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.