Ann Veronica: A Modern Love StoryWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
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Ann Veronica: A Modern Love Story
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Feminism -- Fiction; Great Britain -- Social conditions -- Fiction; Love stories; Sex role -- Fiction
She turned a firelit face to her husband. “Did you tell him?”
Capes smiled faintly. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Well--a little clumsily.”
“But how?”
“I poured him out some port wine, and I said--let me see--oh, ‘You are
going to be a grandfather!’”
“Yes. Was he pleased?”
“Calmly! He said--you won’t mind my telling you?”
“Not a bit.”
“He said, ‘Poor Alice has got no end!’”
“Alice’s are different,” said Ann Veronica, after an interval. “Quite
different. She didn’t choose her man.... Well, I told aunt....
Husband of mine, I think we have rather overrated the emotional capacity
of those--those dears.”
“What did your aunt say?”
“She didn’t even kiss me. She said”--Ann Veronica shivered again--“‘I
hope it won’t make you uncomfortable, my dear’--like that--‘and
whatever you do, do be careful of your hair!’ I think--I judge from
her manner--that she thought it was just a little indelicate of
us--considering everything; but she tried to be practical and
sympathetic and live down to our standards.”
Capes looked at his wife’s unsmiling face.
“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and
that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. He then spoke with a
certain fatherly kindliness of the past....”
“And my heart has ached for him!”
“Oh, no doubt it cut him at the time. It must have cut him.”
“We might even have--given it up for them!”
“I wonder if we could.”
“I suppose all IS well that ends well. Somehow to-night--I don’t know.”
“I suppose so. I’m glad the old sore is assuaged. Very glad. But if we
had gone under--!”
They regarded one another silently, and Ann Veronica had one of her
penetrating flashes.
“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her
hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. “We settled
long ago--we’re hard stuff. We’re hard stuff!”
Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood
over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from
everything we have done. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom.
And they come here, and they look at our furniture to see if it is good;
and they are not glad, it does not stir them, that at last, at last we
can dare to have children.”
She dropped back into a crouching attitude and began to weep. “Oh,
my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her
husband’s arms.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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