“So I see.” Mrs. Frederick’s voice was very icy. She had resigned herself to Valancy’s desertion. She had almost succeeded in forgetting there was a Valancy. She had rearranged and organised her systematic life without any reference to an ungrateful, rebellious child. She had taken her place again in a society which ignored the fact that she had ever had a daughter and pitied her, if it pitied her at all, only in discreet whispers and asides. The plain truth was that, by this time, Mrs. Frederick did not want Valancy to come back—did not want ever to see or hear of her again.
And now, of course, Valancy was here. With tragedy and disgrace and scandal trailing after her visibly. “So I see,” said Mrs. Frederick. “May I ask why?”
“Because—I’m—not—going to die,” said Valancy huskily.
“God bless my soul!” said Uncle Benjamin. “Who said you were going to die?”
“I suppose,” said Cousin Stickles shrewishly—Cousin Stickles did not want Valancy back either—“I suppose you’ve found out he has another wife—as we’ve been sure all along.”
“No. I only wish he had,” said Valancy. She was not suffering particularly, but she was very tired. If only the explanations were all over and she were upstairs in her old, ugly room—alone. Just alone! The rattle of the beads on her mother’s sleeves, as they swung on the arms of the reed chair, almost drove her crazy. Nothing else was worrying her; but all at once it seemed that she simply could not endure that thin, insistent rattle.
“My home, as I told you, is always open to you,” said Mrs. Frederick stonily, “but I can never forgive you.”
Valancy gave a mirthless laugh.
“I’d care very little for that if I could only forgive myself,” she said.
“Come, come,” said Uncle Benjamin testily. But rather enjoying himself. He felt he had Valancy under his thumb again. “We’ve had enough of mystery. What has happened? Why have you left that fellow? No doubt there’s reason enough—but what particular reason is it?”