Ann Veronica: A Modern Love Story Read online

  He had no ideas about daughters. They happen to a man.

  Of course a little daughter is a delightful thing enough. It runs aboutgayly, it romps, it is bright and pretty, it has enormous quantities ofsoft hair and more power of expressing affection than its brothers. Itis a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and itdoes things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. It makeswonderful sentences that you can repeat in the City and are goodenough for Punch. You call it a lot of nicknames--"Babs" and "Bibs" and"Viddles" and "Vee"; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back.It loves to sit on your knee. All that is jolly and as it should be.

  But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. Thereone comes to a relationship that Mr. Stanley had never thought out.When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at onceresorted to distraction. The chromatic fiction with which he relievedhis mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with anyquality of guidance. Its heroes never had daughters, they borrowed otherpeople's. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him wasthat it had rather a light way with parental rights. His instinct was inthe direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, boundto obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in hisdeclining years just as he thought fit. About this conception ofownership he perceived and desired a certain sentimental glamour, heliked everything properly dressed, but it remained ownership. Ownershipseemed only a reasonable return for the cares and expenses of adaughter's upbringing. Daughters were not like sons. He perceived,however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived indiscountenanced these assumptions. Nothing else was put in their place,and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. The new andthe old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independentdependents--which is absurd. One married as he wished and one againsthis wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontentedwith her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatlessfriends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying adisposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. Sheseemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the meansof her freedom. And now she insisted that she MUST leave the chastenedsecurity of the Tredgold Women's College for Russell's unbridledclasses, and wanted to go to fancy dress dances in pirate costume andspend the residue of the night with Widgett's ramshackle girls in someindescribable hotel in Soho!

  He had done his best not to think about her at all, but the situationand his sister had become altogether too urgent. He had finally putaside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, andwritten the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to ahead.

  Part 4

  MY DEAR VEE, he wrote.

  These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, andbegan again.

  "MY DEAR VERONICA,--Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself insome arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball inLondon. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrappedabout in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose tostay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in yourparty, at an hotel. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have setyour heart upon, but I regret to say--"

  "H'm," he reflected, and crossed out the last four words.

  "--but this cannot be."

  "No," he said, and tried again: "but I must tell you quite definitelythat I feel it to be my duty to forbid any such exploit."

  "Damn!" he remarked at the defaced letter; and, taking a fresh sheet, herecopied what he had written. A certain irritation crept into his manneras he did so.

  "I regret that you should ever have proposed it," he went on.

  He meditated, and began a new paragraph.

  "The fact of it is, and this absurd project of yours only brings it toa head, you have begun to get hold of some very queer ideas about what ayoung lady in your position may or may not venture to do. I do not thinkyou quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father anddaughter. Your attitude to me--"

  He fell into a brown study. It was so difficult to put precisely.

  "--and your aunt--"

  For a time he searched for the mot juste. Then he went on:

  "--and, indeed, to most of the established things in life is, frankly,unsatisfactory. You are restless, aggressive, critical with allthe crude unthinking criticism of youth. You have no grasp upon theessential facts of life (I pray God you never may), and in your rashignorance you are prepared to dash into positions that may end inlifelong regret. The life of a young girl is set about with prowlingpitfalls."

  He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronicareading this last sentence. But he was now too deeply moved to tracea certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors."Well," he said, argumentatively, "it IS. That's all about it. It's timeshe knew."

  "The life of a young girl is set about with prowling pitfalls, fromwhich she must be shielded at all costs."

  His lips tightened, and he frowned with solemn resolution.

  "So long as I am your father, so long as your life is entrusted to mycare, I feel bound by every obligation to use my authority to check thisodd disposition of yours toward extravagant enterprises. A day will comewhen you will thank me. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think thereis any harm in you; there is not. But a girl is soiled not only by evilbut by the proximity of evil, and a reputation for rashness may doher as serious an injury as really reprehensible conduct. So do pleasebelieve that in this matter I am acting for the best."

  He signed his name and reflected. Then he opened the study door andcalled "Mollie!" and returned to assume an attitude of authority on thehearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire.

  His sister appeared.

  She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all laceand work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream aboutthe body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of thesame theme as himself. She had the same sharp nose--which, indeed, onlyAnn Veronica, of all the family, had escaped. She carried herself well,whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocraticdignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement toa curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. He had diedbefore they married, and when her brother became a widower she hadcome to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngestdaughter. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of lifehad jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and thememories of the light and little Mrs. Stanley, whose family had been byany reckoning inconsiderable--to use the kindliest term. Miss Stanleyhad determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for heryoungest niece and to be a second mother in her life--a second and abetter one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much inherself that Ann Veronica failed to understand. She came in now with anair of reserved solicitude.

  Mr. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from hisjacket pocket. "What do you think of that?" he asked.

  She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. Hefilled his pipe slowly.

  "Yes," she said at last, "it is firm and affectionate."

  "I could have said more."

  "You seem to have said just what had to be said. It seems to me exactlywhat is wanted. She really must not go to that affair."

  She paused, and he waited for her to speak.

  "I don't think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort oflife to which they would draw her," she said. "They would spoil everychance."

  "She has chances?" he said, helping her out.

  "She is an extremely attractive girl," she said; and added, "to somepeople. Of course, one doesn't like to talk about things until there arethings to talk about."

  "All the more reason why she shouldn't get herself talked about."

  "That is e
xactly what I feel."

  Mr. Stanley took the letter and stood with it in his hand thoughtfullyfor a time. "I'd give anything," he remarked, "to see our little Veehappily and comfortably married."

  He gave the note to the parlormaid the next morning in an inadvertent,casual manner just as he was leaving the house to catch his Londontrain. When Ann Veronica got it she had at first a wild, fantastic ideathat it contained a tip.

  Part 5

  Ann Veronica's resolve to have things out with her father was notaccomplished without difficulty.

  He was not due from the City until about six, and so she went and playedBadminton with the Widgett girls until dinner-time. The atmosphere atdinner was not propitious. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certaintremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarmingspread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort ofYellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father broughtsome papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. "Itreally seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether nextyear," Aunt Molly repeated three times, "and do away with marguerites.They seed beyond all reason." Elizabeth, the parlormaid, kept coming into hand vegetables whenever there seemed a chance of Ann Veronica askingfor an interview. Directly dinner was over Mr. Stanley, having pretendedto linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and whenVeronica tapped he answered through the locked door, "Go away, Vee! I'mbusy," and made a lapidary's wheel buzz loudly.

  Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. He read the Times with anunusually passionate intentness, and then declared suddenly for theearlier of the two trains he used.

  "I'll come to the station," said Ann Veronica. "I may as well come up bythis train."

  "I may have to run," said her father, with an appeal to his watch.

  "I'll run, too," she volunteered.

  Instead of which they walked sharply....

  "I say, daddy," she began, and was suddenly short of breath.

  "If it's about that dance project," he said, "it's no good, Veronica.I've made up my mind."

  "You'll make me look a fool before all my friends."

  "You shouldn't have made an engagement until you'd consulted your aunt."

  "I thought I was old enough," she gasped, between laughter and crying.

  Her father's step quickened to a trot. "I won't have you quarrelling andcrying in the Avenue," he said. "Stop it!... If you've got anythingto say, you must say it to your aunt--"

  "But look here, daddy!"

  He flapped the Times at her with an imperious gesture.

  "It's settled. You're not to go. You're NOT to go."

  "But it's about other things."

  "I don't care. This isn't the place."

  "Then may I come to the study to-night--after dinner?"

  "I'm--BUSY!"

  "It's important. If I can't talk anywhere else--I DO want anunderstanding."

  Ahead of them walked a gentleman whom it was evident they must at theirpresent pace very speedily overtake. It was Ramage, the occupant of thebig house at the end of the Avenue. He had recently made Mr. Stanley'sacquaintance in the train and shown him one or two trifling civilities.He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; hehad come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr. Stanley admiredand detested him in almost equal measure. It was intolerable to thinkthat he might overhear words and phrases. Mr. Stanley's pace slackened.

  "You've no right to badger me like this, Veronica," he said. "I can'tsee what possible benefit can come of discussing things that aresettled. If you want advice, your aunt is the person. However, if youmust air your opinions--"

  "To-night, then, daddy!"

  He made an angry but conceivably an assenting noise, and then Ramageglanced back and stopped, saluted elaborately, and waited for them tocome up. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray haira mobile, clean-shaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that nowscrutinized Ann Veronica. He dressed rather after the fashion of theWest End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehowdisconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica's father extremely. Hedid not play golf, but took his exercise on horseback, which was alsounsympathetic.

  "Stuffy these trees make the Avenue," said Mr. Stanley as they drewalongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. "Theyought to have been lopped in the spring."

  "There's plenty of time," said Ramage. "Is Miss Stanley coming up withus?"

  "I go second," she said, "and change at Wimbledon."

  "We'll all go second," said Ramage, "if we may?"

  Mr. Stanley wanted to object strongly, but as he could not immediatelythink how to put it, he contented himself with a grunt, and the motionwas carried. "How's Mrs. Ramage?" he asked.

  "Very much as usual," said Ramage. "She finds lying up so much veryirksome. But, you see, she HAS to lie up."

  The topic of his invalid wife bored him, and he turned at once to AnnVeronica. "And where are YOU going?" he said. "Are you going on againthis winter with that scientific work of yours? It's an instance ofheredity, I suppose." For a moment Mr. Stanley almost liked Ramage."You're a biologist, aren't you?"

  He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplacemagazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews,and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead.In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably.They went on talking in the train--it seemed to her father a slight wantof deference to him--and he listened and pretended to read the Times. Hewas struck disagreeably by Ramage's air of gallant consideration and AnnVeronica's self-possessed answers. These things did not harmonize withhis conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. Afterall, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be ina sense regarded as grownup. He was a man who in all things classifiedwithout nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just twofeminine classes and no more--girls and women. The distinction laychiefly in the right to pat their heads. But here was a girl--she mustbe a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able--imitating thewoman quite remarkably and cleverly. He resumed his listening. She wasdiscussing one of those modern advanced plays with a remarkable, with anextraordinary, confidence.

  "His love-making," she remarked, "struck me as unconvincing. He seemedtoo noisy."

  The full significance of her words did not instantly appear to him. Thenit dawned. Good heavens! She was discussing love-making. For a time heheard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation inleaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Could sheunderstand what she was talking about? Luckily it was a second-classcarriage and the ordinary fellow-travellers were not there. Everybody,he felt, must be listening behind their papers.

  Of course, girls repeat phrases and opinions of which they cannotpossibly understand the meaning. But a middle-aged man like Ramage oughtto know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend andneighbor....

  Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. "Broddick is aheavy man," he was saying, "and the main interest of the play was theembezzlement." Thank Heaven! Mr. Stanley allowed his paper to dropa little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their threefellow-travellers.

  They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanleyto the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended asthough such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchantswere a matter of course. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner,he remarked: "These young people shoot up, Stanley. It seems onlyyesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs."

  Mr. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approachinganimosity.

  "Now she's all hat and ideas," he said, with an air of humor.

  "She seems an unusually clever girl," said Ramage.

  Mr. Stanley regarded his neighbor's clean-shaven face almost warily."I'm not sure whether we don't rather ov
erdo all this higher education,"he said, with an effect of conveying profound meanings.

  Part 6

  He became quite sure, by a sort of accumulation of reflection, as theday wore on. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughtsall through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. He saw heryoung and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severelyignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright andserene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. He recalled with exasperatingperplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked aboutlove-making being unconvincing. He was really very proud of her, andextraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audaciousself-reliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independenceof him, her absolute security without him. After all, she only LOOKED awoman. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. Absolutely.He began to think of speeches, very firm, explicit speeches, he wouldmake.

  He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy. Daughterswere in the air that day. Ogilvy was full of a client's trouble inthat matter, a grave and even tragic trouble. He told some of theparticulars.

  "Curious case," said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in away he had. "Curious case--and sets one thinking."

  He resumed, after a mouthful: "Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen,seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, inLondon. Schoolgirl. Her family are solid West End people, Kensingtonpeople. Father--dead. She goes out and comes home. Afterward goes on toOxford. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Why doesn't she marry? Plenty of moneyunder her father's will. Charming girl."