MORGIANA
Near all that night I sat out in my den, wakeful and deeply
meditative. Was I glad or sorry to have wormed out thus much of the
truth? And of what potential profit to me was my new knowledge? As to
the former, _noblesse oblige_: better be an unchristened vagabond than
the legitimate hope of Mr Snooks, roturier. Nameless, I could make a
name of my own; not be condemned all my days to the task of redeeming
a vulgar one bequeathed me. Therein was signified, I thought, the true
moral of all nomenclature. Why, for instance, should the son of Mr
Rottengoose be handicapped from his birth with that imposed label and
libel; be forced to carry throughout his blameless life that unasked
and unmerited stigma of an ancestor’s villainous sobriquet; have to
steel himself to the torture of the titter pursuing him over the edge
of the dancing-card on which he had just impressed his awful identity;
be obliged, perhaps, to advertise his ignominy on a brass plate, to
stultify his fondest ideals, his most romantic passions, over the
sign-manual of a decayed fowl--a name bestowed, probably, in the first
instance on a village idiot; finally, be called upon to cheapen the
nobility of his Last Will and Testament in the terms that “I, Robert
Rottengoose, being of sound mind and in full hope of the resurrection,
etc.”?
Resurrection of whom, forsooth! Why, of Robert Rottengoose. “Do hereby
bequeath my curse,” _I_ would add, “to a system which imposes honour
or ridicule, either undeserved, on a new-born child. Let a man be
christened into his surname, such as he shall make or choose it, only
when he comes of age. Amen!”
Well, I was Richard Gaskett--not so bad on the whole; but why was I? I
wondered if Lord Skene would tell me; I wondered if it were Lady
Skene’s maiden name--yet hardly that; for would not the admission have
betrayed her to her noble suitor? Perhaps it was my father’s, since,
“from the moral point of view,” she was his wife. Yet, somehow,
morality did not seem to me to be much in question in the matter; and
on the whole I was inclined to think that my name was as illegitimate
as my birth. The fact disturbed me only in so far as it afforded me,
probably, no clue to my father’s identity; for it was to that that my
thoughts were now turning with a very resolute purpose. I would
discover it by hook or crook; learn to whom I was indebted for my
disgrace; gain into my own hand the knowledge which could make this
cruel puppet of a mother move to my will. I possessed already the germ
of the truth: I was base, and my stepfather did not know it. Proof,
clinching and double-wrought, would come with that further discovery,
could I alight on it. I would hold it over her head, bowing that under
an eternal horror of exposure. As she had been an unnatural mother to
me, so would I be an unnatural son to her.
And all of a sudden the tears were crowding into my eyes. I could not
tell why; and I rose quickly and went to the door. It was a lovely
quiet night, with a moon somewhere behind the trees, and all the sky
marbled with dove-grey clouds. And I held out my arms to them; neither
did I know why; but, like a child, I wanted something or somebody to
comfort me.
“It is no good,” I muttered, and dropped my chin heavily on my breast,
and returned to my brooding, but this time over a pipe and a glass of
toddy. They helped me to brighter, if no less defiant, thoughts. Would
Mr Pugsley whisper awfully to his patroness of my visit, and put his
head to hers in some design to bridle me? I cared nothing. I felt
strong as Atlas to bear the world my new emancipation had opened out
to me; my head rang with a hundred purposes of do and dare; I was my
own utter master, by virtue of that discovery, and free. Let those who
had ridden me look to their own harness.
Early on the following morning, coming home from a brisk stroll in the
November woodlands, I found Miss Christmas in my room. She had a brown
fur boa round her neck, and a little fur cap on her head like a
Zouave’s busby in miniature, with a pert plume. Under the boa was a
glimpse of scarlet handkerchief, which contrasted rather pleasantly
with the gold of her hair, and her cheeks were pink with walking. She
greeted me with a troubled look, as she noticed how I paused and my
face darkened seeing her there.
“Am I so horribly _de trop_,” she said, “when you have nothing but
your own thoughts to live with?”
“That’s the reason,” I answered grimly.
“You don’t make it easy for me,” she said. “And I had come to beg your
pardon, Richard.”
“Why should I help you out in anything, unless it were the door?”
She flushed; she bit her lip; it was as much as her temper would allow
her, I could see, to stand and listen.
“You are really horribly rude,” she said.
“I daresay I am. As a cultivated young lady of family, you should have
more prescriptive tact than to provoke the natural boor in me.”
“I don’t believe it is natural. I believe, in your bitterness, you are
resolved to make yourself out much worse than you are.”
“That is very generous of you. And you have come, moreover, to beg my
pardon--for what?”
Her mouth opened a little. She seemed to deprecate my expression very
entreatingly. Her eyebrows took a pained arch, her eyes a speaking
wistfulness.
“Richard,” she said--“don’t be so angry, so unforgiving with me!”
“Why do you think me either? I ask you again, what have you come to
beg my pardon for?”
Her lips quivered as she looked up at me. She seemed unable to speak
for a moment.
“It was cruel,” she whispered at last--“so cruel and ungenerous, that
I could only wish at the moment that I wasn’t bound to her by so many
ties of affection. But I am, and I will be loyal.”
“Are you apologising for Lady Skene?”
“No; I am asking pardon for myself, because I was the unwilling cause
of it all. Won’t you forgive me, Richard?”
“If I thought,” I said, “of calculating up all you have to answer to
me for! I don’t feel very kind to you.”
“Be unkind, then,” she said. “Only forgive me.”
I struggled with myself a little.
“I can’t,” I said at last. “I’m afraid I’m very vindictive, and must
have my pound of flesh first.”
“Take it of me,” she said at once, “in whatever way you like.”
I laughed.
“Fine heroic words! Would you submit to the process? I’m in the way to
humble some folks.”
“Richard,” she said, “remember who she is. Spare your mother. I’m
ready to take the blame and the punishment for both.”
She was certainly a young slight thing; prettyish in a fancy way; easy
to bend or break.
“You speak rashly,” I said. “I remember your story about the shepherd.
Your petals would be pretty well rubbed by the time I’d done with
you.”
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll take the risk. I believe I know you
better than you do yourself.”
“Do you? I’ve half a mind, you little flower of fortune, to put you to
the test.”
“I’m waiting.”
A stubborn devil was awake in me.
“Are you offering yourself my slave, or what, Miss Morgiana?”
“Your slave, if you like.”
“Very well. The floor wants scrubbing, and there’s a well outside. Get
some water and scrub it.”
I thought she would fling away at once; but, instead, she took off her
hat and jacket, found somewhere a pail and brush, and went outside
very meekly. I listened wickedly. The windlass, I knew, would be a
task for her chicken arms; and, indeed, I heard her plainly enough
panting and struggling with it. But, for all that, she appeared
presently, staggering, with her pail brimful; and I made no offer to
relieve her of it.
“Now,” I said, “I won’t be witness to your awkwardness. I’m going for
a walk, and to think over more important difficulties than yours. But,
when I come back, I shall expect to find the place cleaned and tidied,
and you gone.”
And I did. I gave her a couple of hours, before I returned whistling.
The floor was white, the table laid for lunch, two eggs put in a cold
saucepan by the grate, the fire piled up to smoulder, and a nosegay of
red leaves and berries placed in a tumbler on the windowsill. The
place looked neater and homelier than I had ever succeeded in making
it, and Morgiana was gone. Of the eternal instinct are Eve’s
daughters; and this one, it appeared, had no difficulty in “throwing
back” from silks to homespun.
That night came a very strange experience to me.