CHAPTER XVIII

inafewwell-chosenwords—howwell-chosenValancydidnotrealise.Andhehadaknackofsayingthingswithoutopeninghismouthatall. “Ilikeamanwhoseeyessaymorethanhislips,”thoughtValancy. Butthenshelikedeverythingabouthim—histawnyhair—hiswhimsicalsmiles—thelittleglintsoffuninhiseyes—hisloyalaffectionforthatunspeakableLadyJane—hishabitofsittingwithhishandsinhispockets,hischinsunkonhisbreast,lookingupfromunderhismismatedeyebrows.Shelikedhisnicevoicewhichsoundedasifitmightbecomecaressingorwooingwithverylittleprovocation.Shewasattimesalmostafraidtoletherselfthinkthesethoughts.Theyweresovividthatshefeltasiftheothersmustknowwhatshewasthinking. “I’vebeenwatchingawoodpeckerallday,”hesaidoneeveningontheshakyoldbackverandah.Hisaccountofthewoodpecker’sdoingswassatisfying.Hehadoftensomegayorcunninglittleanecdoteofthewoodfolktotellthem.AndsometimesheandRoaringAbelsmokedfiercelythewholeeveningandneversaidaword,whileCissylayinthehammockswungbetweentheverandahpostsandValancysatidlyonthesteps,herhandsclaspedoverherknees,andwondereddreamilyifshewerereallyValancyStirlingandifitwereonlythreeweekssinceshehadlefttheuglyoldhouseonElmStreet. Thebarrenslaybeforeherinawhitemoonsplendour,wheredozensoflittlerabbitsfrisked.Barney,whenheliked,couldsitdownontheedgeofthebarrensandlurethoserabbitsrighttohimbysomemysterioussorceryhepossessed.Valancyhadonceseenasquirrelleapfromascrubpinetohisshoulderandsittherechatteringtohim.ItremindedherofJohnFoster. ItwasoneofthedelightsofValancy’snewlifethatshecouldreadJohnFoster’sbooksasoftenandaslongassheliked.Shecouldreadtheminbedifshewantedto.ShereadthemalltoCissy,wholovedthem.ShealsotriedtoreadthemtoAbelandBarney,whodidnotlovethem.AbelwasboredandBarneypolitelyrefusedtolistenatall. “Piffle,”saidBarney.