Datasets:
edwindvinas
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testdataset

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xet
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Cousin Sarah had just called in on their way home from a meeting of the
missionary society. Uncle James had dropped in to give Amelia some
information regarding a doubtful investment. Uncle Benjamin had called,
apparently, to tell them it was a hot day and ask them what was the
difference between a bee and a donkey. Cousin Stickles had been
tactless enough to know the answer—“one gets all the honey, the other
all the whacks”—and Uncle Benjamin was in a bad humour. In all of their
minds, unexpressed, was the idea of finding out if Valancy had yet come
home, and, if not, what steps must be taken in the matter.
Well, here was Valancy at last, a poised, confident thing, not humble
and deprecating as she should have been. And so oddly, improperly
young-looking. She stood in the doorway and looked at them, Cousin
Georgiana timorous, expectant, behind her. Valancy was so happy she
didn’t hate her people any more. She could even see a number of good
qualities in them that she had never seen before. And she was sorry for
them. Her pity made her quite gentle.
“Well, Mother,” she said pleasantly.
“So you’ve come home at last!” said Mrs. Frederick, getting out a
handkerchief. She dared not be outraged, but she did not mean to be
cheated of her tears.
“Well, not exactly,” said Valancy. She threw her bomb. “I thought I
ought to drop in and tell you I was married. Last Tuesday night. To
Barney Snaith.”
Uncle Benjamin bounced up and sat down again.
“God bless my soul!” he said dully. The rest seemed turned to stone.
Except Cousin Gladys, who turned faint. Aunt Mildred and Uncle
Wellington had to help her out to the kitchen.
“She would have to keep up the Victorian traditions,” said Valancy,
with a grin. She sat down, uninvited, on a chair. Cousin Stickles had
begun to sob.
“Is there _one_ day in your life that you haven’t cried?” asked Valancy
curiously.
“Valancy,” said Uncle James, being the first to recover the power of
utterance, “did you mean what you said just now?”
“I did.”
“Do you mean to say that you have actually gone and
married—_married_—that notorious Barney
Snaith—that—that—criminal—that——”
“I have.”
“Then,” said Uncle James violently, “you are a shameless creature, lost
to all sense of propriety and virtue, and I wash my hands entirely of
you. I do not want ever to see your face again.”
“What have you left to say when I commit murder?” asked Valancy.
Uncle Benjamin again appealed to God to bless his soul.
“That drunken outlaw—that——”
A dangerous spark appeared in Valancy’s eyes. They might say what they
liked to and of her but they should not abuse Barney.
“Say ‘damn’ and you’ll feel better,” she suggested.
“I can express my feelings without blasphemy. And I tell you have
covered yourself with eternal disgrace and infamy by marrying that
drunkard——”
“_You_ would be more endurable if you got drunk occasionally. Barney is
_not_ a drunkard.”
“He was seen drunk in Port Lawrence—pickled to the gills,” said Uncle
Benjamin.
“If that is true—and I don’t believe it—he had a good reason for it.
Now I suggest that you all stop looking tragic and accept the
situation. I’m married—you can’t undo that. And I’m perfectly happy.”
“I suppose we ought to be thankful he has really married her,” said
Cousin Sarah, by way of trying to look on the bright side.
“If he really has,” said Uncle James, who had just washed his hands of
Valancy. “Who married you?”
“Mr. Towers, of Port Lawrence.”
“By a Free Methodist!” groaned Mrs. Frederick—as if to have been
married by an imprisoned Methodist would have been a shade less
disgraceful. It was the first thing she had said. Mrs. Frederick didn’t
know _what_ to say. The whole thing was too horrible—too nightmarish.
She was sure she must wake up soon. After all their bright hopes at the
funeral!
“It makes me think of those what-d’ye-call-’ems,” said Uncle Benjamin
helplessly. “Those yarns—you know—of fairies taking babies out of their
cradles.”