4
The next day her aunt came again and expostulated,
and was just saying it was “an unheard-of thing” for a
girl to leave her home as Ann Veronica had done, when
her father arrived, and was shown in by the pleasant-faced landlady.
Her father had determined on a new line. He put
down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips,
and regarded Ann Veronica firmly.
“Now,” he said, quietly, “it's time we stopped this
nonsense.”
Ann Veronica was about to reply, when he went on,
with a still more deadly quiet: “I am not here to bandy
words with you. Let us have no more of this humbug.
You are to come home.”
“I thought I explained —”
“I don't think you can have heard me,” said her
father; “I have told you to come home.”
“I thought I explained —”
“Come home!”
Ann Veronica shrugged her shoulders.
“Very well,” said her father.
“I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to
his sister. “It's not for us to supplicate any more.
She must learn wisdom —as God pleases.”
“But, my dear Peter!” said Miss Stanley.
“No.” said her brother, conclusively, “it's not for a
parent to go on persuading a child.”
Miss Stanley rose and regarded Ann Veronica fixedly.
The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky,
resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over
one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured,
and more than ever like an obdurate child.
“She doesn't know.”
“She does.”
“I can't imagine what makes you fly out against
everything like this,” said Miss Stanley to her niece.
“What is the good of talking?” said her brother.
“She must go her own way. A man's children nowadays
are not his own. That's the fact of the matter. Their
minds are turned against him. . . . Rubbishy novels and
pernicious rascals. We can't even protect them from
themselves.”
An immense gulf seemed to open between father and
daughter as he said these words.
“I don't see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and
children . . . shouldn't be friends.”
“Friends!” said her father. “When we see you going
through disobedience to the devil! Come, Molly, she
must go her own way. I've tried to use my authority.
And she defies me. What more is there to be said?
She defies me!”
It was extraordinary. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an
effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given
anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal,
some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm
that had opened between her and her father, and she
could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least
sincere and appealing.
“Father,” she cried, “I have to live!”
He misunderstood her. “That,” he said, grimly, with
his hand on the door-handle, “must be your own affair,
unless you choose to live at Morningside Park.”
Miss Stanley turned to her. “Vee,” she said, “come
home. Before it is too late.”
“Come, Molly,” said Mr. Stanley, at the door.
“Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father
says!”
Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. She made a
curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly,
convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the
table and turned to follow her brother. Ann Veronica
stared for a moment in amazement at this dark-green
object that clashed as it was put down. It was a purse.
She made a step forward. “Aunt!” she said, “I can't —”
Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt's blue eye,
halted, and the door clicked upon them.
There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. . . .
Ann Veronica realized that she was alone with the
world. And this time the departure had a tremendous
effect of finality. She had to resist an impulse of sheer
terror, to run out after them and give in.
“Gods,” she said, at last, “I've done it this time!
“Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened
it, and examined the contents.
It contained three sovereigns, six and fourpence, two
postage stamps, a small key, and her aunt's return half
ticket to Morningside Park.