Part 3

In the afternoon the task of expostulation was taken up by Mr. Stanley

in person. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and

forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas

chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in

Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. She

had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage

from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than

flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she

was coming home submissively. In his desire to be emphatic and to avenge

himself for his over-night distresses, he speedily became brutal, more

brutal than she had ever known him before.

“A nice time of anxiety you’ve given me, young lady,” he said, as he

entered the room. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

She was frightened--his anger always did frighten her--and in her

resolve to conceal her fright she carried a queen-like dignity to what

she felt even at the time was a preposterous pitch. She said she hoped

she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take,

and he told her not to be a fool. She tried to keep her side up by

declaring that he had put her into an impossible position, and he

replied by shouting, “Nonsense! Nonsense! Any father in my place would

have done what I did.”

Then he went on to say: “Well, you’ve had your little adventure, and I

hope now you’ve had enough of it. So go up-stairs and get your things

together while I look out for a hansom.”

To which the only possible reply seemed to be, “I’m not coming home.”

“Not coming home!”

“No!” And, in spite of her resolve to be a Person, Ann Veronica began

to weep with terror at herself. Apparently she was always doomed to weep

when she talked to her father. But he was always forcing her to say and

do such unexpectedly conclusive things. She feared he might take her

tears as a sign of weakness. So she said: “I won’t come home. I’d rather

starve!”

For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. Then Mr.

Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a

barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his

glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to

inquire, then, what you mean to do?--how do you propose to live?”

“I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. “You needn’t be anxious about that!

I shall contrive to live.”

“But I AM anxious,” said Mr. Stanley, “I am anxious. Do you think it’s

nothing to me to have my daughter running about London looking for odd

jobs and disgracing herself?”

“Sha’n’t get odd jobs,” said Ann Veronica, wiping her eyes.

And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle.

Mr. Stanley used his authority, and commanded Ann Veronica to come home,

to which, of course, she said she wouldn’t; and then he warned her not

to defy him, warned her very solemnly, and then commanded her again.

He then said that if she would not obey him in this course she should

“never darken his doors again,” and was, indeed, frightfully abusive.

This threat terrified Ann Veronica so much that she declared with sobs

and vehemence that she would never come home again, and for a time both

talked at once and very wildly. He asked her whether she understood what

she was saying, and went on to say still more precisely that she should

never touch a penny of his money until she came home again--not one

penny. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care.

Then abruptly Mr. Stanley changed his key. “You poor child!” he said;

“don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of

the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother

to you. Think if your own mother was alive!”

He paused, deeply moved.

“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would

understand.”

The talk became more and more inconclusive and exhausting. Ann Veronica

found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on

desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with

him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees--almost as if he was a

brother. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live

her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her.

Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or

diversion from that.

In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces,

for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon

terms. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present

and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most

satisfactory lucidity and completeness. She had looked forward to an

explanation. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping,

this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. It was not only that

her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things,

but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in

the same vein. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at

issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was

obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion

seemed a sacred principle. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he

allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected

there was some man in the case.... Some man!

And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway,

giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the

other, shaken at her to emphasize his point.

“You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?”

“I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a

reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed

even herself, “I understand.” She controlled a sob. “Not a penny--not

one penny--and never darken your doors again!”