DOI article:
Harland, Henry: Flower o' the Clove
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0089
By Henry Harland 85
laughing, she fed it to him, while he, laughing too, consumed it.
But when her pink finger-tips all but touched his lips, his heart
had a convulsion, and it was only by main-force that he restrained
his kisses. And he said to himself, “ I must go back to town
to-morrow. This will never do. It would be the devil to pay if
I should let myself fall in love with her.”
“ Oh, yes, I’ve felt terribly depaysSe,” she told him again, her-
self nibbling a berry. a I’ve felt like the traditional cat in the
strange garret. And then, besides, there was my change of name.
I can’t reconcile myself to being called Miss Silver. I can’t
realise the character. It’s like an affectation, like making-believe.
Directly I relax my vigilance, I forget, and sink back into
Johannah Rothe, I’m always Johannah Rothe when I’m alone.
Directly I’m alone, I push a big ouf and send Miss Silver to
Cracklimboo. Then somebody comes, and, with a weary sigh, I
don my sheep’s clothing again. Of course, there’s nothing in a
name, and yet there’s everything. There’s a furious amount of
mental discomfort when the name doesn’t fit.”
“ It’s a discomfort that will pass,” he said consolingly. “ The
change of name is a mere formality—a condition attached to com-
ing into a property. In England, you know, it’s a rather frequent
condition.”
“ I’m aware of that. But to me it seems symbolic—symbolic
of my whole situation, which is false, abnormal. Silver ? Silver ?
It’s a name meant for a fair person, with light hair and a white
skin. And here I am, as black as any Gipsy. And then ! It’s
a condition attached to coming into a property. Well, I come
into a property to which I have no more moral right than I have
to the coat on your back ; and I’m obliged to do it under an
alias, like a thief in the night.”
“ Oh, my dear young lady,” he cried out, “ you’ve the very
best
laughing, she fed it to him, while he, laughing too, consumed it.
But when her pink finger-tips all but touched his lips, his heart
had a convulsion, and it was only by main-force that he restrained
his kisses. And he said to himself, “ I must go back to town
to-morrow. This will never do. It would be the devil to pay if
I should let myself fall in love with her.”
“ Oh, yes, I’ve felt terribly depaysSe,” she told him again, her-
self nibbling a berry. a I’ve felt like the traditional cat in the
strange garret. And then, besides, there was my change of name.
I can’t reconcile myself to being called Miss Silver. I can’t
realise the character. It’s like an affectation, like making-believe.
Directly I relax my vigilance, I forget, and sink back into
Johannah Rothe, I’m always Johannah Rothe when I’m alone.
Directly I’m alone, I push a big ouf and send Miss Silver to
Cracklimboo. Then somebody comes, and, with a weary sigh, I
don my sheep’s clothing again. Of course, there’s nothing in a
name, and yet there’s everything. There’s a furious amount of
mental discomfort when the name doesn’t fit.”
“ It’s a discomfort that will pass,” he said consolingly. “ The
change of name is a mere formality—a condition attached to com-
ing into a property. In England, you know, it’s a rather frequent
condition.”
“ I’m aware of that. But to me it seems symbolic—symbolic
of my whole situation, which is false, abnormal. Silver ? Silver ?
It’s a name meant for a fair person, with light hair and a white
skin. And here I am, as black as any Gipsy. And then ! It’s
a condition attached to coming into a property. Well, I come
into a property to which I have no more moral right than I have
to the coat on your back ; and I’m obliged to do it under an
alias, like a thief in the night.”
“ Oh, my dear young lady,” he cried out, “ you’ve the very
best