edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72

“I’m sure I can’t imagine,” groaned Aunt Wellington, prepared for
anything.

“She said, ‘I’d rather like to shock Cecil. His mouth is too red for a
man’s.’ Mother, I can never feel the same to Valancy again.”

“Her mind is affected, Olive,” said Aunt Wellington solemnly. “You must
not hold her responsible for what she says.”

When Aunt Wellington told Mrs. Frederick what Valancy had said to
Olive, Mrs. Frederick wanted Valancy to apologise.

“You made me apologise to Olive fifteen years ago for something I
didn’t do,” said Valancy. “That old apology will do for now.”

Another solemn family conclave was held. They were all there except
Cousin Gladys, who had been suffering such tortures of neuritis in her
head “ever since poor Doss went queer” that she couldn’t undertake any
responsibility. They decided—that is, they accepted a fact that was
thrust in their faces—that the wisest thing was to leave Valancy alone
for a while—“give her her head” as Uncle Benjamin expressed it—“keep a
careful eye on her but let her pretty much alone.” The term of
“watchful waiting” had not been invented then, but that was practically
the policy Valancy’s distracted relatives decided to follow.

“We must be guided by developments,” said Uncle Benjamin. “It
is”—solemnly—“easier to scramble eggs than unscramble them. Of
course—if she becomes violent——”

Uncle James consulted Dr. Ambrose Marsh. Dr. Ambrose Marsh approved
their decision. He pointed out to irate Uncle James—who would have
liked to lock Valancy up somewhere, out of hand—that Valancy had not,
as yet, really done or said anything that could be construed as proof
of lunacy—and without proof you cannot lock people up in this
degenerate age. Nothing that Uncle James had reported seemed very
alarming to Dr. Marsh, who put up his hand to conceal a smile several
times. But then he himself was not a Stirling. And he knew very little
about the old Valancy. Uncle James stalked out and drove back to
Deerwood, thinking that Ambrose Marsh wasn’t much of a doctor, after
all, and that Adelaide Stirling might have done better for herself.




CHAPTER XIV


Life cannot stop because tragedy enters it. Meals must be made ready
though a son dies and porches must be repaired even if your only
daughter is going out of her mind. Mrs. Frederick, in her systematic
way, had long ago appointed the second week in June for the repairing
of the front porch, the roof of which was sagging dangerously. Roaring
Abel had been engaged to do it many moons before and Roaring Abel
promptly appeared on the morning of the first day of the second week,
and fell to work. Of course he was drunk. Roaring Abel was never
anything but drunk. But he was only in the first stage, which made him
talkative and genial. The odour of whisky on his breath nearly drove
Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles wild at dinner. Even Valancy, with
all her emancipation, did not like it. But she liked Abel and she liked
his vivid, eloquent talk, and after she washed the dinner dishes she
went out and sat on the steps and talked to him.

Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles thought it a terrible proceeding,
but what could they do? Valancy only smiled mockingly at them when they
called her in, and did not go. It was so easy to defy once you got
started. The first step was the only one that really counted. They were
both afraid to say anything more to her lest she might make a scene
before Roaring Abel, who would spread it all over the country with his
own characteristic comments and exaggerations. It was too cold a day,
in spite of the June sunshine, for Mrs. Frederick to sit at the
dining-room window and listen to what was said. She had to shut the
window and Valancy and Roaring Abel had their talk to themselves. But
if Mrs. Frederick had known what the outcome of that talk was to be she
would have prevented it, if the porch was never repaired.

Valancy sat on the steps, defiant of the chill breeze of this cold June
which had made Aunt Isabel aver the seasons were changing. She did not
care whether she caught a cold or not. It was delightful to sit there
in that cold, beautiful, fragrant world and feel free. She filled her
lungs with the clean, lovely wind and held out her arms to it and let
it tear her hair to pieces while she listened to Roaring Abel, who told
her his troubles between intervals of hammering gaily in time to his
Scotch songs. Valancy liked to hear him. Every stroke of his hammer
fell true to the note.

Old Abel Gay, in spite of his seventy years, was handsome still, in a
stately, patriarchal manner. His tremendous beard, falling down over
his blue flannel shirt, was still a flaming, untouched red, though his
shock of hair was white as snow, and his eyes were a fiery, youthful
blue. His enormous, reddish-white eyebrows were more like moustaches
than eyebrows. Perhaps this was why he always kept his upper lip
scrupulously shaved. His cheeks were red and his nose ought to have
been, but wasn’t. It was a fine, upstanding, aquiline nose, such as the
noblest Roman of them all might have rejoiced in. Abel was six feet two
in his stockings, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped. In his youth he had
been a famous lover, finding all women too charming to bind himself to
one. His years had been a wild, colourful panorama of follies and
adventures, gallantries, fortunes and misfortunes. He had been
forty-five before he married—a pretty slip of a girl whom his goings-on

“I’m sure I can’t imagine,” groaned Aunt Wellington, prepared for

anything.

“She said, ‘I’d rather like to shock Cecil. His mouth is too red for a

man’s.’ Mother, I can never feel the same to Valancy again.”

“Her mind is affected, Olive,” said Aunt Wellington solemnly. “You must

not hold her responsible for what she says.”

When Aunt Wellington told Mrs. Frederick what Valancy had said to

Olive, Mrs. Frederick wanted Valancy to apologise.

“You made me apologise to Olive fifteen years ago for something I

didn’t do,” said Valancy. “That old apology will do for now.”

Another solemn family conclave was held. They were all there except

Cousin Gladys, who had been suffering such tortures of neuritis in her

head “ever since poor Doss went queer” that she couldn’t undertake any

responsibility. They decided—that is, they accepted a fact that was

thrust in their faces—that the wisest thing was to leave Valancy alone

for a while—“give her her head” as Uncle Benjamin expressed it—“keep a

careful eye on her but let her pretty much alone.” The term of

“watchful waiting” had not been invented then, but that was practically

the policy Valancy’s distracted relatives decided to follow.

“We must be guided by developments,” said Uncle Benjamin. “It

is”—solemnly—“easier to scramble eggs than unscramble them. Of

course—if she becomes violent——”

Uncle James consulted Dr. Ambrose Marsh. Dr. Ambrose Marsh approved

their decision. He pointed out to irate Uncle James—who would have

liked to lock Valancy up somewhere, out of hand—that Valancy had not,

as yet, really done or said anything that could be construed as proof

of lunacy—and without proof you cannot lock people up in this

degenerate age. Nothing that Uncle James had reported seemed very

alarming to Dr. Marsh, who put up his hand to conceal a smile several

times. But then he himself was not a Stirling. And he knew very little

about the old Valancy. Uncle James stalked out and drove back to

Deerwood, thinking that Ambrose Marsh wasn’t much of a doctor, after

all, and that Adelaide Stirling might have done better for herself.

CHAPTER XIV

Life cannot stop because tragedy enters it. Meals must be made ready

though a son dies and porches must be repaired even if your only

daughter is going out of her mind. Mrs. Frederick, in her systematic

way, had long ago appointed the second week in June for the repairing

of the front porch, the roof of which was sagging dangerously. Roaring

Abel had been engaged to do it many moons before and Roaring Abel

promptly appeared on the morning of the first day of the second week,

and fell to work. Of course he was drunk. Roaring Abel was never

anything but drunk. But he was only in the first stage, which made him

talkative and genial. The odour of whisky on his breath nearly drove

Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles wild at dinner. Even Valancy, with

all her emancipation, did not like it. But she liked Abel and she liked

his vivid, eloquent talk, and after she washed the dinner dishes she

went out and sat on the steps and talked to him.

Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles thought it a terrible proceeding,

but what could they do? Valancy only smiled mockingly at them when they

called her in, and did not go. It was so easy to defy once you got

started. The first step was the only one that really counted. They were

both afraid to say anything more to her lest she might make a scene

before Roaring Abel, who would spread it all over the country with his

own characteristic comments and exaggerations. It was too cold a day,

in spite of the June sunshine, for Mrs. Frederick to sit at the

dining-room window and listen to what was said. She had to shut the

window and Valancy and Roaring Abel had their talk to themselves. But

if Mrs. Frederick had known what the outcome of that talk was to be she

would have prevented it, if the porch was never repaired.

Valancy sat on the steps, defiant of the chill breeze of this cold June

which had made Aunt Isabel aver the seasons were changing. She did not

care whether she caught a cold or not. It was delightful to sit there

in that cold, beautiful, fragrant world and feel free. She filled her

lungs with the clean, lovely wind and held out her arms to it and let

it tear her hair to pieces while she listened to Roaring Abel, who told

her his troubles between intervals of hammering gaily in time to his

Scotch songs. Valancy liked to hear him. Every stroke of his hammer

fell true to the note.

Old Abel Gay, in spite of his seventy years, was handsome still, in a

stately, patriarchal manner. His tremendous beard, falling down over

his blue flannel shirt, was still a flaming, untouched red, though his

shock of hair was white as snow, and his eyes were a fiery, youthful

blue. His enormous, reddish-white eyebrows were more like moustaches

than eyebrows. Perhaps this was why he always kept his upper lip

scrupulously shaved. His cheeks were red and his nose ought to have

been, but wasn’t. It was a fine, upstanding, aquiline nose, such as the

noblest Roman of them all might have rejoiced in. Abel was six feet two

in his stockings, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped. In his youth he had

been a famous lover, finding all women too charming to bind himself to

one. His years had been a wild, colourful panorama of follies and

adventures, gallantries, fortunes and misfortunes. He had been

forty-five before he married—a pretty slip of a girl whom his goings-on