4
It was, perhaps, the natural consequence of a long
and tiring and exciting day that Ann Veronica should
pass a broken and distressful night, a night in which the
noble and self-subduing resolutions of Canongate
displayed themselves for the first time in an atmosphere of
almost lurid dismay. Her father's peculiar stiffness of
soul presented itself now as something altogether left
out of the calculations upon which her plans were based,
and, in particular, she had not anticipated the
difficulty she would find in borrowing the forty pounds she
needed for Ramage. That had taken her by surprise,
and her tired wits had failed her. She was to have fifteen
pounds, and no more. She knew that to expect more
now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden.
The chance had gone. It became suddenly glaringly
apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen
pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage
—absolutely impossible. She realized that with a pang
of disgust and horror.
Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never
written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it
back sharply directly he returned it. She ought to have
written at once and told him exactly what had happened.
Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she
had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be
irresistible. No! That was impossible. She would
have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make
it twenty. That might happen on her birthday —in
August.
She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half
memories, half dreams, of Ramage. He became ugly
and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing
her.
“Confound sex from first to last!” said Ann Veronica.
“Why can't we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns
do? We restrict each other, we badger each other,
friendship is poisoned and buried under it! . . . I
must pay
off that forty pounds. I must.”
For a time there seemed no comfort for her even in
Capes. She was to see Capes to-morrow, but now, in
this state of misery she had achieved, she felt assured he
would turn his back upon her, take no notice of her at
all. And if he didn't, what was the good of seeing him?
“I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make
him my friend. I want him as my friend. I want to talk
to him and go about with him. Just go about with him.”
She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow,
and that brought her to: “What's the good of pretending?
“I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her
room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself
doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist,
who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely
unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings.
At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises,
and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only
three-o'clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell
asleep.