys who left their places one after another,
and turned at the door to make their manners to her. In response to each
obeisance the lady dropped a curtsey, now to this side, now to that,
taking her skirt between her finger tips on either hand and spreading
it delicately, with a certain elegance of movement, and a grace that
was full of poetry, and to Miss Milray, somehow, full of pathos. There
remained to the end a small mite of a girl, who was the last to leave
her place and bow to the lady. She did not quit the room then, like the
others, but advanced toward the lady who came to meet her, and lifted
her and clasped her to her breast with a kind of passion. She walked
down toward the door where Miss Milray stood, gently drifting over the
polished floor, as if still moved by the music that had ceased, and as
she drew near, Miss Milray gave a cry of joy, and ran upon her. “Why,
Clementina!” she screamed, and caught her and the child both in her
arms.
She began to weep, but Clementina smiled instead of weeping, as she
always used to do. She returned Miss Milray's affectionate greeting with
a tenderness as great as her own, but with a sort of authority, such as
sometimes comes to those who have suffered. She quieted the older woman
with her own serenity, and met the torrent of her questions with as many
answers as their rush permitted, when they were both presently in Miss
Milray's room talking in their old way. From time to time Miss Milray
broke from the talk to kiss the little girl, whom she declared to be
Clementina all over again, and then returned to her better behavior with
an effect of shame for her want of self-control, as if Clementina's mood
had abashed her. Sometimes this was almost severe in its quiet; that
was her mother coming to her share in her; but again she was like her
father, full of the sunny gayety of self-forgetfulness, and then Miss
Milray said, “Now you are the old Clementina!”
Upon the whole she listened with few interruptions to the story which
she exacted. It was mainly what we know. After her husband's death
Clementina had gone back to his family for a time, and each year since
she had spent part of the winter with them; but it was very lonesome
for her, and she began to be home-sick for Middlemount. They saw it and
considered it. “They ah' the best people, Miss Milray!” she said, and
her voice, which was firm when she spoke of her husband, broke in the
words of minor feeling. Besides being a little homesick, she ended, she
was not willing to live on there, doing nothing for herself, and so she
had come back.
“And you are here, doing just what you planned when you talked your life
over with me in Venice!”
“Yes, but life isn't eva just what we plan it to be, Miss Milray.”
“Ah, don't I know it!”
Clementina surprised Miss Milray by adding, “In a great many things--I
don't know but in most--it's better. I don't complain of mine--”
“You poor child! You never complained of anything--not even of Mrs.
Lander!”
“But it's different from what I expected; and it's--strange.”
“Yes; life is very strange.”
“I don't mean--losing him. That had to be. I can see, now, that it had
to be almost from the beginning. It seems to me that I knew it had to be
from the fust minute I saw him in New Yo'k; but he didn't, and I am glad
of that. Except when he was getting wohse, he always believed he should
get well; and he was getting well, when he--”
Miss Milray did not violate the pause she made with any question, though
it was apparent that Clementina had something on her mind that she
wished to say, and could hardly say of herself.
She began again, “I was glad through everything that I could live
with him so long. If there is nothing moa, here or anywhe'a, that was
something. But it is strange. Sometimes it doesn't seem as if it had
happened.”
“I think I can understand, Clementina.”
“I feel sometimes as if I hadn't happened myself.” She stopped, with a
patient little sigh, and passed her hand across the child's forehead, in
a mother's fashion, and smoothed her hair from it, bending over to look
down into her face. “We think she has her fatha's eyes,” she said.
“Yes, she has,” Miss Milray assented, noting the upward slant of
the child's eyes, which gave his quaintness to her beauty. “He had
fascinating eyes.”
After a moment Clementina asked, “Do you believe that the looks are all
that ah' left?”
Miss Milray reflected. “I know what you mean. I should say character was
left, and personality--somewhere.”
“I used to feel as if it we'e left here, at fust--as if he must come
back. But that had to go.”
“Yes.”
“Everything seems to go. After a while even the loss of him seemed to
go.”
“Yes, losses go with the rest.”
“That's what I mean by its seeming as if it never any of it happened.
Some things before it are a great deal more real.”
“Little things?”
“Not exactly. But things when I was very young.” Miss Milray did not
know quite what she intended, but she knew that Clementina was feeling
her way to something she wanted to say, and she let her alone. “When it
was all over, and I knew that as long as I lived he would be somewhere
else, I tried to be paht of the wo'ld I was left in. Do you think that
was right?”
“It was wise; and, yes, it was best,” said Miss Milray, and for relief
from the tension which was beginning to tell upon her own nerves, she
asked, “I suppose you know about my poor brother? I'd better tell you to
keep you from asking for Mrs. Milray, though I don't know that it's so
very painful with him. There isn't any Mrs. Milray now,” she added, and
she explained why.
Neither of them cared for Mrs. Milray, and they did not pretend to be
concerned about her, but Clementina said, vaguely, as if in recognition
of Mrs. Milray's latest experiment, “Do you believe in second
marriages?”
Miss Milray laughed, “Well, not that kind exactly.”
“No,” Clementina assented, and she colored a little.
Miss Milray was moved to add, “But if you mean another kind, I don't see
why not. My own mother was married twice.”
“Was she?” Clementina looked relieved and encouraged, but she did not
say any more at once. Then she asked, “Do you know what ever became of
Mr. Belsky?”
“Yes. He's taken his title again, and gone back to live in Russia; he's
made peace with the Czar; I believe.”
“That's nice,” said Clementina; and Miss Milray made bold to ask:
“And what has become of Mr. Gregory?”
Clementina answered, as Miss Milray thought, tentatively and obliquely:
“You know his wife died.”
“No, I never knew that she lived.”
“Yes. They went out to China, and she died the'a.”
“And is he there yet? But of course! He could never have given up being
a missionary.”
“Well,” said Clementina, “he isn't in China. His health gave out, and he
had to come home. He's in Middlemount Centa.”
Miss Milray suppressed the “Oh!” that all but broke from her lips.
“Preaching to the heathen, there?” she temporized.
“To the summa folks,” Clementina explained, innocent of satire. “They
have got a Union Chapel the'a, now, and Mr. Gregory has been preaching
all summa.” There seemed nothing more that Miss Milray could prompt her
to say, but it was not quite with surprise that she heard Clementina
continue, as if it were part of the explanation, and followed from the
fact she had stated, “He wants me to marry him.”
Miss Milray tried to emulate her calm in asking, “And shall you?”
“I don't know. I told him I would see; he only asked me last night.
It would be kind of natural. He was the fust. You may think it is
strange--”
Miss Milray, in the superstition of her old-maidenhood concerning love,
really thought it cold-blooded and shocking; but she said, “Oh, no.”
Clementina resumed: “And he says that if it was right for me to stop
caring for him when I did, it is right now for me to ca'e for him again,
where the'e's no one to be hu't by it. Do you think it is?”
“Yes; why not?” Miss Milray was forced to the admission against what she
believed the finer feelings of her nature.
Clementina sighed, “I suppose he's right. I always thought he was good.
Women don't seem to belong very much to themselves in this wo'ld, do
they?”
“No, they seem to belong to the men, either because they want the men,
or the men want them; it comes to the same thing. I suppose you don't
wish me to advise you, my dear?”
“No. I presume it's something I've got to think out for myself.”
“But I think he's good, too. I ought to say that much, for I didn't
always stand his friend with you. If Mr. Gregory has any fault it's
being too scrupulous.”
“You mean, about that old trouble--our not believing just the same?”
Miss Milray meant something much more temperamental than that, but she
allowed Clementina to limit her meaning, and Clementina went on. “He's
changed all round now. He thinks it's all in the life. He says that in
China they couldn't understand what he believed, but they could what he
lived. And he knows I neva could be very religious.”
It was in Miss Milray's heart to protest, “Clementina, I think you
are one of the most religious persons I ever knew,” but she forebore,
because the praise seemed to her an invasion of Clementina's dignity.
She merely said, “Well, I am glad he is one of those who grow more
liberal as they grow older. That is a good sign for your happiness. But
I dare say it's more of his happiness you think.”
“Oh, I should like to be happy, too. There would be no sense in it if I
wasn't.”
“No, certainly not.”
“Miss Milray,” said Clementina, with a kind of abruptness, “do you eva
hear anything from Dr. Welwright?”
“No! Why?” Miss Milray fastened her gaze vividly upon her.
“Oh, nothing. He wanted me to promise him, there in Venice, too.”
“I didn't know it.”
“Yes. But--I couldn't, then. And now--he's written to me. He wants me to
let him come ova, and see me.”
“And--and will you?” asked Miss Milray, rather breathlessly.
“I don't know. I don't know as I'd ought. I should like to see him,
so as to be puffectly su'a. But if I let him come, and then didn't--It
wouldn't be right! I always felt as if I'd ought to have seen then
that he ca'ed for me, and stopped him; but I didn't. No, I didn't,” she
repeated, nervously. “I respected him, and I liked him; but I neva”--She
stopped, and then she asked, “What do you think I'd ought to do, Miss
Milray?”
Miss Milray hesitated. She was thinking superficially that she had never
heard Clementina say had ought, so much, if ever before. Interiorly she
was recurring to a sense of something like all this before, and to the
feeling which she had then that Clementina was really cold-blooded and
self-seeking. But she remembered that in her former decision, Clementina
had finally acted from her heart and her conscience, and she rose from
her suspicion with a rebound. She dismissed as unworthy of Clementina
any theory which did not account for an ideal of scrupulous and
unselfish justice in her.
“That is something that nobody can say but yourself, Clementina,” she
answered, gravely.
“Yes,” sighed Clementina, “I presume that is so.”
She rose, and took her little girl from Miss Milray's knee. “Say
good-bye,” she bade, looking tenderly down at her.
Miss Milray expected the child to put up her lips to be kissed. But she
let go her mother's hand, took her tiny skirts between her finger-tips,
and dropped a curtsey.
“You little witch!” cried Miss Milray. “I want a hug,” and she crushed
her to her breast, while the child twisted her face round and anxiously
questioned her mother's for her approval. “Tell her it's all right,
Clementina!” cried Miss Milray. “When she's as old as you were in
Florence, I'm going to make you give her to me.”
“Ah' you going back to Florence?” asked Clementina, provisionally.
“Oh, no! You can't go back to anything. That's what makes New York so
impossible. I think we shall go to Los Angeles.”