CHAPTER IX

Uncle Herbert and Aunt Alberta’s silver wedding was delicately referred
to among the Stirlings during the following weeks as “the time we first
noticed poor Valancy was—a little—_you_ understand?”

Not for worlds would any of the Stirlings have said out and out at
first that Valancy had gone mildly insane or even that her mind was
slightly deranged. Uncle Benjamin was considered to have gone entirely
too far when he had ejaculated, “She’s dippy—I tell you, she’s dippy,”
and was only excused because of the outrageousness of Valancy’s conduct
at the aforesaid wedding dinner.

But Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles had noticed a few things that
made them uneasy _before_ the dinner. It had begun with the rosebush,
of course; and Valancy never was really “quite right” again. She did
not seem to worry in the least over the fact that her mother was not
speaking to her. You would never suppose she noticed it at all. She had
flatly refused to take either Purple Pills or Redfern’s Bitters. She
had announced coolly that she did not intend to answer to the name of
“Doss” any longer. She had told Cousin Stickles that she wished she
would give up wearing that brooch with Cousin Artemas Stickles’ hair in
it. She had moved her bed in her room to the opposite corner. She had
read _Magic of Wings_ Sunday afternoon. When Cousin Stickles had
rebuked her Valancy had said indifferently, “Oh, I forgot it was
Sunday”—and _had gone on reading it_.

Cousin Stickles had seen a terrible thing—she had caught Valancy
sliding down the bannister. Cousin Stickles did not tell Mrs. Frederick
this—poor Amelia was worried enough as it was. But it was Valancy’s
announcement on Saturday night that she was not going to go to the
Anglican church any more that broke through Mrs. Frederick’s stony
silence.

“Not going to church any more! Doss, have you absolutely taken leave——”

“Oh, I’m going to church,” said Valancy airily. “I’m going to the
Presbyterian church. But to the Anglican church I will not go.”

This was even worse. Mrs. Frederick had recourse to tears, having found
outraged majesty had ceased to be effective.

“What have you got against the Anglican church?” she sobbed.

“Nothing—only just that you’ve always made me go there. If you’d made
me go to the Presbyterian church I’d want to go to the Anglican.”

“Is that a nice thing to say to your mother? Oh, how true it is that it
is sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child.”

“Is that a nice thing to say to your daughter?” said unrepentant
Valancy.

So Valancy’s behaviour at the silver wedding was not quite the surprise
to Mrs. Frederick and Christine Stickles that it was to the rest. They
were doubtful about the wisdom of taking her, but concluded it would
“make talk” if they didn’t. Perhaps she would behave herself, and so
far no outsider suspected there was anything queer about her. By a
special mercy of Providence it had poured torrents Sunday morning, so
Valancy had not carried out her hideous threat of going to the
Presbyterian church.

Valancy would not have cared in the least if they had left her at home.
These family celebrations were all hopelessly dull. But the Stirlings
always celebrated everything. It was a long-established custom. Even
Mrs. Frederick gave a dinner party on her wedding anniversary and
Cousin Stickles had friends in to supper on her birthday. Valancy hated
these entertainments because they had to pinch and save and contrive
for weeks afterwards to pay for them. But she wanted to go to the
silver wedding. It would hurt Uncle Herbert’s feelings if she stayed
away, and she rather liked Uncle Herbert. Besides, she wanted to look
over all her relatives from her new angle. It would be an excellent
place to make public her declaration of independence if occasion
offered.

“Put on your brown silk dress,” said Mrs. Stirling.

As if there were anything else to put on! Valancy had only the one
festive dress—that snuffy-brown silk Aunt Isabel had given her. Aunt
Isabel had decreed that Valancy should never wear colours. They did not
become her. When she was young they allowed her to wear white, but that
had been tacitly dropped for some years. Valancy put on the brown silk.
It had a high collar and long sleeves. She had never had a dress with
low neck and elbow sleeves, although they had been worn, even in
Deerwood, for over a year. But she did not do her hair pompadour. She
knotted it on her neck and pulled it out over her ears. She thought it
became her—only the little knot was so absurdly small. Mrs. Frederick
resented the hair but decided it was wisest to say nothing on the eve
of the party. It was so important that Valancy should be kept in good
humour, if possible, until it was over. Mrs. Frederick did not reflect
that this was the first time in her life that she had thought it
necessary to consider Valancy’s humours. But then Valancy had never
been “queer” before.

On their way to Uncle Herbert’s—Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles
walking in front, Valancy trotting meekly along behind—Roaring Abel
drove past them. Drunk as usual but not in the roaring stage. Just
drunk enough to be excessively polite. He raised his disreputable old
tartan cap with the air of a monarch saluting his subjects and swept
them a grand bow. Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles dared not cut
Roaring Abel altogether. He was the only person in Deerwood who could
be got to do odd jobs of carpentering and repairing when they needed to
be done, so it would not do to offend him. But they responded with only
the stiffest, slightest of bows. Roaring Abel must be kept in his
place.

Valancy, behind them, did a thing they were fortunately spared seeing.
She smiled gaily and waved her hand to Roaring Abel. Why not? She had
always liked the old sinner. He was such a jolly, picturesque,
unashamed reprobate and stood out against the drab respectability of
Deerwood and its customs like a flame-red flag of revolt and protest.
Only a few nights ago Abel had gone through Deerwood in the wee sma’s,
shouting oaths at the top of his stentorian voice which could be heard
for miles, and lashing his horse into a furious gallop as he tore along
prim, proper Elm Street.

“Yelling and blaspheming like a fiend,” shuddered Cousin Stickles at
the breakfast-table.

“I cannot understand why the judgment of the Lord has not fallen upon
that man long ere this,” said Mrs. Frederick petulantly, as if she
thought Providence was very dilatory and ought to have a gentle
reminder.

“He’ll be picked up dead some morning—he’ll fall under his horse’s
hoofs and be trampled to death,” said Cousin Stickles reassuringly.

Valancy had said nothing, of course; but she wondered to herself if
Roaring Abel’s periodical sprees were not his futile protest against
the poverty and drudgery and monotony of his existence. _She_ went on
dream sprees in her Blue Castle. Roaring Abel, having no imagination,
could not do that. _His_ escapes from reality had to be concrete. So
she waved at him today with a sudden fellow feeling, and Roaring Abel,
not too drunk to be astonished, nearly fell off his seat in his
amazement.

By this time they had reached Maple Avenue and Uncle Herbert’s house, a
large, pretentious structure peppered with meaningless bay windows and
excrescent porches. A house that always looked like a stupid,
prosperous, self-satisfied man with warts on his face.

“A house like that,” said Valancy solemnly, “is a blasphemy.”

Mrs. Frederick was shaken to her soul. What had Valancy said? Was it
profane? Or only just queer? Mrs. Frederick took off her hat in Aunt
Alberta’s spare-room with trembling hands. She made one more feeble
attempt to avert disaster. She held Valancy back on the landing as
Cousin Stickles went downstairs.

“Won’t you try to remember you’re a lady?” she pleaded.

“Oh, if there were only any hope of being able to forget it!” said
Valancy wearily.

Mrs. Frederick felt that she had not deserved this from Providence.