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Title: The Blue Castle: a novel

Author: L. M. Montgomery

Release date: May 3, 2022 [eBook #67979]
Most recently updated: May 19, 2026

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Frederick A. Stokes company, 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67979

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Hathi Trust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE
CASTLE: A NOVEL ***

The

BLUE CASTLE

A NOVEL

BY

L. M. MONTGOMERY

NEW YORK

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

MCMXXVI

CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV

THE BLUE CASTLE

CHAPTER I

I f it had not rained on a certain May morning Valancy Stirling’s whole life
would have been entirely different. She would have gone, with the rest of
her clan, to Aunt Wellington’s engagement picnic and Dr. Trent would
have gone to Montreal. But it did rain and you shall hear what happened to
her because of it.
Valancy wakened early, in the lifeless, hopeless hour just preceding
dawn. She had not slept very well. One does not sleep well, sometimes,
when one is twenty-nine on the morrow, and unmarried, in a community
and connection where the unmarried are simply those who have failed to
get a man.
Deerwood and the Stirlings had long since relegated Valancy to hopeless
old maidenhood. But Valancy herself had never quite relinquished a certain
pitiful, shamed, little hope that Romance would come her way yet—never,
until this wet, horrible morning, when she wakened to the fact that she was
twenty-nine and unsought by any man.
Ay, there lay the sting. Valancy did not mind so much being an old maid.
After all, she thought, being an old maid couldn’t possibly be as dreadful as
being married to an Uncle Wellington or an Uncle Benjamin, or even an
Uncle Herbert. What hurt her was that she had never had a chance to be
anything but an old maid. No man had ever desired her.
The tears came into her eyes as she lay there alone in the faintly greying
darkness. She dared not let herself cry as hard as she wanted to, for two
reasons. She was afraid that crying might bring on another attack of that
pain around the heart. She had had a spell of it after she had got into bed—
rather worse than any she had had yet. And she was afraid her mother
would notice her red eyes at breakfast and keep at her with minute,
persistent, mosquito-like questions regarding the cause thereof.
“Suppose,” thought Valancy with a ghastly grin, “I answered with the
plain truth, ‘I am crying because I cannot get married.’ How horrified
Mother would be—though she is ashamed every day of her life of her old
maid daughter.”

But of course appearances should be kept up. “It is not,” Valancy could
hear her mother’s prim, dictatorial voice asserting, “it is not maidenly to
think about men.”
The thought of her mother’s expression made Valancy laugh—for she
had a sense of humour nobody in her clan suspected. For that matter, there
were a good many things about Valancy that nobody suspected. But her
laughter was very superficial and presently she lay there, a huddled, futile
little figure, listening to the rain pouring down outside and watching, with a
sick distaste, the chill, merciless light creeping into her ugly, sordid room.
She knew the ugliness of that room by heart—knew it and hated it. The
yellow-painted floor, with one hideous, “hooked” rug by the bed, with a
grotesque, “hooked” dog on it, always grinning at her when she awoke; the
faded, dark-red paper; the ceiling discoloured by old leaks and crossed by
cracks; the narrow, pinched little washstand; the brown-paper lambrequin
with purple roses on it; the spotted old looking-glass with the crack across
it, propped up on the inadequate dressing-table; the jar of ancient potpourri
made by her mother in her mythical honeymoon; the shell-covered box,
with one burst corner, which Cousin Stickles had made in her equally
mythical girlhood; the beaded pincushion with half its bead fringe gone; the
one stiff, yellow chair; the faded old motto, “Gone but not forgotten,”
worked in coloured yarns about Great-grandmother Stirling’s grim old face;
the old photographs of ancient relatives long banished from the rooms
below. There were only two pictures that were not of relatives. One, an old
chromo of a puppy sitting on a rainy doorstep. That picture always made
Valancy unhappy. That forlorn little dog crouched on the doorstep in the
driving rain! Why didn’t some one open the door and let him in? The other
picture was a faded, passe-partouted engraving of Queen Louise coming
down a stairway, which Aunt Wellington had lavishly given her on her tenth
birthday. For nineteen years she had looked at it and hated it, beautiful,
smug, self-satisfied Queen Louise. But she never dared destroy it or remove
it. Mother and Cousin Stickles would have been aghast, or, as Valancy
irreverently expressed it in her thoughts, would have had a fit.
Every room in the house was ugly, of course. But downstairs appearances
were kept up somewhat. There was no money for rooms nobody ever saw.
Valancy sometimes felt that she could have done something for her room
herself, even without money, if she were permitted. But her mother had

negatived every timid suggestion and Valancy did not persist. Valancy never
persisted. She was afraid to. Her mother could not brook opposition. Mrs.
Stirling would sulk for days if offended, with the airs of an insulted
duchess.
The only thing Valancy liked about her room was that she could be alone
there at night to cry if she wanted to.
But, after all, what did it matter if a room, which you used for nothing
except sleeping and dressing in, were ugly? Valancy was never permitted to
stay alone in her room for any other purpose. People who wanted to be
alone, so Mrs. Frederick Stirling and Cousin Stickles believed, could only
want to be alone for some sinister purpose. But her room in the Blue Castle
was everything a room should be.
Valancy, so cowed and subdued and overridden and snubbed in real life,
was wont to let herself go rather splendidly in her day-dreams. Nobody in
the Stirling clan, or its ramifications, suspected this, least of all her mother
and Cousin Stickles. They never knew that Valancy had two homes—the
ugly red brick box of a home, on Elm Street, and the Blue Castle in Spain.
Valancy had lived spiritually in the Blue Castle ever since she could
remember. She had been a very tiny child when she found herself possessed
of it. Always, when she shut her eyes, she could see it plainly, with its
turrets and banners on the pine-clad mountain height, wrapped in its faint,
blue loveliness, against the sunset skies of a fair and unknown land.
Everything wonderful and beautiful was in that castle. Jewels that queens
might have worn; robes of moonlight and fire; couches of roses and gold;
long flights of shallow marble steps, with great, white urns, and with
slender, mist-clad maidens going up and down them; courts, marble-
pillared, where shimmering fountains fell and nightingales sang among the
myrtles; halls of mirrors that reflected only handsome knights and lovely
women—herself the loveliest of all, for whose glance men died. All that
supported her through the boredom of her days was the hope of going on a
dream spree at night. Most, if not all, of the Stirlings would have died of
horror if they had known half the things Valancy did in her Blue Castle.
For one thing she had quite a few lovers in it. Oh, only one at a time. One
who wooed her with all the romantic ardour of the age of chivalry and won
her after long devotion and many deeds of derring-do, and was wedded to

her with pomp and circumstance in the great, banner-hung chapel of the
Blue Castle.
At twelve, this lover was a fair lad with golden curls and heavenly blue
eyes. At fifteen, he was tall and dark and pale, but still necessarily
handsome. At twenty, he was ascetic, dreamy, spiritual. At twenty-five, he
had a clean-cut jaw, slightly grim, and a face strong and rugged rather than
handsome. Valancy never grew older than twenty-five in her Blue Castle,
but recently—very recently—her hero had had reddish, tawny hair, a
twisted smile and a mysterious past.
I don’t say Valancy deliberately murdered these lovers as she outgrew
them. One simply faded away as another came. Things are very convenient
in this respect in Blue Castles.
But, on this morning of her day of fate, Valancy could not find the key of
her Blue Castle. Reality pressed on her too hardly, barking at her heels like
a maddening little dog. She was twenty-nine, lonely, undesired, ill-favoured
—the only homely girl in a handsome clan, with no past and no future. As
far as she could look back, life was drab and colourless, with not one single
crimson or purple spot anywhere. As far as she could look forward it
seemed certain to be just the same until she was nothing but a solitary, little
withered leaf clinging to a wintry bough. The moment when a woman
realises that she has nothing to live for—neither love, duty, purpose nor
hope—holds for her the bitterness of death.
“And I just have to go on living because I can’t stop. I may have to live
eighty years,” thought Valancy, in a kind of panic. “We’re all horribly long-
lived. It sickens me to think of it.”
She was glad it was raining—or rather, she was drearily satisfied that it
was raining. There would be no picnic that day. This annual picnic, whereby
Aunt and Uncle Wellington—one always thought of them in that succession
—inevitably celebrated their engagement at a picnic thirty years before, had
been, of late years, a veritable nightmare to Valancy. By an impish
coincidence it was the same day as her birthday and, after she had passed
twenty-five, nobody let her forget it.
Much as she hated going to the picnic, it would never have occurred to
her to rebel against it. There seemed to be nothing of the revolutionary in
her nature. And she knew exactly what every one would say to her at the
picnic. Uncle Wellington, whom she disliked and despised even though he

had fulfilled the highest Stirling aspiration, “marrying money,” would say
to her in a pig’s whisper, “Not thinking of getting married yet, my dear?”
and then go off into the bellow of laughter with which he invariably
concluded his dull remarks. Aunt Wellington, of whom Valancy stood in
abject awe, would tell her about Olive’s new chiffon dress and Cecil’s last
devoted letter. Valancy would have to look as pleased and interested as if
the dress and letter had been hers or else Aunt Wellington would be
offended. And Valancy had long ago decided that she would rather offend
God than Aunt Wellington, because God might forgive her but Aunt
Wellington never would.
Aunt Alberta, enormously fat, with an amiable habit of always referring
to her husband as “he,” as if he were the only male creature in the world,
who could never forget that she had been a great beauty in her youth, would
condole with Valancy on her sallow skin—
“I don’t know why all the girls of today are so sunburned. When I was a
girl my skin was roses and cream. I was counted the prettiest girl in Canada,
my dear.”
Perhaps Uncle Herbert wouldn’t say anything—or perhaps he would
remark jocularly, “How fat you’re getting, Doss!” And then everybody
would laugh over the excessively humorous idea of poor, scrawny little
Doss getting fat.
Handsome, solemn Uncle James, whom Valancy disliked but respected
because he was reputed to be very clever and was therefore the clan oracle
—brains being none too plentiful in the Stirling connection—would
probably remark with the owl-like sarcasm that had won him his reputation,
“I suppose you’re busy with your hope-chest these days?”
And Uncle Benjamin would ask some of his abominable conundrums,
between wheezy chuckles, and answer them himself.
“What is the difference between Doss and a mouse?
“The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the
he’s.”
Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time she
wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the first place, the
Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the second place, Uncle Benjamin
was a wealthy and childless old widower and Valancy had been brought up

in the fear and admonition of his money. If she offended him he would cut
her out of his will—supposing she were in it. Valancy did not want to be cut
out of Uncle Benjamin’s will. She had been poor all her life and knew the
galling bitterness of it. So she endured his riddles and even smiled tortured
little smiles over them.
Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would criticise
her in some way—Valancy could not predict just how, for Aunt Isabel never
repeated a criticism—she found something new with which to jab you every
time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she thought, but didn’t like
it so well when other people said what they thought to her. Valancy never
said what she thought.
Cousin Georgiana—named after her great-great-grandmother, who had
been named after George the Fourth—would recount dolorously the names
of all relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic and wonder
“which of us will be the first to go next.”
Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her
husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because Valancy
would be the only one she could find to put up with it. For the same reason,
Cousin Gladys—really First Cousin Gladys once removed, according to the
strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated relationship—a tall, thin lady
who admitted she had a sensitive disposition, would describe minutely the
tortures of her neuritis. And Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling
clan, who had everything Valancy had not—beauty, popularity, love,—
would show off her beauty and presume on her popularity and flaunt her
diamond insignia of love in Valancy’s dazzled, envious eyes.
There would be none of all this today. And there would be no packing up
of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin
Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt Wellington’s
wedding set had been lost. Valancy never heard the last of that silver
teaspoon. Its ghost appeared Banquo-like at every subsequent family feast.
Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she
blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no picnic this
year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day itself she
would have no celebration at all. Thank whatever gods there were for that.
Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that, if the
rain held up in the afternoon, she would go up to the library and get another

of John Foster’s books. Valancy was never allowed to read novels, but John
Foster’s books were not novels. They were “nature books”—so the librarian
told Mrs. Frederick Stirling—“all about the woods and birds and bugs and
things like that, you know.” So Valancy was allowed to read them—under
protest, for it was only too evident that she enjoyed them too much. It was
permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion,
but a book that was enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know
whether her mind was being improved or not; but she felt vaguely that if
she had come across John Foster’s books years ago life might have been a
different thing for her. They seemed to her to yield glimpses of a world into
which she might once have entered, though the door was forever barred to
her now. It was only within the last year that John Foster’s books had been
in the Deerwood library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had been
a well-known writer for several years.
“Where does he live?” Valancy had asked.
“Nobody knows. From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more
information can be had. His publishers won’t say a word. Quite likely John
Foster is a nom de plume. His books are so popular we can’t keep them in
at all, though I really can’t see what people find in them to rave over.”
“I think they’re wonderful,” said Valancy, timidly.
“Oh—well—” Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that
relegated Valancy’s opinions to limbo, “I can’t say I care much for bugs
myself. But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to know about
them.”
Valancy didn’t know whether she cared much for bugs either. It was not
John Foster’s uncanny knowledge of wild creatures and insect life that
enthralled her. She could hardly say what it was—some tantalising lure of a
mystery never revealed—some hint of a great secret just a little further on
—some faint, elusive echo of lovely, forgotten things—John Foster’s magic
was indefinable.
Yes, she would get a new Foster book. It was a month since she had
Thistle Harvest, so surely Mother could not object. Valancy had read it four
times—she knew whole passages off by heart.
And—she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that
queer pain around the heart. It had come rather often lately, and the
palpitations were becoming annoying, not to speak of an occasional dizzy

moment and a queer shortness of breath. But could she go to see him
without telling any one? It was a most daring thought. None of the Stirlings
ever consulted a doctor without holding a family council and getting Uncle
James’ approval. Then, they went to Dr. Ambrose Marsh of Port Lawrence,
who had married Second Cousin Adelaide Stirling.
But Valancy disliked Dr. Ambrose Marsh. And, besides, she could not get
to Port Lawrence, fifteen miles away, without being taken there. She did not
want any one to know about her heart. There would be such a fuss made
and every member of the family would come down and talk it over and
advise her and caution her and warn her and tell her horrible tales of great-
aunts and cousins forty times removed who had been “just like that” and
“dropped dead without a moment’s warning, my dear.”
Aunt Isabel would remember that she had always said Doss looked like a
girl who would have heart trouble—“so pinched and peaked always”; and
Uncle Wellington would take it as a personal insult, when “no Stirling ever
had heart disease before”; and Georgiana would forebode in perfectly
audible asides that “poor, dear little Doss isn’t long for this world, I’m
afraid”; and Cousin Gladys would say, “Why, my heart has been like that
for years,” in a tone that implied no one else had any business even to have
a heart; and Olive—Olive would merely look beautiful and superior and
disgustingly healthy, as if to say, “Why all this fuss over a faded superfluity
like Doss when you have me?”
Valancy felt that she couldn’t tell anybody unless she had to. She felt
quite sure there was nothing at all seriously wrong with her heart and no
need of all the pother that would ensue if she mentioned it. She would just
slip up quietly and see Dr. Trent that very day. As for his bill, she had the
two hundred dollars that her father had put in the bank for her the day she
was born. She was never allowed to use even the interest of this, but she
would secretly take out enough to pay Dr. Trent.
Dr. Trent was a gruff, outspoken, absent-minded old fellow, but he was a
recognised authority on heart disease, even if he were only a general
practitioner in out-of-the-world Deerwood. Dr. Trent was over seventy and
there had been rumours that he meant to retire soon. None of the Stirling
clan had ever gone to him since he had told Cousin Gladys, ten years
before, that her neuritis was all imaginary and that she enjoyed it. You
couldn’t patronise a doctor who insulted your first-cousin-once-removed

like that—not to mention that he was a Presbyterian when all the Stirlings
went to the Anglican church. But Valancy, between the devil of disloyalty to
clan and the deep sea of fuss and clatter and advice, thought she would take
a chance with the devil.

CHAPTER II

W hen Cousin Stickles knocked at her door, Valancy knew it was half-
past seven and she must get up. As long as she could remember,
Cousin Stickles had knocked at her door at half-past seven. Cousin
Stickles and Mrs. Frederick Stirling had been up since seven, but Valancy
was allowed to lie abed half an hour longer because of a family tradition
that she was delicate. Valancy got up, though she hated getting up more this
morning than ever she had before. What was there to get up for? Another
dreary day like all the days that had preceded it, full of meaningless little
tasks, joyless and unimportant, that benefited nobody. But if she did not get
up at once she would not be ready for breakfast at eight o’clock. Hard and
fast times for meals were the rule in Mrs. Stirling’s household. Breakfast at
eight, dinner at one, supper at six, year in and year out. No excuses for
being late were ever tolerated. So up Valancy got, shivering.
The room was bitterly cold with the raw, penetrating chill of a wet May
morning. The house would be cold all day. It was one of Mrs. Frederick’s
rules that no fires were necessary after the twenty-fourth of May. Meals
were cooked on the little oil-stove in the back porch. And though May
might be icy and October frost-bitten, no fires were lighted until the twenty-
first of October by the calendar. On the twenty-first of October Mrs.
Frederick began cooking over the kitchen range and lighted a fire in the
sitting-room stove in the evenings. It was whispered about in the connection
that the late Frederick Stirling had caught the cold which resulted in his
death during Valancy’s first year of life because Mrs. Frederick would not
have a fire on the twentieth of October. She lighted it the next day—but that
was a day too late for Frederick Stirling.
Valancy took off and hung up in the closet her nightdress of coarse,
unbleached cotton, with high neck and long, tight sleeves. She put on
undergarments of a similar nature, a dress of brown gingham, thick, black
stockings and rubber-heeled boots. Of late years she had fallen into the

habit of doing her hair with the shade of the window by the looking-glass
pulled down. The lines on her face did not show so plainly then. But this
morning she jerked the shade to the very top and looked at herself in the
leprous mirror with a passionate determination to see herself as the world
saw her.
The result was rather dreadful. Even a beauty would have found that
harsh, unsoftened side-light trying. Valancy saw straight black hair, short
and thin, always lustreless despite the fact that she gave it one hundred
strokes of the brush, neither more nor less, every night of her life and
faithfully rubbed Redfern’s Hair Vigor into the roots, more lustreless than
ever in its morning roughness; fine, straight, black brows; a nose she had
always felt was much too small even for her small, three-cornered, white
face; a small, pale mouth that always fell open a trifle over little, pointed
white teeth; a figure thin and flat-breasted, rather below the average height.
She had somehow escaped the family high cheek-bones, and her dark-
brown eyes, too soft and shadowy to be black, had a slant that was almost
Oriental. Apart from her eyes she was neither pretty nor ugly—just
insignificant-looking, she concluded bitterly. How plain the lines around her
eyes and mouth were in that merciless light! And never had her narrow,
white face looked so narrow and so white.
She did her hair in a pompadour. Pompadours had long gone out of
fashion, but they had been in when Valancy first put her hair up and Aunt
Wellington had decided that she must always wear her hair so.
“It is the only way that becomes you. Your face is so small that you must
add height to it by a pompadour effect,” said Aunt Wellington, who always
enunciated commonplaces as if uttering profound and important truths.
Valancy had hankered to do her hair pulled low on her forehead, with
puffs above the ears, as Olive was wearing hers. But Aunt Wellington’s
dictum had such an effect on her that she never dared change her style of
hairdressing again. But then, there were so many things Valancy never
dared do.
All her life she had been afraid of something, she thought bitterly. From
the very dawn of recollection, when she had been so horribly afraid of the
big black bear that lived, so Cousin Stickles told her, in the closet under the
stairs.

“And I always will be—I know it—I can’t help it. I don’t know what it
would be like not to be afraid of something.”
Afraid of her mother’s sulky fits—afraid of offending Uncle Benjamin—
afraid of becoming a target for Aunt Wellington’s contempt—afraid of Aunt
Isabel’s biting comments—afraid of Uncle James’ disapproval—afraid of
offending the whole clan’s opinions and prejudices—afraid of not keeping
up appearances—afraid to say what she really thought of anything—afraid
of poverty in her old age. Fear—fear—fear—she could never escape from
it. It bound her and enmeshed her like a spider’s web of steel. Only in her
Blue Castle could she find temporary release. And this morning Valancy
could not believe she had a Blue Castle. She would never be able to find it
again. Twenty-nine, unmarried, undesired—what had she to do with the
fairy-like chatelaine of the Blue Castle? She would cut such childish
nonsense out of her life forever and face reality unflinchingly.
She turned from her unfriendly mirror and looked out. The ugliness of
the view always struck her like a blow; the ragged fence, the tumble-down
old carriage-shop in the next lot, plastered with crude, violently coloured
advertisements; the grimy railway station beyond, with the awful derelicts
that were always hanging around it even at this early hour. In the pouring
rain everything looked worse than usual, especially the beastly
advertisement, “Keep that schoolgirl complexion.” Valancy had kept her
schoolgirl complexion. That was just the trouble. There was not a gleam of
beauty anywhere—“exactly like my life,” thought Valancy drearily. Her
brief bitterness had passed. She accepted facts as resignedly as she had
always accepted them. She was one of the people whom life always passes
by. There was no altering that fact.
In this mood Valancy went down to breakfast.

CHAPTER III

B reakfast was always the same. Oatmeal porridge, which Valancy
loathed, toast and tea, and one teaspoonful of marmalade. Mrs.
Frederick thought two teaspoonfuls extravagant—but that did not
matter to Valancy, who hated marmalade, too. The chilly, gloomy little
dining-room was chillier and gloomier than usual; the rain streamed down
outside the window; departed Stirlings, in atrocious, gilt frames, wider than
the pictures, glowered down from the walls. And yet Cousin Stickles
wished Valancy many happy returns of the day!
“Sit up straight, Doss,” was all her mother said.
Valancy sat up straight. She talked to her mother and Cousin Stickles of
the things they always talked of. She never wondered what would happen if
she tried to talk of something else. She knew. Therefore she never did it.
Mrs. Frederick was offended with Providence for sending a rainy day
when she wanted to go to a picnic, so she ate her breakfast in a sulky
silence for which Valancy was rather grateful. But Christine Stickles
whined endlessly on as usual, complaining about everything—the weather,
the leak in the pantry, the price of oatmeal and butter—Valancy felt at once
she had buttered her toast too lavishly—the epidemic of mumps in
Deerwood.
“Doss will be sure to ketch them,” she foreboded.
“Doss must not go where she is likely to catch mumps,” said Mrs.
Frederick shortly.
Valancy had never had mumps—or whooping cough—or chicken-pox—
or measles—or anything she should have had—nothing but horrible colds
every winter. Doss’ winter colds were a sort of tradition in the family.
Nothing, it seemed, could prevent her from catching them. Mrs. Frederick
and Cousin Stickles did their heroic best. One winter they kept Valancy
housed up from November to May, in the warm sitting-room. She was not

even allowed to go to church. And Valancy took cold after cold and ended
up with bronchitis in June.
“None of my family were ever like that,” said Mrs. Frederick, implying
that it must be a Stirling tendency.
“The Stirlings seldom take colds,” said Cousin Stickles resentfully. She
had been a Stirling.
“I think,” said Mrs. Frederick, “that if a person makes up her mind not to
have colds she will not have colds.”
So that was the trouble. It was all Valancy’s own fault.
But on this particular morning Valancy’s unbearable grievance was that
she was called Doss. She had endured it for twenty-nine years, and all at
once she felt she could not endure it any longer. Her full name was Valancy
Jane. Valancy Jane was rather terrible, but she liked Valancy, with its odd,
out-land tang. It was always a wonder to Valancy that the Stirlings had
allowed her to be so christened. She had been told that her maternal
grandfather, old Amos Wansbarra, had chosen the name for her. Her father
had tacked on the Jane by way of civilising it, and the whole connection got
out of the difficulty by nicknaming her Doss. She never got Valancy from
any one but outsiders.
“Mother,” she said timidly, “would you mind calling me Valancy after
this? Doss seems so—so—I don’t like it.”
Mrs. Frederick looked at her daughter in astonishment. She wore glasses
with enormously strong lenses that gave her eyes a peculiarly disagreeable
appearance.
“What is the matter with Doss?”
“It—seems so childish,” faltered Valancy.
“Oh!” Mrs. Frederick had been a Wansbarra and the Wansbarra smile was
not an asset. “I see. Well, it should suit you then. You are childish enough in
all conscience, my dear child.”
“I am twenty-nine,” said the dear child desperately.
“I wouldn’t proclaim it from the house-tops if I were you, dear,” said
Mrs. Frederick. “Twenty-nine! I had been married nine years when I was
twenty-nine.”
“I was married at seventeen,” said Cousin Stickles proudly.

Valancy looked at them furtively. Mrs. Frederick, except for those terrible
glasses and the hooked nose that made her look more like a parrot than a
parrot itself could look, was not ill-looking. At twenty she might have been
quite pretty. But Cousin Stickles! And yet Christine Stickles had once been
desirable in some man’s eyes. Valancy felt that Cousin Stickles, with her
broad, flat, wrinkled face, a mole right on the end of her dumpy nose,
bristling hairs on her chin, wrinkled yellow neck, pale, protruding eyes, and
thin, puckered mouth, had yet this advantage over her—this right to look
down on her. And even yet Cousin Stickles was necessary to Mrs.
Frederick. Valancy wondered pitifully what it would be like to be wanted by
some one—needed by some one. No one in the whole world needed her, or
would miss anything from life if she dropped suddenly out of it. She was a
disappointment to her mother. No one loved her. She had never so much as
had a girl friend.
“I haven’t even a gift for friendship,” she had once admitted to herself
pitifully.
“Doss, you haven’t eaten your crusts,” said Mrs. Frederick rebukingly.
It rained all the forenoon without cessation. Valancy pieced a quilt.
Valancy hated piecing quilts. And there was no need of it. The house was
full of quilts. There were three big chests, packed with quilts, in the attic.
Mrs. Frederick had begun storing away quilts when Valancy was seventeen
and she kept on storing them, though it did not seem likely that Valancy
would ever need them. But Valancy must be at work and fancy work
materials were too expensive. Idleness was a cardinal sin in the Stirling
household. When Valancy had been a child she had been made to write
down every night, in a small, hated, black notebook, all the minutes she had
spent in idleness that day. On Sundays her mother made her tot them up and
pray over them.
On this particular forenoon of this day of destiny Valancy spent only ten
minutes in idleness. At least, Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles would
have called it idleness. She went to her room to get a better thimble and she
opened Thistle Harvest guiltily at random.
“The woods are so human,” wrote John Foster, “that to know them one
must live with them. An occasional saunter through them, keeping to the
well-trodden paths, will never admit us to their intimacy. If we wish to be
friends we must seek them out and win them by frequent, reverent visits at

all hours; by morning, by noon, and by night; and at all seasons, in spring,
in summer, in autumn, in winter. Otherwise we can never really know them
and any pretence we may make to the contrary will never impose on them.
They have their own effective way of keeping aliens at a distance and
shutting their hearts to mere casual sightseers. It is of no use to seek the
woods from any motive except sheer love of them; they will find us out at
once and hide all their sweet, old-world secrets from us. But if they know
we come to them because we love them they will be very kind to us and
give us such treasures of beauty and delight as are not bought or sold in any
market-place. For the woods, when they give at all, give unstintedly and
hold nothing back from their true worshippers. We must go to them
lovingly, humbly, patiently, watchfully, and we shall learn what poignant
loveliness lurks in the wild places and silent intervales, lying under
starshine and sunset, what cadences of unearthly music are harped on aged
pine boughs or crooned in copses of fir, what delicate savours exhale from
mosses and ferns in sunny corners or on damp brooklands, what dreams and
myths and legends of an older time haunt them. Then the immortal heart of
the woods will beat against ours and its subtle life will steal into our veins
and make us its own forever, so that no matter where we go or how widely
we wander we shall yet be drawn back to the forest to find our most
enduring kinship.”
“Doss,” called her mother from the hall below, “what are you doing all
by yourself in that room?”
Valancy dropped Thistle Harvest like a hot coal and fled downstairs to
her patches; but she felt the strange exhilaration of spirit that always came
momentarily to her when she dipped into one of John Foster’s books.
Valancy did not know much about woods—except the haunted groves of
oak and pine around her Blue Castle. But she had always secretly hankered
after them and a Foster book about woods was the next best thing to the
woods themselves.
At noon it stopped raining, but the sun did not come out until three. Then
Valancy timidly said she thought she would go uptown.
“What do you want to go uptown for?” demanded her mother.
“I want to get a book from the library.”
“You got a book from the library only last week.”
“No, it was four weeks.”

“Four weeks. Nonsense!”
“Really it was, Mother.”
“You are mistaken. It cannot possibly have been more than two weeks. I
dislike contradiction. And I do not see what you want to get a book for,
anyhow. You waste too much time reading.”
“Of what value is my time?” asked Valancy bitterly.
“Doss! Don’t speak in that tone to me.”
“We need some tea,” said Cousin Stickles. “She might go and get that if
she wants a walk—though this damp weather is bad for colds.”
They argued the matter for ten minutes longer and finally Mrs. Frederick
agreed rather grudgingly that Valancy might go.

CHAPTER IV

“G ot your rubbers on?” called Cousin Stickles, as Valancy left the
house.
Christine Stickles had never once forgotten to ask that question
when Valancy went out on a damp day.
“Yes.”
“Have you got your flannel petticoat on?” asked Mrs. Frederick.
“No.”
“Doss, I really do not understand you. Do you want to catch your death
of cold again?” Her voice implied that Valancy had died of a cold several
times already. “Go upstairs this minute and put it on!”
“Mother, I don’t need a flannel petticoat. My sateen one is warm
enough.”
“Doss, remember you had bronchitis two years ago. Go and do as you are
told!”
Valancy went, though nobody will ever know just how near she came to
hurling the rubber-plant into the street before she went. She hated that grey
flannel petticoat more than any other garment she owned. Olive never had
to wear flannel petticoats. Olive wore ruffled silk and sheer lawn and filmy
laced flounces. But Olive’s father had “married money” and Olive never
had bronchitis. So there you were.
“Are you sure you didn’t leave the soap in the water?” demanded Mrs.
Frederick. But Valancy was gone. She turned at the corner and looked back
down the ugly, prim, respectable street where she lived. The Stirling house
was the ugliest on it—more like a red brick box than anything else. Too
high for its breadth, and made still higher by a bulbous glass cupola on top.
About it was the desolate, barren peace of an old house whose life is lived.
There was a very pretty little house, with leaded casements and dubbed
gables, just around the corner—a new house, one of those houses you love

the minute you see them. Clayton Markley had built it for his bride. He was
to be married to Jennie Lloyd in June. The little house, it was said, was
furnished from attic to cellar, in complete readiness for its mistress.
“I don’t envy Jennie the man,” thought Valancy sincerely—Clayton
Markley was not one of her many ideals—“but I do envy her the house. It’s
such a nice young house. Oh, if I could only have a house of my own—ever
so poor, so tiny—but my own! But then,” she added bitterly, “there is no
use in yowling for the moon when you can’t even get a tallow candle.”
In dreamland nothing would do Valancy but a castle of pale sapphire. In
real life she would have been fully satisfied with a little house of her own.
She envied Jennie Lloyd more fiercely than ever today. Jennie was not so
much better looking than she was, and not so very much younger. Yet she
was to have this delightful house. And the nicest little Wedgwood teacups—
Valancy had seen them; an open fireplace, and monogrammed linen;
hemstitched tablecloths, and china-closets. Why did everything come to
some girls and nothing to others? It wasn’t fair.
Valancy was once more seething with rebellion as she walked along, a
prim, dowdy little figure in her shabby raincoat and three-year-old hat,
splashed occasionally by the mud of a passing motor with its insulting
shrieks. Motors were still rather a novelty in Deerwood, though they were
common in Port Lawrence, and most of the summer residents up at
Muskoka had them. In Deerwood only some of the smart set had them; for
even Deerwood was divided into sets. There was the smart set—the
intellectual set—the old-family set—of which the Stirlings were members
—the common run, and a few pariahs. Not one of the Stirling clan had as
yet condescended to a motor, though Olive was teasing her father to have
one. Valancy had never even been in a motorcar. But she did not hanker
after this. In truth, she felt rather afraid of motorcars, especially at night.
They seemed to be too much like big purring beasts that might turn and
crush you—or make some terrible savage leap somewhere. On the steep
mountain trails around her Blue Castle only gaily caparisoned steeds might
proudly pace; in real life Valancy would have been quite contented to drive
in a buggy behind a nice horse. She got a buggy drive only when some
uncle or cousin remembered to fling her “a chance,” like a bone to a dog.

CHAPTER V

O f course she must buy the tea in Uncle Benjamin’s grocery-store. To
buy it anywhere else was unthinkable. Yet Valancy hated to go to Uncle
Benjamin’s store on her twenty-ninth birthday. There was no hope that
he would not remember it.
“Why,” demanded Uncle Benjamin, leeringly, as he tied up her tea, “are
young ladies like bad grammarians?”
Valancy, with Uncle Benjamin’s will in the background of her mind, said
meekly, “I don’t know. Why?”
“Because,” chuckled Uncle Benjamin, “they can’t decline matrimony.”
The two clerks, Joe Hammond and Claude Bertram, chuckled also, and
Valancy disliked them a little more than ever. On the first day Claude
Bertram had seen her in the store she had heard him whisper to Joe, “Who
is that?” And Joe had said, “Valancy Stirling—one of the Deerwood old
maids.” “Curable or incurable?” Claude had asked with a snicker, evidently
thinking the question very clever. Valancy smarted anew with the sting of
that old recollection.
“Twenty-nine,” Uncle Benjamin was saying. “Dear me, Doss, you’re
dangerously near the second corner and not even thinking of getting
married yet. Twenty-nine. It seems impossible.”
Then Uncle Benjamin said an original thing. Uncle Benjamin said, “How
time does fly!”
“I think it crawls,” said Valancy passionately. Passion was so alien to
Uncle Benjamin’s conception of Valancy that he didn’t know what to make
of her. To cover his confusion, he asked another conundrum as he tied up
her beans—Cousin Stickles had remembered at the last moment that they
must have beans. Beans were cheap and filling.
“What two ages are apt to prove illusory?” asked Uncle Benjamin; and,
not waiting for Valancy to “give it up,” he added, “Mir-age and marri-age.”

“M-i-r-a-g-e is pronounced mirazh,” said Valancy shortly, picking up her
tea and her beans. For the moment she did not care whether Uncle
Benjamin cut her out of his will or not. She walked out of the store while
Uncle Benjamin stared after her with his mouth open. Then he shook his
head.
“Poor Doss is taking it hard,” he said.
Valancy was sorry by the time she reached the next crossing. Why had
she lost her patience like that? Uncle Benjamin would be annoyed and
would likely tell her mother that Doss had been impertinent—“to me!”—
and her mother would lecture her for a week.
“I’ve held my tongue for twenty years,” thought Valancy. “Why couldn’t
I have held it once more?”
Yes, it was just twenty, Valancy reflected, since she had first been twitted
with her loverless condition. She remembered the bitter moment perfectly.
She was just nine years old and she was standing alone on the school
playground while the other little girls of her class were playing a game in
which you must be chosen by a boy as his partner before you could play.
Nobody had chosen Valancy—little, pale, black-haired Valancy, with her
prim, long-sleeved apron and odd, slanted eyes.
“Oh,” said a pretty little girl to her, “I’m so sorry for you. You haven’t
got a beau.”
Valancy had said defiantly, as she continued to say for twenty years, “I
don’t want a beau.” But this afternoon Valancy once and for all stopped
saying that.
“I’m going to be honest with myself anyhow,” she thought savagely.
“Uncle Benjamin’s riddles hurt me because they are true. I do want to be
married. I want a house of my own—I want a husband of my own—I want
sweet, little fat babies of my own—” Valancy stopped suddenly aghast at
her own recklessness. She felt sure that Rev. Dr. Stalling, who passed her at
this moment, read her thoughts and disapproved of them thoroughly.
Valancy was afraid of Dr. Stalling—had been afraid of him ever since the
Sunday, twenty-three years before, when he had first come to St. Albans’.
Valancy had been too late for Sunday School that day and she had gone into
the church timidly and sat in their pew. No one else was in the church—
nobody except the new rector, Dr. Stalling. Dr. Stalling stood up in front of
the choir door, beckoned to her, and said sternly, “Little boy, come up here.”

Valancy had stared around her. There was no little boy—there was no one
in all the huge church but herself. This strange man with the blue glasses
couldn’t mean her. She was not a boy.
“Little boy,” repeated Dr. Stalling, more sternly still, shaking his
forefinger fiercely at her, “come up here at once!”
Valancy arose as if hypnotised and walked up the aisle. She was too
terrified to do anything else. What dreadful thing was going to happen to
her? What had happened to her? Had she actually turned into a boy? She
came to a stop in front of Dr. Stalling. Dr. Stalling shook his forefinger—
such a long, knuckly forefinger—at her and said:
“Little boy, take off your hat.”
Valancy took off her hat. She had a scrawny little pigtail hanging down
her back, but Dr. Stalling was shortsighted and did not perceive it.
“Little boy, go back to your seat and always take off your hat in church.
Remember!”
Valancy went back to her seat carrying her hat like an automaton.
Presently her mother came in.
“Doss,” said Mrs. Stirling, “what do you mean by taking off your hat?
Put it on instantly!”
Valancy put it on instantly. She was cold with fear lest Dr. Stalling should
immediately summon her up front again. She would have to go, of course—
it never occurred to her that one could disobey the rector—and the church
was full of people now. Oh, what would she do if that horrible, stabbing
forefinger were shaken at her again before all those people? Valancy sat
through the whole service in an agony of dread and was sick for a week
afterwards. Nobody knew why—Mrs. Frederick again bemoaned herself of
her delicate child.
Dr. Stalling found out his mistake and laughed over it to Valancy—who
did not laugh. She never got over her dread of Dr. Stalling. And now to be
caught by him on the street corner, thinking such things!
Valancy got her John Foster book—Magic of Wings. “His latest—all
about birds,” said Miss Clarkson. She had almost decided that she would go
home, instead of going to see Dr. Trent. Her courage had failed her. She was
afraid of offending Uncle James—afraid of angering her mother—afraid of
facing gruff, shaggy-browed old Dr. Trent, who would probably tell her, as

he had told Cousin Gladys, that her trouble was entirely imaginary and that
she only had it because she liked to have it. No, she would not go; she
would get a bottle of Redfern’s Purple Pills instead. Redfern’s Purple Pills
were the standard medicine of the Stirling clan. Had they not cured Second
Cousin Geraldine when five doctors had given her up? Valancy always felt
very sceptical concerning the virtues of the Purple Pills; but there might be
something in them; and it was easier to take them than to face Dr. Trent
alone. She would glance over the magazines in the reading-room a few
minutes and then go home.
Valancy tried to read a story, but it made her furious. On every page was
a picture of the heroine surrounded by adoring men. And here was she,
Valancy Stirling, who could not get a solitary beau! Valancy slammed the
magazine shut; she opened Magic of Wings. Her eyes fell on the paragraph
that changed her life.
“Fear is the original sin,” wrote John Foster. “Almost all the evil in the
world has its origin in the fact that some one is afraid of something. It is a
cold, slimy serpent coiling about you. It is horrible to live with fear; and it
is of all things degrading.”
Valancy shut Magic of Wings and stood up. She would go and see Dr.
Trent.

CHAPTER VI

T he ordeal was not so dreadful, after all. Dr. Trent was as gruff and
abrupt as usual, but he did not tell her her ailment was imaginary. After
he had listened to her symptoms and asked a few questions and made a
quick examination, he sat for a moment looking at her quite intently.
Valancy thought he looked as if he were sorry for her. She caught her breath
for a moment. Was the trouble serious? Oh, it couldn’t be, surely—it really
hadn’t bothered her much—only lately it had got a little worse.
Dr. Trent opened his mouth—but before he could speak the telephone at
his elbow rang sharply. He picked up the receiver. Valancy, watching him,
saw his face change suddenly as he listened, “’Lo—yes—yes—what?—yes
—yes”—a brief interval—“My God!”
Dr. Trent dropped the receiver, dashed out of the room and upstairs
without even a glance at Valancy. She heard him rushing madly about
overhead, barking out a few remarks to somebody—presumably his
housekeeper. Then he came tearing downstairs with a club bag in his hand,
snatched his hat and coat from the rack, jerked open the street door and
rushed down the street in the direction of the station.
Valancy sat alone in the little office, feeling more absolutely foolish than
she had ever felt before in her life. Foolish—and humiliated. So this was all
that had come of her heroic determination to live up to John Foster and cast
fear aside. Not only was she a failure as a relative and non-existent as a
sweetheart or friend, but she was not even of any importance as a patient.
Dr. Trent had forgotten her very presence in his excitement over whatever
message had come by the telephone. She had gained nothing by ignoring
Uncle James and flying in the face of family tradition.
For a moment she was afraid she was going to cry. It was all so—
ridiculous. Then she heard Dr. Trent’s housekeeper coming down the stairs.
Valancy rose and went to the office door.
“The doctor forgot all about me,” she said with a twisted smile.

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Mrs. Patterson sympathetically. “But it wasn’t
much wonder, poor man. That was a telegram they ’phoned over from the
Port. His son has been terribly injured in an auto accident in Montreal. The
doctor had just ten minutes to catch the train. I don’t know what he’ll do if
anything happens to Ned—he’s just bound up in the boy. You’ll have to
come again, Miss Stirling. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Oh, no, nothing serious,” agreed Valancy. She felt a little less
humiliated. It was no wonder poor Dr. Trent had forgotten her at such a
moment. Nevertheless, she felt very flat and discouraged as she went down
the street.
Valancy went home by the short-cut of Lover’s Lane. She did not often
go through Lover’s Lane—but it was getting near supper-time and it would
never do to be late. Lover’s Lane wound back of the village, under great
elms and maples, and deserved its name. It was hard to go there at any time
and not find some canoodling couple—or young girls in pairs, arms
intertwined, earnestly talking over their little secrets. Valancy didn’t know
which made her feel more self-conscious and uncomfortable.
This evening she encountered both. She met Connie Hale and Kate
Bayley, in new pink organdy dresses with flowers stuck coquettishly in their
glossy, bare hair. Valancy had never had a pink dress or worn flowers in her
hair. Then she passed a young couple she didn’t know, dandering along,
oblivious to everything but themselves. The young man’s arm was around
the girl’s waist quite shamelessly. Valancy had never walked with a man’s
arm about her. She felt that she ought to be shocked—they might leave that
sort of thing for the screening twilight, at least—but she wasn’t shocked. In
another flash of desperate, stark honesty she owned to herself that she was
merely envious. When she passed them she felt quite sure they were
laughing at her—pitying her—“there’s that queer little old maid, Valancy
Stirling. They say she never had a beau in her whole life”—Valancy fairly
ran to get out of Lover’s Lane. Never had she felt so utterly colourless and
skinny and insignificant.
Just where Lover’s Lane debouched on the street, an old car was parked.
Valancy knew that car well—by sound, at least—and everybody in
Deerwood knew it. This was before the phrase “tin Lizzie” had come into
circulation—in Deerwood, at least; but if it had been known, this car was

the tinniest of Lizzies—though it was not a Ford but an old Grey Slosson.
Nothing more battered and disreputable could be imagined.
It was Barney Snaith’s car and Barney himself was just scrambling up
from under it, in overalls plastered with mud. Valancy gave him a swift,
furtive look as she hurried by. This was only the second time she had ever
seen the notorious Barney Snaith, though she had heard enough about him
in the five years that he had been living “up back” in Muskoka. The first
time had been nearly a year ago, on the Muskoka road. He had been
crawling out from under his car then, too, and he had given her a cheerful
grin as she went by—a little, whimsical grin that gave him the look of an
amused gnome. He didn’t look bad—she didn’t believe he was bad, in spite
of the wild yarns that were always being told of him. Of course he went
tearing in that terrible old Grey Slosson through Deerwood at hours when
all decent people were in bed—often with old “Roaring Abel,” who made
the night hideous with his howls—“both of them dead drunk, my dear.”
And every one knew that he was an escaped convict and a defaulting bank
clerk and a murderer in hiding and an infidel and an illegitimate son of old
Roaring Abel Gay and the father of Roaring Abel’s illegitimate grandchild
and a counterfeiter and a forger and a few other awful things. But still
Valancy didn’t believe he was bad. Nobody with a smile like that could be
bad, no matter what he had done.
It was that night the Prince of the Blue Castle changed from a being of
grim jaw and hair with a dash of premature grey to a rakish individual with
overlong, tawny hair, dashed with red, dark-brown eyes, and ears that stuck
out just enough to give him an alert look but not enough to be called flying
jibs. But he still retained something a little grim about the jaw.
Barney Snaith looked even more disreputable than usual just now. It was
very evident that he hadn’t shaved for days, and his hands and arms, bare to
the shoulders, were black with grease. But he was whistling gleefully to
himself and he seemed so happy that Valancy envied him. She envied him
his light-heartedness and his irresponsibility and his mysterious little cabin
up on an island in Lake Mistawis—even his rackety old Grey Slosson.
Neither he nor his car had to be respectable and live up to traditions. When
he rattled past her a few minutes later, bareheaded, leaning back in his
Lizzie at a raffish angle, his longish hair blowing in the wind, a villainous-
looking old black pipe in his mouth, she envied him again. Men had the

best of it, no doubt about that. This outlaw was happy, whatever he was or
wasn’t. She, Valancy Stirling, respectable, well-behaved to the last degree,
was unhappy and had always been unhappy. So there you were.
Valancy was just in time for supper. The sun had clouded over, and a
dismal, drizzling rain was falling again. Cousin Stickles had the neuralgia.
Valancy had to do the family darning and there was no time for Magic of
Wings.
“Can’t the darning wait till tomorrow?” she pleaded.
“Tomorrow will bring its own duties,” said Mrs. Frederick inexorably.
Valancy darned all the evening and listened to Mrs. Frederick and Cousin
Stickles talking the eternal, niggling gossip of the clan, as they knitted
drearily at interminable black stockings. They discussed Second Cousin
Lilian’s approaching wedding in all its bearings. On the whole, they
approved. Second Cousin Lilian was doing well for herself.
“Though she hasn’t hurried,” said Cousin Stickles. “She must be twenty-
five.”
“There have not—fortunately—been many old maids in our connection,”
said Mrs. Frederick bitterly.
Valancy flinched. She had run the darning needle into her finger.
Third Cousin Aaron Gray had been scratched by a cat and had blood-
poisoning in his finger. “Cats are most dangerous animals,” said Mrs.
Frederick. “I would never have a cat about the house.”
She glared significantly at Valancy through her terrible glasses. Once,
five years ago, Valancy had asked if she might have a cat. She had never
referred to it since, but Mrs. Frederick still suspected her of harbouring the
unlawful desire in her heart of hearts.
Once Valancy sneezed. Now, in the Stirling code, it was very bad form to
sneeze in public.
“You can always repress a sneeze by pressing your finger on your upper
lip,” said Mrs. Frederick rebukingly.
Half-past nine o’clock and so, as Mr. Pepys would say, to bed. But First
Cousin Stickles’ neuralgic back must be rubbed with Redfern’s Liniment.
Valancy did that. Valancy always had to do it. She hated the smell of
Redfern’s Liniment—she hated the smug, beaming, portly, be-whiskered,

be-spectacled picture of Dr. Redfern on the bottle. Her fingers smelled of
the horrible stuff after she got into bed, in spite of all the scrubbing she gave
them.
Valancy’s day of destiny had come and gone. She ended it as she had
begun it, in tears.

CHAPTER VII

T here was a rosebush on the little Stirling lawn, growing beside the gate.
It was called “Doss’s rosebush.” Cousin Georgiana had given it to
Valancy five years ago and Valancy had planted it joyfully. She loved
roses. But—of course—the rosebush never bloomed. That was her luck.
Valancy did everything she could think of and took the advice of everybody
in the clan, but still the rosebush would not bloom. It throve and grew
luxuriantly, with great leafy branches untouched of rust or spider; but not
even a bud had ever appeared on it. Valancy, looking at it two days after her
birthday, was filled with a sudden, overwhelming hatred for it. The thing
wouldn’t bloom: very well, then, she would cut it down. She marched to the
tool-room in the barn for her garden knife and she went at the rosebush
viciously. A few minutes later horrified Mrs. Frederick came out to the
verandah and beheld her daughter slashing insanely among the rosebush
boughs. Half of them were already strewn on the walk. The bush looked
sadly dismantled.
“Doss, what on earth are you doing? Have you gone crazy?”
“No,” said Valancy. She meant to say it defiantly, but habit was too
strong for her. She said it deprecatingly. “I—I just made up my mind to cut
this bush down. It is no good. It never blooms—never will bloom.”
“That is no reason for destroying it,” said Mrs. Frederick sternly. “It was
a beautiful bush and quite ornamental. You have made a sorry-looking thing
of it.”
“Rose trees should bloom,” said Valancy a little obstinately.
“Don’t argue with me, Doss. Clear up that mess and leave the bush alone.
I don’t know what Georgiana will say when she sees how you have hacked
it to pieces. Really, I’m surprised at you. And to do it without consulting
me!”
“The bush is mine,” muttered Valancy.

“What’s that? What did you say, Doss?”
“I only said the bush was mine,” repeated Valancy humbly.
Mrs. Frederick turned without a word and marched back into the house.
The mischief was done now. Valancy knew she had offended her mother
deeply and would not be spoken to or noticed in any way for two or three
days. Cousin Stickles would see to Valancy’s bringing-up but Mrs.
Frederick would preserve the stony silence of outraged majesty.
Valancy sighed and put away her garden knife, hanging it precisely on its
precise nail in the tool-shop. She cleared away the severed branches and
swept up the leaves. Her lips twitched as she looked at the straggling bush.
It had an odd resemblance to its shaken, scrawny donor, little Cousin
Georgiana herself.
“I certainly have made an awful-looking thing of it,” thought Valancy.
But she did not feel repentant—only sorry she had offended her mother.
Things would be so uncomfortable until she was forgiven. Mrs. Frederick
was one of those women who can make their anger felt all over a house.
Walls and doors are no protection from it.
“You’d better go uptown and git the mail,” said Cousin Stickles, when
Valancy went in. “I can’t go—I feel all sorter peaky and piny this spring. I
want you to stop at the drugstore and git me a bottle of Redfern’s Blood
Bitters. There’s nothing like Redfern’s Bitters for building a body up.
Cousin James says the Purple Pills are the best, but I know better. My poor
dear husband took Redfern’s Bitters right up to the day he died. Don’t let
them charge you more’n ninety cents. I kin git it for that at the Port. And
what have you been saying to your poor mother? Do you ever stop to think,
Doss, that you kin only have one mother?”
“One is enough for me,” thought Valancy undutifully, as she went
uptown.
She got Cousin Stickles’ bottle of bitters and then she went to the post-
office and asked for her mail at the General Delivery. Her mother did not
have a box. They got too little mail to bother with it. Valancy did not expect
any mail, except the Christian Times, which was the only paper they took.
They hardly ever got any letters. But Valancy rather liked to stand in the
office and watch Mr. Carewe, the grey-bearded, Santa-Clausy old clerk,
handing out letters to the lucky people who did get them. He did it with

such a detached, impersonal, Jove-like air, as if it did not matter in the least
to him what supernal joys or shattering horrors might be in those letters for
the people to whom they were addressed. Letters had a fascination for
Valancy, perhaps because she so seldom got any. In her Blue Castle exciting
epistles, bound with silk and sealed with crimson, were always being
brought to her by pages in livery of gold and blue, but in real life her only
letters were occasional perfunctory notes from relatives or an advertising
circular.
Consequently she was immensely surprised when Mr. Carewe, looking
even more Jovian than usual, poked a letter out to her. Yes, it was addressed
to her plainly, in a fierce, black hand: “Miss Valancy Stirling, Elm Street,
Deerwood”—and the postmark was Montreal. Valancy picked it up with a
little quickening of her breath. Montreal! It must be from Doctor Trent. He
had remembered her, after all.
Valancy met Uncle Benjamin coming in as she was going out and was
glad the letter was safely in her bag.
“What,” said Uncle Benjamin, “is the difference between a donkey and a
postage-stamp?”
“I don’t know. What?” answered Valancy dutifully.
“One you lick with a stick and the other you stick with a lick. Ha, ha!”
Uncle Benjamin passed in, tremendously pleased with himself.
Cousin Stickles pounced on the Times when Valancy got home, but it did
not occur to her to ask if there were any letters. Mrs. Frederick would have
asked it, but Mrs. Frederick’s lips at present were sealed. Valancy was glad
of this. If her mother had asked if there were any letters Valancy would
have had to admit there was. Then she would have had to let her mother and
Cousin Stickles read the letter and all would be discovered.
Her heart acted strangely on the way upstairs, and she sat down by her
window for a few minutes before opening her letter. She felt very guilty and
deceitful. She had never before kept a letter secret from her mother. Every
letter she had ever written or received had been read by Mrs. Frederick.
That had never mattered. Valancy had never had anything to hide. But this
did matter. She could not have any one see this letter. But her fingers
trembled with a consciousness of wickedness and unfilial conduct as she
opened it—trembled a little, too, perhaps, with apprehension. She felt quite

sure there was nothing seriously wrong with her heart but—one never
knew.
Dr. Trent’s letter was like himself—blunt, abrupt, concise, wasting no
words. Dr. Trent never beat about the bush. “Dear Miss Sterling”—and then
a page of black, positive writing. Valancy seemed to read it at a glance; she
dropped it on her lap, her face ghost-white.
Dr. Trent told her that she had a very dangerous and fatal form of heart
disease—angina pectoris—evidently complicated with an aneurism—
whatever that was—and in the last stages. He said, without mincing
matters, that nothing could be done for her. If she took great care of herself
she might live a year—but she might also die at any moment—Dr. Trent
never troubled himself about euphemisms. She must be careful to avoid all
excitement and all severe muscular efforts. She must eat and drink
moderately, she must never run, she must go upstairs and uphill with great
care. Any sudden jolt or shock might be fatal. She was to get the
prescription he enclosed filled and carry it with her always, taking a dose
whenever her attacks came on. And he was hers truly, H. B. Trent.
Valancy sat for a long while by her window. Outside was a world
drowned in the light of a spring afternoon—skies entrancingly blue, winds
perfumed and free, lovely, soft, blue hazes at the end of every street. Over at
the railway station a group of young girls was waiting for a train; she heard
their gay laughter as they chattered and joked. The train roared in and
roared out again. But none of these things had any reality. Nothing had any
reality except the fact that she had only another year to live.
When she was tired of sitting at the window she went over and lay down
on her bed, staring at the cracked, discoloured ceiling. The curious
numbness that follows on a staggering blow possessed her. She did not feel
anything except a boundless surprise and incredulity—behind which was
the conviction that Dr. Trent knew his business and that she, Valancy
Stirling, who had never lived, was about to die.
When the gong rang for supper Valancy got up and went downstairs
mechanically, from force of habit. She wondered that she had been let alone
so long. But of course her mother would not pay any attention to her just
now. Valancy was thankful for this. She thought the quarrel over the
rosebush had been really, as Mrs. Frederick herself might have said,
Providential. She could not eat anything, but both Mrs. Frederick and

Cousin Stickles thought this was because she was deservedly unhappy over
her mother’s attitude, and her lack of appetite was not commented on.
Valancy forced herself to swallow a cup of tea and then sat and watched the
others eat, with an odd feeling that years had passed since she had sat with
them at the dinner-table. She found herself smiling inwardly to think what a
commotion she could make if she chose. Let her merely tell them what was
in Dr. Trent’s letter and there would be as much fuss made as if—Valancy
thought bitterly—they really cared two straws about her.
“Dr. Trent’s housekeeper got word from him today,” said Cousin Stickles,
so suddenly that Valancy jumped guiltily. Was there anything in thought
waves? “Mrs. Judd was talking to her uptown. They think his son will
recover, but Dr. Trent wrote that if he did he was going to take him abroad
as soon as he was able to travel and wouldn’t be back here for a year at
least.”
“That will not matter much to us,” said Mrs. Frederick majestically. “He
is not our doctor. I would not”—here she looked or seemed to look
accusingly right through Valancy—“have him to doctor a sick cat.”
“May I go upstairs and lie down?” said Valancy faintly. “I—I have a
headache.”
“What has given you a headache?” asked Cousin Stickles, since Mrs.
Frederick would not. The question had to be asked. Valancy could not be
allowed to have headaches without interference.
“You ain’t in the habit of having headaches. I hope you’re not taking the
mumps. Here, try a spoonful of vinegar.”
“Piffle!” said Valancy rudely, getting up from the table. She did not care
just then if she were rude. She had had to be so polite all her life.
If it had been possible for Cousin Stickles to turn pale she would have.
As it was not, she turned yellower.
“Are you sure you ain’t feverish, Doss? You sound like it. You go and get
right into bed,” said Cousin Stickles, thoroughly alarmed, “and I’ll come up
and rub your forehead and the back of your neck with Redfern’s Liniment.”
Valancy had reached the door, but she turned. “I won’t be rubbed with
Redfern’s Liniment!” she said.
Cousin Stickles stared and gasped. “What—what do you mean?”

“I said I wouldn’t be rubbed with Redfern’s Liniment,” repeated Valancy.
“Horrid, sticky stuff! And it has the vilest smell of any liniment I ever saw.
It’s no good. I want to be left alone, that’s all.”
Valancy went out, leaving Cousin Stickles aghast.
“She’s feverish—she must be feverish,” ejaculated Cousin Stickles.
Mrs. Frederick went on eating her supper. It did not matter whether
Valancy was or was not feverish. Valancy had been guilty of impertinence
to her.

CHAPTER VIII

V alancy did not sleep that night. She lay awake all through the long dark
hours—thinking—thinking. She made a discovery that surprised her:
she, who had been afraid of almost everything in life, was not afraid of
death. It did not seem in the least terrible to her. And she need not now be
afraid of anything else. Why had she been afraid of things? Because of life.
Afraid of Uncle Benjamin because of the menace of poverty in old age. But
now she would never be old—neglected—tolerated. Afraid of being an old
maid all her life. But now she would not be an old maid very long. Afraid of
offending her mother and her clan because she had to live with and among
them and couldn’t live peaceably if she didn’t give in to them. But now she
hadn’t. Valancy felt a curious freedom.
But she was still horribly afraid of one thing—the fuss the whole jamfry
of them would make when she told them. Valancy shuddered at the thought
of it. She couldn’t endure it. Oh, she knew so well how it would be. First
there would be indignation—yes, indignation on the part of Uncle James
because she had gone to a doctor—any doctor—without consulting HIM.
Indignation on the part of her mother for being so sly and deceitful—“to
your own mother, Doss.” Indignation on the part of the whole clan because
she had not gone to Dr. Marsh.
Then would come the solicitude. She would be taken to Dr. Marsh, and
when Dr. Marsh confirmed Dr. Trent’s diagnosis she would be taken to
specialists in Toronto and Montreal. Uncle Benjamin would foot the bill
with a splendid gesture of munificence in thus assisting the widow and
orphan, and talk forever after of the shocking fees specialists charged for
looking wise and saying they couldn’t do anything. And when the
specialists could do nothing for her Uncle James would insist on her taking
Purple Pills—“I’ve known them to effect a cure when all the doctors had
given up”—and her mother would insist on Redfern’s Blood Bitters, and
Cousin Stickles would insist on rubbing her over the heart every night with

Redfern’s Liniment on the grounds that it might do good and couldn’t do
harm; and everybody else would have some pet dope for her to take. Dr.
Stalling would come to her and say solemnly, “You are very ill. Are you
prepared for what may be before you?”—almost as if he were going to
shake his forefinger at her, the forefinger that had not grown any shorter or
less knobbly with age. And she would be watched and checked like a baby
and never let do anything or go anywhere alone. Perhaps she would not
even be allowed to sleep alone lest she die in her sleep. Cousin Stickles or
her mother would insist on sharing her room and bed. Yes, undoubtedly
they would.
It was this last thought that really decided Valancy. She could not put up
with it and she wouldn’t. As the clock in the hall below struck twelve
Valancy suddenly and definitely made up her mind that she would not tell
anybody. She had always been told, ever since she could remember, that she
must hide her feelings. “It is not ladylike to have feelings,” Cousin Stickles
had once told her disapprovingly. Well, she would hide them with a
vengeance.
But though she was not afraid of death she was not indifferent to it. She
found that she resented it; it was not fair that she should have to die when
she had never lived. Rebellion flamed up in her soul as the dark hours
passed by—not because she had no future but because she had no past.
“I’m poor—I’m ugly—I’m a failure—and I’m near death,” she thought.
She could see her own obituary notice in the Deerwood Weekly Times,
copied into the Port Lawrence Journal. “A deep gloom was cast over
Deerwood, etc., etc.”—“leaves a large circle of friends to mourn, etc., etc.,
etc.”—lies, all lies. Gloom, forsooth! Nobody would miss her. Her death
would not matter a straw to anybody. Not even her mother loved her—her
mother who had been so disappointed that she was not a boy—or at least, a
pretty girl.
Valancy reviewed her whole life between midnight and the early spring
dawn. It was a very drab existence, but here and there an incident loomed
out with a significance out of all proportion to its real importance. These
incidents were all unpleasant in one way or another. Nothing really pleasant
had ever happened to Valancy.
“I’ve never had one wholly happy hour in my life—not one,” she
thought. “I’ve just been a colourless nonentity. I remember reading

somewhere once that there is an hour in which a woman might be happy all
her life if she could but find it. I’ve never found my hour—never, never.
And I never will now. If I could only have had that hour I’d be willing to
die.”
Those significant incidents kept bobbing up in her mind like unbidden
ghosts, without any sequence of time or place. For instance, that time when,
at sixteen, she had blued a tubful of clothes too deeply. And the time when,
at eight, she had “stolen” some raspberry jam from Aunt Wellington’s
pantry. Valancy never heard the last of those two misdemeanours. At almost
every clan gathering they were raked up against her as jokes. Uncle
Benjamin hardly ever missed re-telling the raspberry jam incident—he had
been the one to catch her, her face all stained and streaked.
“I have really done so few bad things that they have to keep harping on
the old ones,” thought Valancy. “Why, I’ve never even had a quarrel with
any one. I haven’t an enemy. What a spineless thing I must be not to have
even one enemy!”
There was that incident of the dust-pile at school when she was seven.
Valancy always recalled it when Dr. Stalling referred to the text, “To him
that hath shall be given and from him that hath not shall be taken even that
which he hath.” Other people might puzzle over that text but it never
puzzled Valancy. The whole relationship between herself and Olive, dating
from the day of the dust-pile, was a commentary on it.
She had been going to school a year, but Olive, who was a year younger,
had just begun and had about her all the glamour of “a new girl” and an
exceedingly pretty girl at that. It was at recess and all the girls, big and
little, were out on the road in front of the school making dust-piles. The aim
of each girl was to have the biggest pile. Valancy was good at making dust-
piles—there was an art in it—and she had secret hopes of leading. But
Olive, working off by herself, was suddenly discovered to have a larger
dust-pile than anybody. Valancy felt no jealousy. Her dust-pile was quite big
enough to please her. Then one of the older girls had an inspiration.
“Let’s put all our dust on Olive’s pile and make a tremendous one,” she
exclaimed.
A frenzy seemed to seize the girls. They swooped down on the dust-piles
with pails and shovels and in a few seconds Olive’s pile was a veritable
pyramid. In vain Valancy, with scrawny, outstretched little arms, tried to

protect hers. She was ruthlessly swept aside, her dust-pile scooped up and
poured on Olive’s. Valancy turned away resolutely and began building
another dust-pile. Again a bigger girl pounced on it. Valancy stood before it,
flushed, indignant, arms outspread.
“Don’t take it,” she pleaded. “Please don’t take it.”
“But why?” demanded the older girl. “Why won’t you help to build
Olive’s bigger?”
“I want my own little dust-pile,” said Valancy piteously.
Her plea went unheeded. While she argued with one girl another scraped
up her dust-pile. Valancy turned away, her heart swelling, her eyes full of
tears.
“Jealous—you’re jealous!” said the girls mockingly.
“You were very selfish,” said her mother coldly, when Valancy told her
about it at night. That was the first and last time Valancy had ever taken any
of her troubles to her mother.
Valancy was neither jealous nor selfish. It was only that she wanted a
dust-pile of her own—small or big mattered not. A team of horses came
down the street—Olive’s dust pile was scattered over the roadway—the bell
rang—the girls trooped into school and had forgotten the whole affair
before they reached their seats. Valancy never forgot it. To this day she
resented it in her secret soul. But was it not symbolical of her life?
“I’ve never been able to have my own dust-pile,” thought Valancy.
The enormous red moon she had seen rising right at the end of the street
one autumn evening of her sixth year. She had been sick and cold with the
awful, uncanny horror of it. So near to her. So big. She had run in trembling
to her mother and her mother had laughed at her. She had gone to bed and
hidden her face under the clothes in terror lest she might look at the window
and see that horrible moon glaring in at her through it.
The boy who had tried to kiss her at a party when she was fifteen. She
had not let him—she had evaded him and run. He was the only boy who
had ever tried to kiss her. Now, fourteen years later, Valancy found herself
wishing that she had let him.
The time she had been made to apologise to Olive for something she
hadn’t done. Olive had said that Valancy had pushed her into the mud and
spoiled her new shoes on purpose. Valancy knew she hadn’t. It had been an

accident—and even that wasn’t her fault—but nobody would believe her.
She had to apologise—and kiss Olive to “make up.” The injustice of it
burned in her soul tonight.
That summer when Olive had the most beautiful hat, trimmed with
creamy yellow net, with a wreath of red roses and little ribbon bows under
the chin. Valancy had wanted a hat like that more than she had ever wanted
anything. She pleaded for one and had been laughed at—all summer she
had to wear a horrid little brown sailor with elastic that cut behind her ears.
None of the girls would go around with her because she was so shabby—
nobody but Olive. People had thought Olive so sweet and unselfish.
“I was an excellent foil for her,” thought Valancy. “Even then she knew
that.”
Valancy had tried to win a prize for attendance in Sunday School once.
But Olive won it. There were so many Sundays Valancy had to stay home
because she had colds. She had once tried to “say a piece” in school one
Friday afternoon and had broken down in it. Olive was a good reciter and
never got stuck.
The night she had spent in Port Lawrence with Aunt Isabel when she was
ten. Byron Stirling was there; from Montreal, twelve years old, conceited,
clever. At family prayers in the morning Byron had reached across and
given Valancy’s thin arm such a savage pinch that she screamed out with
pain. After prayers were over she was summoned to Aunt Isabel’s bar of
judgment. But when she said Byron had pinched her Byron denied it. He
said she cried out because the kitten scratched her. He said she had put the
kitten up on her chair and was playing with it when she should have been
listening to Uncle David’s prayer. He was believed. In the Stirling clan the
boys were always believed before the girls. Valancy was sent home in
disgrace because of her exceedingly bad behavior during family prayers and
she was not asked to Aunt Isabel’s again for many moons.
The time Cousin Betty Stirling was married. Somehow Valancy got wind
of the fact that Betty was going to ask her to be one of her bridesmaids.
Valancy was secretly uplifted. It would be a delightful thing to be a
bridesmaid. And of course she would have to have a new dress for it—a
pretty new dress—a pink dress. Betty wanted her bridesmaids to dress in
pink.

But Betty had never asked her, after all. Valancy couldn’t guess why, but
long after her secret tears of disappointment had been dried Olive told her.
Betty, after much consultation and reflection, had decided that Valancy was
too insignificant—she would “spoil the effect.” That was nine years ago.
But tonight Valancy caught her breath with the old pain and sting of it.
That day in her eleventh year when her mother had badgered her into
confessing something she had never done. Valancy had denied it for a long
time but eventually for peace’ sake she had given in and pleaded guilty.
Mrs. Frederick was always making people lie by pushing them into
situations where they had to lie. Then her mother had made her kneel down
on the parlour floor, between herself and Cousin Stickles, and say, “O God,
please forgive me for not speaking the truth.” Valancy had said it, but as she
rose from her knees she muttered, “But, O God, you know I did speak the
truth.” Valancy had not then heard of Galileo but her fate was similar to his.
She was punished just as severely as if she hadn’t confessed and prayed.
The winter she went to dancing-school. Uncle James had decreed she
should go and had paid for her lessons. How she had looked forward to it!
And how she had hated it! She had never had a voluntary partner. The
teacher always had to tell some boy to dance with her, and generally he had
been sulky about it. Yet Valancy was a good dancer, as light on her feet as
thistledown. Olive, who never lacked eager partners, was heavy.
The affair of the button-string, when she was ten. All the girls in school
had button-strings. Olive had a very long one with a great many beautiful
buttons. Valancy had one. Most of the buttons on it were very
commonplace, but she had six beauties that had come off Grandmother
Stirling’s wedding-gown—sparkling buttons of gold and glass, much more
beautiful than any Olive had. Their possession conferred a certain
distinction on Valancy. She knew every little girl in school envied her the
exclusive possession of those beautiful buttons. When Olive saw them on
the button-string she had looked at them narrowly but said nothing—then.
The next day Aunt Wellington had come to Elm Street and told Mrs.
Frederick that she thought Olive should have some of those buttons—
Grandmother Stirling was just as much Wellington’s mother as Frederick’s.
Mrs. Frederick had agreed amiably. She could not afford to fall out with
Aunt Wellington. Moreover, the matter was of no importance whatever.
Aunt Wellington carried off four of the buttons, generously leaving two for

Valancy. Valancy had torn these from her string and flung them on the floor
—she had not yet learned that it was unladylike to have feelings—and had
been sent supperless to bed for the exhibition.
The night of Margaret Blunt’s party. She had made such pathetic efforts
to be pretty that night. Rob Walker was to be there; and two nights before,
on the moonlit verandah of Uncle Herbert’s cottage at Mistawis, Rob had
really seemed attracted to her. At Margaret’s party Rob never even asked
her to dance—did not notice her at all. She was a wallflower, as usual. That,
of course, was years ago. People in Deerwood had long since given up
inviting Valancy to dances. But to Valancy its humiliation and
disappointment were of the other day. Her face burned in the darkness as
she recalled herself, sitting there with her pitifully crimped, thin hair and
the cheeks she had pinched for an hour before coming, in an effort to make
them red. All that came of it was a wild story that Valancy Stirling was
rouged at Margaret Blunt’s party. In those days in Deerwood that was
enough to wreck your character forever. It did not wreck Valancy’s, or even
damage it. People knew she couldn’t be fast if she tried. They only laughed
at her.
“I’ve had nothing but a second-hand existence,” decided Valancy. “All
the great emotions of life have passed me by. I’ve never even had a grief.
And have I ever really loved anybody? Do I really love Mother? No, I
don’t. That’s the truth, whether it is disgraceful or not. I don’t love her—
I’ve never loved her. What’s worse, I don’t even like her. So I don’t know
anything about any kind of love. My life has been empty—empty. Nothing
is worse than emptiness. Nothing!” Valancy ejaculated the last “nothing”
aloud passionately. Then she moaned and stopped thinking about anything
for a while. One of her attacks of pain had come on.
When it was over something had happened to Valancy—perhaps the
culmination of the process that had been going on in her mind ever since
she had read Dr. Trent’s letter. It was three o’clock in the morning—the
wisest and most accursed hour of the clock. But sometimes it sets us free.
“I’ve been trying to please other people all my life and failed,” she said.
“After this I shall please myself. I shall never pretend anything again. I’ve
breathed an atmosphere of fibs and pretences and evasions all my life. What
a luxury it will be to tell the truth! I may not be able to do much that I want
to do but I won’t do another thing that I don’t want to do. Mother can pout

for weeks—I shan’t worry over it. ‘Despair is a free man—hope is a
slave.’”
Valancy got up and dressed, with a deepening of that curious sense of
freedom. When she had finished with her hair she opened the window and
hurled the jar of potpourri over into the next lot. It smashed gloriously
against the schoolgirl complexion on the old carriage-shop.
“I’m sick of the fragrance of dead things,” said Valancy.

CHAPTER IX

U ncle 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.

CHAPTER X

“B less this food to our use and consecrate our lives to Thy service,”
said Uncle Herbert briskly.
Aunt Wellington frowned. She always considered Herbert’s graces
entirely too short and “flippant.” A grace, to be a grace in Aunt Wellington’s
eyes, had to be at least three minutes long and uttered in an unearthly tone,
between a groan and a chant. As a protest she kept her head bent a
perceptible time after all the rest had been lifted. When she permitted
herself to sit upright she found Valancy looking at her. Ever afterwards Aunt
Wellington averred that she had known from that moment that there was
something wrong with Valancy. In those queer, slanted eyes of hers—“we
should always have known she was not entirely right with eyes like that”—
there was an odd gleam of mockery and amusement—as if Valancy were
laughing at her. Such a thing was unthinkable, of course. Aunt Wellington
at once ceased to think it.
Valancy was enjoying herself. She had never enjoyed herself at a “family
reunion” before. In social functions, as in childish games, she had only
“filled in.” Her clan had always considered her very dull. She had no
parlour tricks. And she had been in the habit of taking refuge from the
boredom of family parties in her Blue Castle, which resulted in an absent-
mindedness that increased her reputation for dulness and vacuity.
“She has no social presence whatever,” Aunt Wellington had decreed
once and for all. Nobody dreamed that Valancy was dumb in their presence
merely because she was afraid of them. Now she was no longer afraid of
them. The shackles had been stricken off her soul. She was quite prepared
to talk if occasion offered. Meanwhile she was giving herself such freedom
of thought as she had never dared to take before. She let herself go with a
wild, inner exultation, as Uncle Herbert carved the turkey. Uncle Herbert
gave Valancy a second look that day. Being a man, he didn’t know what she
had done to her hair, but he thought surprisedly that Doss was not such a

bad-looking girl, after all; and he put an extra piece of white meat on her
plate.
“What herb is most injurious to a young lady’s beauty?” propounded
Uncle Benjamin by way of starting conversation—“loosening things up a
bit,” as he would have said.
Valancy, whose duty it was to say, “What?” did not say it. Nobody else
said it, so Uncle Benjamin, after an expectant pause, had to answer,
“Thyme,” and felt that his riddle had fallen flat. He looked resentfully at
Valancy, who had never failed him before, but Valancy did not seem even to
be aware of him. She was gazing around the table, examining relentlessly
every one in this depressing assembly of sensible people and watching their
little squirms with a detached, amused smile.
So these were the people she had always held in reverence and fear. She
seemed to see them with new eyes.
Big, capable, patronising, voluble Aunt Mildred, who thought herself the
cleverest woman in the clan, her husband a little lower than the angels and
her children wonders. Had not her son, Howard, been all through teething at
eleven months? And could she not tell you the best way to do everything,
from cooking mushrooms to picking up a snake? What a bore she was!
What ugly moles she had on her face!
Cousin Gladys, who was always praising her son, who had died young,
and always fighting with her living one. She had neuritis—or what she
called neuritis. It jumped about from one part of her body to another. It was
a convenient thing. If anybody wanted her to go somewhere she didn’t want
to go she had neuritis in her legs. And always if any mental effort was
required she could have neuritis in her head. You can’t think with neuritis in
your head, my dear.
“What an old humbug you are!” thought Valancy impiously.
Aunt Isabel. Valancy counted her chins. Aunt Isabel was the critic of the
clan. She had always gone about squashing people flat. More members of it
than Valancy were afraid of her. She had, it was conceded, a biting tongue.
“I wonder what would happen to your face if you ever smiled,”
speculated Valancy, unblushingly.
Second Cousin Sarah Taylor, with her great, pale, expressionless eyes,
who was noted for the variety of her pickle recipes and for nothing else. So

afraid of saying something indiscreet that she never said anything worth
listening to. So proper that she blushed when she saw the advertisement
picture of a corset and had put a dress on her Venus de Milo statuette which
made it look “real tasty.”
Little Cousin Georgiana. Not such a bad little soul. But dreary—very.
Always looking as if she had just been starched and ironed. Always afraid
to let herself go. The only thing she really enjoyed was a funeral. You knew
where you were with a corpse. Nothing more could happen to it. But while
there was life there was fear.
Uncle James. Handsome, black, with his sarcastic, trap-like mouth and
iron-grey side-burns, whose favourite amusement was to write controversial
letters to the Christian Times, attacking Modernism. Valancy always
wondered if he looked as solemn when he was asleep as he did when
awake. No wonder his wife had died young. Valancy remembered her. A
pretty, sensitive thing. Uncle James had denied her everything she wanted
and showered on her everything she didn’t want. He had killed her—quite
legally. She had been smothered and starved.
Uncle Benjamin, wheezy, pussy-mouthed. With great pouches under eyes
that held nothing in reverence.
Uncle Wellington. Long, pallid face, thin, pale-yellow hair—“one of the
fair Stirlings”—thin, stooping body, abominably high forehead with such
ugly wrinkles, and “eyes about as intelligent as a fish’s,” thought Valancy.
“Looks like a cartoon of himself.”
Aunt Wellington. Named Mary but called by her husband’s name to
distinguish her from Great-aunt Mary. A massive, dignified, permanent
lady. Splendidly arranged, iron-grey hair. Rich, fashionable beaded dress.
Had her moles removed by electrolysis—which Aunt Mildred thought was
a wicked evasion of the purposes of God.
Uncle Herbert, with his spiky grey hair. Aunt Alberta, who twisted her
mouth so unpleasantly in talking and had a great reputation for
unselfishness because she was always giving up a lot of things she didn’t
want. Valancy let them off easily in her judgment because she liked them,
even if they were in Milton’s expressive phrase, “stupidly good.” But she
wondered for what inscrutable reason Aunt Alberta had seen fit to tie a
black velvet ribbon around each of her chubby arms above the elbow.

Then she looked across the table at Olive. Olive, who had been held up to
her as a paragon of beauty, behaviour and success as long as she could
remember. “Why can’t you hold yourself like Olive, Doss? Why can’t you
stand correctly like Olive, Doss? Why can’t you speak prettily like Olive,
Doss? Why can’t you make an effort, Doss?”
Valancy’s elfin eyes lost their mocking glitter and became pensive and
sorrowful. You could not ignore or disdain Olive. It was quite impossible to
deny that she was beautiful and effective and sometimes she was a little
intelligent. Her mouth might be a trifle heavy—she might show her fine,
white, regular teeth rather too lavishly when she smiled. But when all was
said and done, Olive justified Uncle Benjamin’s summing up—“a stunning
girl.” Yes, Valancy agreed in her heart, Olive was stunning.
Rich, golden-brown hair, elaborately dressed, with a sparkling bandeau
holding its glossy puffs in place; large, brilliant blue eyes and thick silken
lashes; face of rose and bare neck of snow, rising above her gown; great
pearl bubbles in her ears; the blue-white diamond flame on her long,
smooth, waxen finger with its rosy, pointed nail. Arms of marble, gleaming
through green chiffon and shadow lace. Valancy felt suddenly thankful that
her own scrawny arms were decently swathed in brown silk. Then she
resumed her tabulation of Olive’s charms.
Tall. Queenly. Confident. Everything that Valancy was not. Dimples, too,
in cheeks and chin. “A woman with dimples always gets her own way,”
thought Valancy, in a recurring spasm of bitterness at the fate which had
denied her even one dimple.
Olive was only a year younger than Valancy, though a stranger would
have thought that there was at least ten years between them. But nobody
ever dreaded old maidenhood for her. Olive had been surrounded by a
crowd of eager beaus since her early teens, just as her mirror was always
surrounded by a fringe of cards, photographs, programmes and invitations.
At eighteen, when she had graduated from Havergal College, Olive had
been engaged to Will Desmond, lawyer in embryo. Will Desmond had died
and Olive had mourned for him properly for two years. When she was
twenty-three she had a hectic affair with Donald Jackson. But Aunt and
Uncle Wellington disapproved of that and in the end Olive dutifully gave
him up. Nobody in the Stirling clan—whatever outsiders might say—hinted
that she did so because Donald himself was cooling off. However that

might be, Olive’s third venture met with everybody’s approval. Cecil Price
was clever and handsome and “one of the Port Lawrence Prices.” Olive had
been engaged to him for three years. He had just graduated in civil
engineering and they were to be married as soon as he landed a contract.
Olive’s hope chest was full to overflowing with exquisite things and Olive
had already confided to Valancy what her wedding-dress was to be. Ivory
silk draped with lace, white satin court train, lined with pale green
georgette, heirloom veil of Brussels lace. Valancy knew also—though Olive
had not told her—that the bridesmaids were selected and that she was not
among them.
Valancy had, after a fashion, always been Olive’s confidante—perhaps
because she was the only girl in the connection who could not bore Olive
with return confidences. Olive always told Valancy all the details of her
love affairs, from the days when the little boys in school used to “persecute”
her with love letters. Valancy could not comfort herself by thinking these
affairs mythical. Olive really had them. Many men had gone mad over her
besides the three fortunate ones.
“I don’t know what the poor idiots see in me, that drives them to make
such double idiots of themselves,” Olive was wont to say. Valancy would
have liked to say, “I don’t either,” but truth and diplomacy both restrained
her. She did know, perfectly well. Olive Stirling was one of the girls about
whom men do go mad just as indubitably as she, Valancy, was one of the
girls at whom no man ever looked twice.
“And yet,” thought Valancy, summing her up with a new and merciless
conclusiveness, “she’s like a dewless morning. There’s something lacking.”

CHAPTER XI

M eanwhile the dinner in its earlier stages was dragging its slow length
along true to Stirling form. The room was chilly, in spite of the
calendar, and Aunt Alberta had the gas-logs lighted. Everybody in the
clan envied her those gas-logs except Valancy. Glorious open fires blazed in
every room of her Blue Castle when autumnal nights were cool, but she
would have frozen to death in it before she would have committed the
sacrilege of a gas-log. Uncle Herbert made his hardy perennial joke when
he helped Aunt Wellington to the cold meat—“Mary, will you have a little
lamb?” Aunt Mildred told the same old story of once finding a lost ring in a
turkey’s crop. Uncle Benjamin told his favourite prosy tale of how he had
once chased and punished a now famous man for stealing apples. Second
Cousin Jane described all her sufferings with an ulcerating tooth. Aunt
Wellington admired the pattern of Aunt Alberta’s silver teaspoons and
lamented the fact that one of her own had been lost.
“It spoiled the set. I could never get it matched. And it was my wedding-
present from dear old Aunt Matilda.”
Aunt Isabel thought the seasons were changing and couldn’t imagine
what had become of our good, old-fashioned springs. Cousin Georgiana, as
usual, discussed the last funeral and wondered, audibly, “which of us will
be the next to pass away.” Cousin Georgiana could never say anything as
blunt as “die.” Valancy thought she could tell her, but didn’t. Cousin
Gladys, likewise as usual, had a grievance. Her visiting nephews had
nipped all the buds off her house-plants and chivied her brood of fancy
chickens—“squeezed some of them actually to death, my dear.”
“Boys will be boys,” reminded Uncle Herbert tolerantly.
“But they needn’t be ramping, rampageous animals,” retorted Cousin
Gladys, looking round the table for appreciation of her wit. Everybody
smiled except Valancy. Cousin Gladys remembered that. A few minutes
later, when Ellen Hamilton was being discussed, Cousin Gladys spoke of

her as “one of those shy, plain girls who can’t get husbands,” and glanced
significantly at Valancy.
Uncle James thought the conversation was sagging to a rather low plane
of personal gossip. He tried to elevate it by starting an abstract discussion
on “the greatest happiness.” Everybody was asked to state his or her idea of
“the greatest happiness.”
Aunt Mildred thought the greatest happiness—for a woman—was to be
“a loving and beloved wife and mother.” Aunt Wellington thought it would
be to travel in Europe. Olive thought it would be to be a great singer like
Tetrazzini. Cousin Gladys remarked mournfully that her greatest happiness
would be to be free—absolutely free—from neuritis. Cousin Georgiana’s
greatest happiness would be “to have her dear, dead brother Richard back.”
Aunt Alberta remarked vaguely that the greatest happiness was to be found
in “the poetry of life” and hastily gave some directions to her maid to
prevent any one asking her what she meant. Mrs. Frederick said the greatest
happiness was to spend your life in loving service for others, and Cousin
Stickles and Aunt Isabel agreed with her—Aunt Isabel with a resentful air,
as if she thought Mrs. Frederick had taken the wind out of her sails by
saying it first. “We are all too prone,” continued Mrs. Frederick, determined
not to lose so good an opportunity, “to live in selfishness, worldliness and
sin.” The other women all felt rebuked for their low ideals, and Uncle
James had a conviction that the conversation had been uplifted with a
vengeance.
“The greatest happiness,” said Valancy suddenly and distinctly, “is to
sneeze when you want to.”
Everybody stared. Nobody felt it safe to say anything. Was Valancy
trying to be funny? It was incredible. Mrs. Frederick, who had been
breathing easier since the dinner had progressed so far without any outbreak
on the part of Valancy, began to tremble again. But she deemed it the part of
prudence to say nothing. Uncle Benjamin was not so prudent. He rashly
rushed in where Mrs. Frederick feared to tread.
“Doss,” he chuckled, “what is the difference between a young girl and an
old maid?”
“One is happy and careless and the other is cappy and hairless,” said
Valancy. “You have asked that riddle at least fifty times in my recollection,

Uncle Ben. Why don’t you hunt up some new riddles if riddle you must? It
is such a fatal mistake to try to be funny if you don’t succeed.”
Uncle Benjamin stared foolishly. Never in his life had he, Benjamin
Stirling, of Stirling and Frost, been spoken to so. And by Valancy of all
people! He looked feebly around the table to see what the others thought of
it. Everybody was looking rather blank. Poor Mrs. Frederick had shut her
eyes. And her lips moved tremblingly—as if she were praying. Perhaps she
was. The situation was so unprecedented that nobody knew how to meet it.
Valancy went on calmly eating her salad as if nothing out of the usual had
occurred.
Aunt Alberta, to save her dinner, plunged into an account of how a dog
had bitten her recently. Uncle James, to back her up, asked where the dog
had bitten her.
“Just a little below the Catholic church,” said Aunt Alberta.
At that point Valancy laughed. Nobody else laughed. What was there to
laugh at?
“Is that a vital part?” asked Valancy.
“What do you mean?” said bewildered Aunt Alberta, and Mrs. Frederick
was almost driven to believe that she had served God all her years for
naught.
Aunt Isabel concluded that it was up to her to suppress Valancy.
“Doss, you are horribly thin,” she said. “You are all corners. Do you ever
try to fatten up a little?”
“No.” Valancy was not asking quarter or giving it. “But I can tell you
where you’ll find a beauty parlor in Port Lawrence where they can reduce
the number of your chins.”
“Val-an-cy!” The protest was wrung from Mrs. Frederick. She meant her
tone to be stately and majestic, as usual, but it sounded more like an
imploring whine. And she did not say “Doss.”
“She’s feverish,” said Cousin Stickles to Uncle Benjamin in an agonised
whisper. “We’ve thought she’s seemed feverish for several days.”
“She’s gone dippy, in my opinion,” growled Uncle Benjamin. “If not, she
ought to be spanked. Yes, spanked.”

“You can’t spank her.” Cousin Stickles was much agitated. “She’s
twenty-nine years old.”
“So there is that advantage, at least, in being twenty-nine,” said Valancy,
whose ears had caught this aside.
“Doss,” said Uncle Benjamin, “when I am dead you may say what you
please. As long as I am alive I demand to be treated with respect.”
“Oh, but you know we’re all dead,” said Valancy, “the whole Stirling
clan. Some of us are buried and some aren’t—yet. That is the only
difference.”
“Doss,” said Uncle Benjamin, thinking it might cow Valancy, “do you
remember the time you stole the raspberry jam?”
Valancy flushed scarlet—with suppressed laughter, not shame. She had
been sure Uncle Benjamin would drag that jam in somehow.
“Of course I do,” she said. “It was good jam. I’ve always been sorry I
hadn’t time to eat more of it before you found me. Oh, look at Aunt Isabel’s
profile on the wall. Did you ever see anything so funny?”
Everybody looked, including Aunt Isabel herself, which of course,
destroyed it. But Uncle Herbert said kindly, “I—I wouldn’t eat any more if I
were you, Doss. It isn’t that I grudge it—but don’t you think it would be
better for yourself? Your—your stomach seems a little out of order.”
“Don’t worry about my stomach, old dear,” said Valancy. “It is all right.
I’m going to keep right on eating. It’s so seldom I get the chance of a
satisfying meal.”
It was the first time any one had been called “old dear” in Deerwood. The
Stirlings thought Valancy had invented the phrase and they were afraid of
her from that moment. There was something so uncanny about such an
expression. But in poor Mrs. Frederick’s opinion the reference to a
satisfying meal was the worst thing Valancy had said yet. Valancy had
always been a disappointment to her. Now she was a disgrace. She thought
she would have to get up and go away from the table. Yet she dared not
leave Valancy there.
Aunt Alberta’s maid came in to remove the salad plates and bring in the
dessert. It was a welcome diversion. Everybody brightened up with a
determination to ignore Valancy and talk as if she wasn’t there. Uncle
Wellington mentioned Barney Snaith. Eventually somebody did mention

Barney Snaith at every Stirling function, Valancy reflected. Whatever he
was, he was an individual that could not be ignored. She resigned herself to
listen. There was a subtle fascination in the subject for her, though she had
not yet faced this fact. She could feel her pulses beating to her finger-tips.
Of course they abused him. Nobody ever had a good word to say of
Barney Snaith. All the old, wild tales were canvassed—the defaulting
cashier-counterfeiter-infidel-murderer-in-hiding legends were thrashed out.
Uncle Wellington was very indignant that such a creature should be allowed
to exist at all in the neighbourhood of Deerwood. He didn’t know what the
police at Port Lawrence were thinking of. Everybody would be murdered in
their beds some night. It was a shame that he should be allowed to be at
large after all that he had done.
“What has he done?” asked Valancy suddenly.
Uncle Wellington stared at her, forgetting that she was to be ignored.
“Done! Done! He’s done everything.”
“What has he done?” repeated Valancy inexorably. “What do you know
that he has done? You’re always running him down. And what has ever
been proved against him?”
“I don’t argue with women,” said Uncle Wellington. “And I don’t need
proof. When a man hides himself up there on an island in Muskoka, year in
and year out, and nobody can find out where he came from or how he lives,
or what he does there, that’s proof enough. Find a mystery and you find a
crime.”
“The very idea of a man named Snaith!” said Second Cousin Sarah.
“Why, the name itself is enough to condemn him!”
“I wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark lane,” shivered Cousin Georgiana.
“What do you suppose he would do to you?” asked Valancy.
“Murder me,” said Cousin Georgiana solemnly.
“Just for the fun of it?” suggested Valancy.
“Exactly,” said Cousin Georgiana unsuspiciously. “When there is so
much smoke there must be some fire. I was afraid he was a criminal when
he came here first. I felt he had something to hide. I am not often mistaken
in my intuitions.”

“Criminal! Of course he’s a criminal,” said Uncle Wellington. “Nobody
doubts it”—glaring at Valancy. “Why, they say he served a term in the
penitentiary for embezzlement. I don’t doubt it. And they say he’s in with
that gang that are perpetrating all those bank robberies round the country.”
“Who say?” asked Valancy.
Uncle Wellington knotted his ugly forehead at her. What had got into this
confounded girl, anyway? He ignored the question.
“He has the identical look of a jail-bird,” snapped Uncle Benjamin. “I
noticed it the first time I saw him.”

“‘A fellow by the hand of nature marked,
Quoted and signed to do a deed of shame’,”

declaimed Uncle James. He looked enormously pleased over managing
to work that quotation in at last. He had been waiting all his life for the
chance.
“One of his eyebrows is an arch and the other is a triangle,” said Valancy.
“Is that why you think him so villainous?”
Uncle James lifted his eyebrows. Generally when Uncle James lifted his
eyebrows the world came to an end. This time it continued to function.
“How do you know his eyebrows so well, Doss?” asked Olive, a trifle
maliciously. Such a remark would have covered Valancy with confusion
two weeks ago, and Olive knew it.
“Yes, how?” demanded Aunt Wellington.
“I’ve seen him twice and I looked at him closely,” said Valancy
composedly. “I thought his face the most interesting one I ever saw.”
“There is no doubt there is something fishy in the creature’s past life,”
said Olive, who began to think she was decidedly out of the conversation,
which had centred so amazingly around Valancy. “But he can hardly be
guilty of everything he’s accused of, you know.”
Valancy felt annoyed with Olive. Why should she speak up in even this
qualified defence of Barney Snaith? What had she to do with him? For that
matter, what had Valancy? But Valancy did not ask herself this question.
“They say he keeps dozens of cats in that hut up back on Mistawis,” said
Second Cousin Sarah Taylor, by way of appearing not entirely ignorant of

him.
Cats. It sounded quite alluring to Valancy, in the plural. She pictured an
island in Muskoka haunted by pussies.
“That alone shows there is something wrong with him,” decreed Aunt
Isabel.
“People who don’t like cats,” said Valancy, attacking her dessert with a
relish, “always seem to think that there is some peculiar virtue in not liking
them.”
“The man hasn’t a friend except Roaring Abel,” said Uncle Wellington.
“And if Roaring Abel had kept away from him, as everybody else did, it
would have been better for—for some members of his family.”
Uncle Wellington’s rather lame conclusion was due to a marital glance
from Aunt Wellington reminding him of what he had almost forgotten—that
there were girls at the table.
“If you mean,” said Valancy passionately, “that Barney Snaith is the
father of Cecily Gay’s child, he isn’t. It’s a wicked lie.”
In spite of her indignation Valancy was hugely amused at the expression
of the faces around that festal table. She had not seen anything like it since
the day, seventeen years ago, when at Cousin Gladys’ thimble party, they
discovered that she had got—SOMETHING—in her head at school. Lice in
her head! Valancy was done with euphemisms.
Poor Mrs. Frederick was almost in a state of collapse. She had believed
—or pretended to believe—that Valancy still supposed that children were
found in parsley beds.
“Hush—hush!” implored Cousin Stickles.
“I don’t mean to hush,” said Valancy perversely. “I’ve hush-hushed all
my life. I’ll scream if I want to. Don’t make me want to. And stop talking
nonsense about Barney Snaith.”
Valancy didn’t exactly understand her own indignation. What did Barney
Snaith’s imputed crimes and misdemeanours matter to her? And why, out of
them all, did it seem most intolerable that he should have been poor, pitiful
little Cecily Gay’s false lover? For it did seem intolerable to her. She did not
mind when they called him a thief and a counterfeiter and jail-bird; but she
could not endure to think that he had loved and ruined Cecily Gay. She
recalled his face on the two occasions of their chance meetings—his

twisted, enigmatic, engaging smile, his twinkle, his thin, sensitive, almost
ascetic lips, his general air of frank daredeviltry. A man with such a smile
and lips might have murdered or stolen but he could not have betrayed. She
suddenly hated every one who said it or believed it of him.
“When I was a young girl I never thought or spoke about such matters,
Doss,” said Aunt Wellington, crushingly.
“But I’m not a young girl,” retorted Valancy, uncrushed. “Aren’t you
always rubbing that into me? And you are all evil-minded, senseless
gossips. Can’t you leave poor Cissy Gay alone? She’s dying. Whatever she
did, God or the Devil has punished her enough for it. You needn’t take a
hand, too. As for Barney Snaith, the only crime he has been guilty of is
living to himself and minding his own business. He can, it seems, get along
without you. Which is an unpardonable sin, of course, in your little
snobocracy.” Valancy coined that concluding word suddenly and felt that it
was an inspiration. That was exactly what they were and not one of them
was fit to mend another.
“Valancy, your poor father would turn over in his grave if he could hear
you,” said Mrs. Frederick.
“I dare say he would like that for a change,” said Valancy brazenly.
“Doss,” said Uncle James heavily, “the Ten Commandments are fairly up
to date still—especially the fifth. Have you forgotten that?”
“No,” said Valancy, “but I thought you had—especially the ninth. Have
you ever thought, Uncle James, how dull life would be without the Ten
Commandments? It is only when things are forbidden that they become
fascinating.”
But her excitement had been too much for her. She knew, by certain
unmistakable warnings, that one of her attacks of pain was coming on. It
must not find her there. She rose from her chair.
“I am going home now. I only came for the dinner. It was very good,
Aunt Alberta, although your salad-dressing is not salt enough and a dash of
cayenne would improve it.”
None of the flabbergasted silver wedding guests could think of anything
to say until the lawn gate clanged behind Valancy in the dusk. Then—
“She’s feverish—I’ve said right along she was feverish,” moaned Cousin
Stickles.

Uncle Benjamin punished his pudgy left hand fiercely with his pudgy
right.
“She’s dippy—I tell you she’s gone dippy,” he snorted angrily. “That’s all
there is about it. Clean dippy.”
“Oh, Benjamin,” said Cousin Georgiana soothingly, “don’t condemn her
too rashly. We must remember what dear old Shakespeare says—that
charity thinketh no evil.”
“Charity! Poppy-cock!” snorted Uncle Benjamin. “I never heard a young
woman talk such stuff in my life as she just did. Talking about things she
ought to be ashamed to think of, much less mention. Blaspheming!
Insulting us! What she wants is a generous dose of spank-weed and I’d like
to be the one to administer it. H-uh-h-h-h!” Uncle Benjamin gulped down
the half of a scalding cup of coffee.
“Do you suppose that the mumps could work on a person that way?”
wailed Cousin Stickles.
“I opened an umbrella in the house yesterday,” sniffed Cousin Georgiana.
“I knew it betokened some misfortune.”
“Have you tried to find out if she has a temperature?” asked Cousin
Mildred.
“She wouldn’t let Amelia put the thermometer under her tongue,”
whimpered Cousin Stickles.
Mrs. Frederick was openly in tears. All her defences were down.
“I must tell you,” she sobbed, “that Valancy has been acting very
strangely for over two weeks now. She hasn’t been a bit like herself—
Christine could tell you. I have hoped against hope that it was only one of
her colds coming on. But it is—it must be something worse.”
“This is bringing on my neuritis again,” said Cousin Gladys, putting her
hand to her head.
“Don’t cry, Amelia,” said Herbert kindly, pulling nervously at his spiky
grey hair. He hated “family ructions.” Very inconsiderate of Doss to start
one at his silver wedding. Who could have supposed she had it in her?
“You’ll have to take her to a doctor. This may be only a—er—a brainstorm.
There are such things as brainstorms nowadays, aren’t there?”

“I—I suggested consulting a doctor to her yesterday,” moaned Mrs.
Frederick. “And she said she wouldn’t go to a doctor—wouldn’t. Oh, surely
I have had trouble enough!”
“And she won’t take Redfern’s Bitters,” said Cousin Stickles.
“Or anything,” said Mrs. Frederick.
“And she’s determined to go to the Presbyterian church,” said Cousin
Stickles—repressing, however, to her credit be it said, the story of the
bannister.
“That proves she’s dippy,” growled Uncle Benjamin. “I noticed
something strange about her the minute she came in today. I noticed it
before today.” (Uncle Benjamin was thinking of “m-i-r-a-z-h.”) “Everything
she said today showed an unbalanced mind. That question—‘Was it a vital
part?’ Was there any sense at all in that remark? None whatever! There
never was anything like that in the Stirlings. It must be from the
Wansbarras.”
Poor Mrs. Frederick was too crushed to be indignant.
“I never heard of anything like that in the Wansbarras,” she sobbed.
“Your father was odd enough,” said Uncle Benjamin.
“Poor Pa was—peculiar,” admitted Mrs. Frederick tearfully, “but his
mind was never affected.”
“He talked all his life exactly as Valancy did today,” retorted Uncle
Benjamin. “And he believed he was his own great-great grandfather born
over again. I’ve heard him say it. Don’t tell me that a man who believed a
thing like that was ever in his right senses. Come, come, Amelia, stop
sniffling. Of course Doss has made a terrible exhibition of herself today, but
she’s not responsible. Old maids are apt to fly off at a tangent like that. If
she had been married when she should have been she wouldn’t have got
like this.”
“Nobody wanted to marry her,” said Mrs. Frederick, who felt that,
somehow, Uncle Benjamin was blaming her.
“Well, fortunately there’s no outsider here,” snapped Uncle Benjamin.
“We may keep it in the family yet. I’ll take her over to see Dr. Marsh
tomorrow. I know how to deal with pig-headed people. Won’t that be best,
James?”

“We must have medical advice certainly,” agreed Uncle James.
“Well, that’s settled. In the meantime, Amelia, act as if nothing had
happened and keep an eye on her. Don’t let her be alone. Above all, don’t
let her sleep alone.”
Renewed whimpers from Mrs. Frederick.
“I can’t help it. Night before last I suggested she’d better have Christine
sleep with her. She positively refused—and locked her door. Oh, you don’t
know how she’s changed. She won’t work. At least, she won’t sew. She
does her usual housework, of course. But she wouldn’t sweep the parlour
yesterday morning, though we always sweep it on Thursdays. She said
she’d wait till it was dirty. ‘Would you rather sweep a dirty room than a
clean one?’ I asked her. She said, ‘Of course. I’d see something for my
labour then.’ Think of it!”
Uncle Benjamin thought of it.
“The jar of potpourri”—Cousin Stickles pronounced it as spelled—“has
disappeared from her room. I found the pieces in the next lot. She won’t tell
us what happened to it.”
“I should never have dreamed it of Doss,” said Uncle Herbert. “She has
always seemed such a quiet, sensible girl. A bit backward—but sensible.”
“The only thing you can be sure of in this world is the multiplication
table,” said Uncle James, feeling cleverer than ever.
“Well, let’s cheer up,” suggested Uncle Benjamin. “Why are chorus girls
like fine stock raisers?”
“Why?” asked Cousin Stickles, since it had to be asked and Valancy
wasn’t there to ask it.
“Like to exhibit calves,” chuckled Uncle Benjamin.
Cousin Stickles thought Uncle Benjamin a little indelicate. Before Olive,
too. But then, he was a man.
Uncle Herbert was thinking that things were rather dull now that Doss
had gone.

CHAPTER XII

V alancy hurried home through the faint blue twilight—hurried too fast
perhaps. The attack she had when she thankfully reached the shelter of
her own room was the worst yet. It was really very bad. She might die
in one of those spells. It would be dreadful to die in such pain. Perhaps—
perhaps this was death. Valancy felt pitifully alone. When she could think at
all she wondered what it would be like to have some one with her who
could sympathise—some one who really cared—just to hold her hand tight,
if nothing else—some one just to say, “Yes, I know. It’s dreadful—be brave
—you’ll soon be better;” not some one merely fussy and alarmed. Not her
mother or Cousin Stickles. Why did the thought of Barney Snaith come into
her mind? Why did she suddenly feel, in the midst of this hideous loneliness
of pain, that he would be sympathetic—sorry for any one that was
suffering? Why did he seem to her like an old, well-known friend? Was it
because she had been defending him—standing up to her family for him?
She was so bad at first that she could not even get herself a dose of Dr.
Trent’s prescription. But eventually she managed it, and soon after relief
came. The pain left her and she lay on her bed, spent, exhausted, in a cold
perspiration. Oh, that had been horrible! She could not endure many more
attacks like that. One didn’t mind dying if death could be instant and
painless. But to be hurt so in dying!
Suddenly she found herself laughing. That dinner had been fun. And it
had all been so simple. She had merely said the things she had always
thought. Their faces—oh, their faces! Uncle Benjamin—poor, flabbergasted
Uncle Benjamin! Valancy felt quite sure he would make a new will that
very night. Olive would get Valancy’s share of his fat hoard. Olive had
always got Valancy’s share of everything. Remember the dust-pile.
To laugh at her clan as she had always wanted to laugh was all the
satisfaction she could get out of life now. But she thought it was rather

pitiful that it should be so. Might she not pity herself a little when nobody
else did?
Valancy got up and went to her window. The moist, beautiful wind
blowing across groves of young-leafed wild trees touched her face with the
caress of a wise, tender, old friend. The lombardies in Mrs. Tredgold’s lawn,
off to the left—Valancy could just see them between the stable and the old
carriage-shop—were in dark purple silhouette against a clear sky and there
was a milk-white, pulsating star just over one of them, like a living pearl on
a silver-green lake. Far beyond the station were the shadowy, purple-hooded
woods around Lake Mistawis. A white, filmy mist hung over them and just
above it was a faint, young crescent. Valancy looked at it over her thin left
shoulder.
“I wish,” she said whimsically, “that I may have one little dust-pile
before I die.”

CHAPTER XIII

U ncle Benjamin found he had reckoned without his host when he
promised so airily to take Valancy to a doctor. Valancy would not go.
Valancy laughed in his face.
“Why on earth should I go to Dr. Marsh? There’s nothing the matter with
my mind. Though you all think I’ve suddenly gone crazy. Well, I haven’t.
I’ve simply grown tired of living to please other people and have decided to
please myself. It will give you something to talk about besides my stealing
the raspberry jam. So that’s that.”
“Doss,” said Uncle Benjamin, solemnly and helplessly, “you are not—
like yourself.”
“Who am I like, then?” asked Valancy.
Uncle Benjamin was rather posed.
“Your Grandfather Wansbarra,” he answered desperately.
“Thanks.” Valancy looked pleased. “That’s a real compliment. I
remember Grandfather Wansbarra. He was one of the few human beings I
have known—almost the only one. Now, it is of no use to scold or entreat or
command, Uncle Benjamin—or exchange anguished glances with Mother
and Cousin Stickles. I am not going to any doctor. And if you bring any
doctor here I won’t see him. So what are you going to do about it?”
What indeed! It was not seemly—or even possible—to hale Valancy
doctorwards by physical force. And in no other way could it be done,
seemingly. Her mother’s tears and imploring entreaties availed not.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” said Valancy, lightly but quite respectfully. “It
isn’t likely I’ll do anything very terrible. But I mean to have a little fun.”
“Fun!” Mrs. Frederick uttered the word as if Valancy had said she was
going to have a little tuberculosis.
Olive, sent by her mother to see if she had any influence over Valancy,
came away with flushed cheeks and angry eyes. She told her mother that

nothing could be done with Valancy. After she, Olive, had talked to her just
like a sister, tenderly and wisely, all Valancy had said, narrowing her funny
eyes to mere slits, was, “I don’t show my gums when I laugh.”
“More as if she were talking to herself than to me. Indeed, Mother, all the
time I was talking to her she gave me the impression of not really listening.
And that wasn’t all. When I finally decided that what I was saying had no
influence over her I begged her, when Cecil came next week, not to say
anything queer before him, at least. Mother, what do you think she said?”
“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

L ife 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 killed in a few years. Abel was piously drunk at
her funeral and insisted on repeating the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah—Abel
knew most of the Bible and all the Psalms by heart—while the minister,
whom he disliked, prayed or tried to pray. Thereafter his house was run by
an untidy old cousin who cooked his meals and kept things going after a
fashion. In this unpromising environment little Cecilia Gay had grown up.
Valancy had known “Cissy Gay” fairly well in the democracy of the
public school, though Cissy had been three years younger than she. After
they left school their paths diverged and she had seen nothing of her. Old
Abel was a Presbyterian. That is, he got a Presbyterian preacher to marry
him, baptise his child and bury his wife; and he knew more about
Presbyterian theology than most ministers, which made him a terror to them
in arguments. But Roaring Abel never went to church. Every Presbyterian
minister who had been in Deerwood had tried his hand—once—at
reforming Roaring Abel. But he had not been pestered of late. Rev. Mr.
Bently had been in Deerwood for eight years, but he had not sought out
Roaring Abel since the first three months of his pastorate. He had called on
Roaring Abel then and found him in the theological stage of drunkenness—
which always followed the sentimental maudlin one, and preceded the

roaring, blasphemous one. The eloquently prayerful one, in which he
realised himself temporarily and intensely as a sinner in the hands of an
angry God, was the final one. Abel never went beyond it. He generally fell
asleep on his knees and awakened sober, but he had never been “dead
drunk” in his life. He told Mr. Bently that he was a sound Presbyterian and
sure of his election. He had no sins—that he knew of—to repent of.
“Have you never done anything in your life that you are sorry for?” asked
Mr. Bently.
Roaring Abel scratched his bushy white head and pretended to reflect.
“Well, yes,” he said finally. “There were some women I might have
kissed and didn’t. I’ve always been sorry for that.”
Mr. Bently went out and went home.
Abel had seen that Cissy was properly baptised—jovially drunk at the
same time himself. He made her go to church and Sunday School regularly.
The church people took her up and she was in turn a member of the Mission
Band, the Girls’ Guild and the Young Women’s Missionary Society. She
was a faithful, unobtrusive, sincere, little worker. Everybody liked Cissy
Gay and was sorry for her. She was so modest and sensitive and pretty in
that delicate, elusive fashion of beauty which fades so quickly if life is not
kept in it by love and tenderness. But then liking and pity did not prevent
them from tearing her in pieces like hungry cats when the catastrophe came.
Four years previously Cissy Gay had gone up to a Muskoka hotel as a
summer waitress. And when she had come back in the fall she was a
changed creature. She hid herself away and went nowhere. The reason soon
leaked out and scandal raged. That winter Cissy’s baby was born. Nobody
ever knew who the father was. Cecily kept her poor pale lips tightly locked
on her sorry secret. Nobody dared ask Roaring Abel any questions about it.
Rumour and surmise laid the guilt at Barney Snaith’s door because diligent
inquiry among the other maids at the hotel revealed the fact that nobody
there had ever seen Cissy Gay “with a fellow.” She had “kept herself to
herself” they said, rather resentfully. “Too good for our dances. And now
look!”
The baby had lived for a year. After its death Cissy faded away. Two
years ago Dr. Marsh had given her only six months to live—her lungs were
hopelessly diseased. But she was still alive. Nobody went to see her.
Women would not go to Roaring Abel’s house. Mr. Bently had gone once,

when he knew Abel was away, but the dreadful old creature who was
scrubbing the kitchen floor told him Cissy wouldn’t see any one. The old
cousin had died and Roaring Abel had had two or three disreputable
housekeepers—the only kind who could be prevailed on to go to a house
where a girl was dying of consumption. But the last one had left and
Roaring Abel had now no one to wait on Cissy and “do” for him. This was
the burden of his plaint to Valancy and he condemned the “hypocrites” of
Deerwood and its surrounding communities with some rich, meaty oaths
that happened to reach Cousin Stickles’ ears as she passed through the hall
and nearly finished the poor lady. Was Valancy listening to that?
Valancy hardly noticed the profanity. Her attention was focussed on the
horrible thought of poor, unhappy, disgraced little Cissy Gay, ill and
helpless in that forlorn old house out on the Mistawis road, without a soul to
help or comfort her. And this in a nominally Christian community in the
year of grace nineteen and some odd!
“Do you mean to say that Cissy is all alone there now, with nobody to do
anything for her—nobody?”
“Oh, she can move about a bit and get a bite and sup when she wants it.
But she can’t work. It’s d——d hard for a man to work hard all day and go
home at night tired and hungry and cook his own meals. Sometimes I’m
sorry I kicked old Rachel Edwards out.” Abel described Rachel
picturesquely.
“Her face looked as if it had wore out a hundred bodies. And she moped.
Talk about temper! Temper’s nothing to moping. She was too slow to catch
worms, and dirty—d——d dirty. I ain’t unreasonable—I know a man has to
eat his peck before he dies—but she went over the limit. What d’ye sp’ose I
saw that lady do? She’d made some punkin jam—had it on the table in
glass jars with the tops off. The dawg got up on the table and stuck his paw
into one of them. What did she do? She jest took holt of the dawg and
wrung the syrup off his paw back into the jar! Then screwed the top on and
set it in the pantry. I sets open the door and says to her, ‘Go!’ The dame
went, and I fired the jars of punkin after her, two at a time. Thought I’d die
laughing to see old Rachel run—with them punkin jars raining after her.
She’s told everywhere I’m crazy, so nobody’ll come for love or money.”
“But Cissy must have some one to look after her,” insisted Valancy,
whose mind was centred on this aspect of the case. She did not care whether

Roaring Abel had any one to cook for him or not. But her heart was wrung
for Cecilia Gay.
“Oh, she gits on. Barney Snaith always drops in when he’s passing and
does anything she wants done. Brings her oranges and flowers and things.
There’s a Christian for you. Yet that sanctimonious, snivelling parcel of St.
Andrew’s people wouldn’t be seen on the same side of the road with him.
Their dogs’ll go to heaven before they do. And their minister—slick as if
the cat had licked him!”
“There are plenty of good people, both in St. Andrew’s and St. George’s,
who would be kind to Cissy if you would behave yourself,” said Valancy
severely. “They’re afraid to go near your place.”
“Because I’m such a sad old dog? But I don’t bite—never bit any one in
my life. A few loose words spilled around don’t hurt any one. And I’m not
asking people to come. Don’t want ’em poking and prying about. What I
want is a housekeeper. If I shaved every Sunday and went to church I’d get
all the housekeepers I’d want. I’d be respectable then. But what’s the use of
going to church when it’s all settled by predestination? Tell me that, Miss.”
“Is it?” said Valancy.
“Yes. Can’t git around it nohow. Wish I could. I don’t want either heaven
or hell for steady. Wish a man could have ’em mixed in equal proportions.”
“Isn’t that the way it is in this world?” said Valancy thoughtfully—but
rather as if her thought was concerned with something else than theology.
“No, no,” boomed Abel, striking a tremendous blow on a stubborn nail.
“There’s too much hell here—entirely too much hell. That’s why I get
drunk so often. It sets you free for a little while—free from yourself—yes,
by God, free from predestination. Ever try it?”
“No, I’ve another way of getting free,” said Valancy absently. “But about
Cissy now. She must have some one to look after her——”
“What are you harping on Sis for? Seems to me you ain’t bothered much
about her up to now. You never even come to see her. And she used to like
you so well.”
“I should have,” said Valancy. “But never mind. You couldn’t understand.
The point is—you must have a housekeeper.”
“Where am I to get one? I can pay decent wages if I could get a decent
woman. D’ye think I like old hags?”

“Will I do?” said Valancy.

CHAPTER XV

“L et us be calm,” said Uncle Benjamin. “Let us be perfectly calm.”
“Calm!” Mrs. Frederick wrung her hands. “How can I be calm—
how could anybody be calm under such a disgrace as this?”
“Why in the world did you let her go?” asked Uncle James.
“Let her! How could I stop her, James? It seems she packed the big valise
and sent it away with Roaring Abel when he went home after supper, while
Christine and I were out in the kitchen. Then Doss herself came down with
her little satchel, dressed in her green serge suit. I felt a terrible
premonition. I can’t tell you how it was, but I seemed to know that Doss
was going to do something dreadful.”
“It’s a pity you couldn’t have had your premonition a little sooner,” said
Uncle Benjamin drily.
“I said, ‘Doss, where are you going?’ and she said, ‘I am going to look
for my Blue Castle.’”
“Wouldn’t you think that would convince Marsh that her mind is
affected?” interjected Uncle James.
“And I said, ‘Valancy, what do you mean?’ And she said, ‘I am going to
keep house for Roaring Abel and nurse Cissy. He will pay me thirty dollars
a month.’ I wonder I didn’t drop dead on the spot.”
“You shouldn’t have let her go—you shouldn’t have let her out of the
house,” said Uncle James. “You should have locked the door—anything
——”
“She was between me and the front door. And you can’t realise how
determined she was. She was like a rock. That’s the strangest thing of all
about her. She used to be so good and obedient, and now she’s neither to
hold nor bind. But I said everything I could think of to bring her to her
senses. I asked her if she had no regard for her reputation. I said to her
solemnly, ‘Doss, when a woman’s reputation is once smirched nothing can

ever make it spotless again. Your character will be gone for ever if you go
to Roaring Abel’s to wait on a bad girl like Sis Gay.’ And she said, ‘I don’t
believe Cissy was a bad girl, but I don’t care if she was.’ Those were her
very words, ‘I don’t care if she was.’”
“She has lost all sense of decency,” exploded Uncle Benjamin.
“‘Cissy Gay is dying,’ she said, ‘and it’s a shame and disgrace that she is
dying in a Christian community with no one to do anything for her.
Whatever she’s been or done, she’s a human being.’”
“Well, you know, when it comes to that, I suppose she is,” said Uncle
James with the air of one making a splendid concession.
“I asked Doss if she had no regard for appearances. She said, ‘I’ve been
keeping up appearances all my life. Now I’m going in for realities.
Appearances can go hang!’ Go hang!”
“An outrageous thing!” said Uncle Benjamin violently. “An outrageous
thing!”
Which relieved his feelings, but didn’t help any one else.
Mrs. Frederick wept. Cousin Stickles took up the refrain between her
moans of despair.
“I told her—we both told her—that Roaring Abel had certainly killed his
wife in one of his drunken rages and would kill her. She laughed and said,
‘I’m not afraid of Roaring Abel. He won’t kill me, and he’s too old for me
to be afraid of his gallantries.’ What did she mean? What are gallantries?”
Mrs. Frederick saw that she must stop crying if she wanted to regain
control of the conversation.
“I said to her, ‘Valancy, if you have no regard for your own reputation
and your family’s standing, have you none for my feelings?’ She said,
‘None.’ Just like that, ‘None!’”
“Insane people never do have any regard for other people’s feelings,”
said Uncle Benjamin. “That’s one of the symptoms.”
“I broke out into tears then, and she said, ‘Come now, Mother, be a good
sport. I’m going to do an act of Christian charity, and as for the damage it
will do my reputation, why, you know I haven’t any matrimonial chances
anyhow, so what does it matter?’ And with that she turned and went out.”

“The last words I said to her,” said Cousin Stickles pathetically, “were,
‘Who will rub my back at nights now?’ And she said—she said—but no, I
cannot repeat it.”
“Nonsense,” said Uncle Benjamin. “Out with it. This is no time to be
squeamish.”
“She said”—Cousin Stickles’ voice was little more than a whisper—“she
said—‘Oh, darn!’”
“To think I should have lived to hear my daughter swearing!” sobbed
Mrs. Frederick.
“It—it was only imitation swearing,” faltered Cousin Stickles, desirous
of smoothing things over now that the worst was out. But she had never told
about the bannister.
“It will be only a step from that to real swearing,” said Uncle James
sternly.
“The worst of this”—Mrs. Frederick hunted for a dry spot on her
handkerchief—“is that every one will know now that she is deranged. We
can’t keep it a secret any longer. Oh, I cannot bear it!”
“You should have been stricter with her when she was young,” said
Uncle Benjamin.
“I don’t see how I could have been,” said Mrs. Frederick—truthfully
enough.
“The worst feature of the case is that that Snaith scoundrel is always
hanging around Roaring Abel’s,” said Uncle James. “I shall be thankful if
nothing worse comes of this mad freak than a few weeks at Roaring Abel’s.
Cissy Gay can’t live much longer.”
“And she didn’t even take her flannel petticoat!” lamented Cousin
Stickles.
“I’ll see Ambrose Marsh again about this,” said Uncle Benjamin—
meaning Valancy, not the flannel petticoat.
“I’ll see Lawyer Ferguson,” said Uncle James.
“Meanwhile,” added Uncle Benjamin, “let us be calm.”

CHAPTER XVI

V alancy had walked out to Roaring Abel’s house on the Mistawis road
under a sky of purple and amber, with a queer exhilaration and
expectancy in her heart. Back there, behind her, her mother and Cousin
Stickles were crying—over themselves, not over her. But here the wind was
in her face, soft, dew-wet, cool, blowing along the grassy roads. Oh, she
loved the wind! The robins were whistling sleepily in the firs along the way
and the moist air was fragrant with the tang of balsam. Big cars went
purring past in the violet dusk—the stream of summer tourists to Muskoka
had already begun—but Valancy did not envy any of their occupants.
Muskoka cottages might be charming, but beyond, in the sunset skies,
among the spires of the firs, her Blue Castle towered. She brushed the old
years and habits and inhibitions away from her like dead leaves. She would
not be littered with them.
Roaring Abel’s rambling, tumble-down old house was situated about
three miles from the village, on the very edge of “up back,” as the sparsely
settled, hilly, wooded country around Mistawis was called vernacularly. It
did not, it must be confessed, look much like a Blue Castle.
It had once been a snug place enough in the days when Abel Gay had
been young and prosperous, and the punning, arched sign over the gate
—“A. Gay, Carpenter,” had been fine and freshly painted. Now it was a
faded, dreary old place, with a leprous, patched roof and shutters hanging
askew. Abel never seemed to do any carpenter jobs about his own house. It
had a listless air, as if tired of life. There was a dwindling grove of ragged,
crone-like old spruces behind it. The garden, which Cissy used to keep neat
and pretty, had run wild. On two sides of the house were fields full of
nothing but mulleins. Behind the house was a long stretch of useless
barrens, full of scrub pines and spruces, with here and there a blossoming
bit of wild cherry, running back to a belt of timber on the shores of Lake

Mistawis, two miles away. A rough, rocky, boulder-strewn lane ran through
it to the woods—a lane white with pestiferous, beautiful daisies.
Roaring Abel met Valancy at the door.
“So you’ve come,” he said incredulously. “I never s’posed that ruck of
Stirlings would let you.”
Valancy showed all her pointed teeth in a grin.
“They couldn’t stop me.”
“I didn’t think you’d so much spunk,” said Roaring Abel admiringly.
“And look at the nice ankles of her,” he added, as he stepped aside to let her
in.
If Cousin Stickles had heard this she would have been certain that
Valancy’s doom, earthly and unearthly, was sealed. But Abel’s
superannuated gallantry did not worry Valancy. Besides, this was the first
compliment she had ever received in her life and she found herself liking it.
She sometimes suspected she had nice ankles, but nobody had ever
mentioned it before. In the Stirling clan ankles were among the
unmentionables.
Roaring Abel took her into the kitchen, where Cissy Gay was lying on
the sofa, breathing quickly, with little scarlet spots on her hollow cheeks.
Valancy had not seen Cecilia Gay for years. Then she had been such a
pretty creature, a slight, blossom-like girl, with soft, golden hair, clear-cut,
almost waxen features, and large, beautiful blue eyes. She was shocked at
the change in her. Could this be sweet Cissy—this pitiful little thing that
looked like a tired, broken flower? She had wept all the beauty out of her
eyes; they looked too big—enormous—in her wasted face. The last time
Valancy had seen Cecilia Gay those faded, piteous eyes had been limpid,
shadowy blue pools aglow with mirth. The contrast was so terrible that
Valancy’s own eyes filled with tears. She knelt down by Cissy and put her
arms about her.
“Cissy dear, I’ve come to look after you. I’ll stay with you till—till—as
long as you want me.”
“Oh!” Cissy put her thin arms about Valancy’s neck. “Oh—will you? It’s
been so—lonely. I can wait on myself—but it’s been so lonely. It—would
just be like—heaven—to have some one here—like you. You were always
—so sweet to me—long ago.”

Valancy held Cissy close. She was suddenly happy. Here was some one
who needed her—some one she could help. She was no longer a superfluity.
Old things had passed away; everything had become new.
“Most things are predestinated, but some are just darn sheer luck,” said
Roaring Abel, complacently smoking his pipe in the corner.

CHAPTER XVII

W hen Valancy had lived for a week at Roaring Abel’s she felt as if years
had separated her from her old life and all the people she had known
in it. They were beginning to seem remote—dream-like—far-away—
and as the days went on they seemed still more so, until they ceased to
matter altogether.
She was happy. Nobody ever bothered her with conundrums or insisted
on giving her Purple Pills. Nobody called her Doss or worried her about
catching cold. There were no quilts to piece, no abominable rubber-plant to
water, no ice-cold maternal tantrums to endure. She could be alone
whenever she liked, go to bed when she liked, sneeze when she liked. In the
long, wondrous, northern twilights, when Cissy was asleep and Roaring
Abel away, she could sit for hours on the shaky back verandah steps,
looking out over the barrens to the hills beyond, covered with their fine,
purple bloom, listening to the friendly wind singing wild, sweet melodies in
the little spruces, and drinking in the aroma of the sunned grasses, until
darkness flowed over the landscape like a cool, welcome wave.
Sometimes of an afternoon, when Cissy was strong enough, the two girls
went into the barrens and looked at the wood-flowers. But they did not pick
any. Valancy had read to Cissy the gospel thereof according to John Foster:
“It is a pity to gather wood-flowers. They lose half their witchery away
from the green and the flicker. The way to enjoy wood-flowers is to track
them down to their remote haunts—gloat over them—and then leave them
with backward glances, taking with us only the beguiling memory of their
grace and fragrance.”
Valancy was in the midst of realities after a lifetime of unrealities. And
busy—very busy. The house had to be cleaned. Not for nothing had Valancy
been brought up in the Stirling habits of neatness and cleanliness. If she
found satisfaction in cleaning dirty rooms she got her fill of it there.
Roaring Abel thought she was foolish to bother doing so much more than

she was asked to do, but he did not interfere with her. He was very well
satisfied with his bargain. Valancy was a good cook. Abel said she got a
flavour into things. The only fault he found with her was that she did not
sing at her work.
“Folks should always sing at their work,” he insisted. “Sounds cheerful-
like.”
“Not always,” retorted Valancy. “Fancy a butcher singing at his work. Or
an undertaker.”
Abel burst into his great broad laugh.
“There’s no getting the better of you. You’ve got an answer every time. I
should think the Stirlings would be glad to be rid of you. They don’t like
being sassed back.”
During the day Abel was generally away from home—if not working,
then shooting or fishing with Barney Snaith. He generally came home at
nights—always very late and often very drunk. The first night they heard
him come howling into the yard, Cissy had told Valancy not to be afraid.
“Father never does anything—he just makes a noise.”
Valancy, lying on the sofa in Cissy’s room, where she had elected to
sleep, lest Cissy should need attention in the night—Cissy would never
have called her—was not at all afraid, and said so. By the time Abel had got
his horses put away, the roaring stage had passed and he was in his room at
the end of the hall crying and praying. Valancy could still hear his dismal
moans when she went calmly to sleep. For the most part, Abel was a good-
natured creature, but occasionally he had a temper. Once Valancy asked him
coolly:
“What is the use of getting in a rage?”
“It’s such a d——d relief,” said Abel.
They both burst out laughing together.
“You’re a great little sport,” said Abel admiringly. “Don’t mind my bad
French. I don’t mean a thing by it. Jest habit. Say, I like a woman that ain’t
afraid to speak up to me. Sis there was always too meek—too meek. That’s
why she got adrift. I like you.”
“All the same,” said Valancy determinedly, “there is no use in sending
things to hell as you’re always doing. And I’m not going to have you

tracking mud all over a floor I’ve just scrubbed. You must use the scraper
whether you consign it to perdition or not.”
Cissy loved the cleanness and neatness. She had kept it so, too, until her
strength failed. She was very pitifully happy because she had Valancy with
her. It had been so terrible—the long, lonely days and nights with no
companionship save those dreadful old women who came to work. Cissy
had hated and feared them. She clung to Valancy like a child.
There was no doubt that Cissy was dying. Yet at no time did she seem
alarmingly ill. She did not even cough a great deal. Most days she was able
to get up and dress—sometimes even to work about in the garden or the
barrens for an hour or two. For a few weeks after Valancy’s coming she
seemed so much better that Valancy began to hope she might get well. But
Cissy shook her head.
“No, I can’t get well. My lungs are almost gone. And I—don’t want to.
I’m so tired, Valancy. Only dying can rest me. But it’s lovely to have you
here—you’ll never know how much it means to me. But Valancy—you
work too hard. You don’t need to—Father only wants his meals cooked. I
don’t think you are strong yourself. You turn so pale sometimes. And those
drops you take. Are you well, dear?”
“I’m all right,” said Valancy lightly. She would not have Cissy worried.
“And I’m not working hard. I’m glad to have some work to do—something
that really wants to be done.”
“Then”—Cissy slipped her hand wistfully into Valancy’s—“don’t let’s
talk any more about my being sick. Let’s just forget it. Let’s pretend I’m a
little girl again—and you have come here to play with me. I used to wish
that long ago—wish that you could come. I knew you couldn’t, of course.
But how I did wish it! You always seemed so different from the other girls
—so kind and sweet—and as if you had something in yourself nobody
knew about—some dear, pretty secret. Had you, Valancy?”
“I had my Blue Castle,” said Valancy, laughing a little. She was pleased
that Cissy had thought of her like this. She had never suspected that
anybody liked or admired or wondered about her. She told Cissy all about
her Blue Castle. She had never told any one about it before.
“Every one has a Blue Castle, I think,” said Cissy softly. “Only every one
has a different name for it. I had mine—once.”

She put her two thin little hands over her face. She did not tell Valancy—
then—who had destroyed her Blue Castle. But Valancy knew that, whoever
it was, it was not Barney Snaith.

CHAPTER XVIII

V alancy was acquainted with Barney by now—well acquainted, it
seemed, though she had spoken to him only a few times. But then she
had felt just as well acquainted with him the first time they had met.
She had been in the garden at twilight, hunting for a few stalks of white
narcissus for Cissy’s room when she heard that terrible old Grey Slosson
coming down through the woods from Mistawis—one could hear it miles
away. Valancy did not look up as it drew near, thumping over the rocks in
that crazy lane. She had never looked up, though Barney had gone
racketting past every evening since she had been at Roaring Abel’s. This
time he did not racket past. The old Grey Slosson stopped with even more
terrible noises than it made going. Valancy was conscious that Barney had
sprung from it and was leaning over the ramshackle gate. She suddenly
straightened up and looked into his face. Their eyes met—Valancy was
suddenly conscious of a delicious weakness. Was one of her heart attacks
coming on?—But this was a new symptom.
His eyes, which she had always thought brown, now seen close, were
deep violet—translucent and intense. Neither of his eyebrows looked like
the other. He was thin—too thin—she wished she could feed him up a bit—
she wished she could sew the buttons on his coat—and make him cut his
hair—and shave every day. There was something in his face—one hardly
knew what it was. Tiredness? Sadness? Disillusionment? He had dimples in
his thin cheeks when he smiled. All these thoughts flashed through
Valancy’s mind in that one moment while his eyes looked into hers.
“Good-evening, Miss Stirling.”
Nothing could be more commonplace and conventional. Any one might
have said it. But Barney Snaith had a way of saying things that gave them
poignancy. When he said good-evening you felt that it was a good evening
and that it was partly his doing that it was. Also, you felt that some of the
credit was yours. Valancy felt all this vaguely, but she couldn’t imagine why

she was trembling from head to foot—it must be her heart. If only he didn’t
notice it!
“I’m going over to the Port,” Barney was saying. “Can I acquire merit by
getting or doing anything there for you or Cissy?”
“Will you get some salt codfish for us?” said Valancy. It was the only
thing she could think of. Roaring Abel had expressed a desire that day for a
dinner of boiled salt codfish. When her knights came riding to the Blue
Castle, Valancy had sent them on many a quest, but she had never asked any
of them to get her salt codfish.
“Certainly. You’re sure there’s nothing else? Lots of room in Lady Jane
Grey Slosson. And she always gets back some time, does Lady Jane.”
“I don’t think there’s anything more,” said Valancy. She knew he would
bring oranges for Cissy anyhow—he always did.
Barney did not turn away at once. He was silent for a little. Then he said,
slowly and whimsically:
“Miss Stirling, you’re a brick! You’re a whole cartload of bricks. To
come here and look after Cissy—under the circumstances.”
“There’s nothing so bricky about that,” said Valancy. “I’d nothing else to
do. And—I like it here. I don’t feel as if I’d done anything specially
meritorious. Mr. Gay is paying me fair wages. I never earned any money
before—and I like it.” It seemed so easy to talk to Barney Snaith, someway
—this terrible Barney Snaith of the lurid tales and mysterious past—as easy
and natural as if talking to herself.
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy what you’re doing for Cissy
Gay,” said Barney. “It’s splendid and fine of you. And if there’s anything I
can do to help you in any way, you have only to let me know. If Roaring
Abel ever tries to annoy you——”
“He doesn’t. He’s lovely to me. I like Roaring Abel,” said Valancy
frankly.
“So do I. But there’s one stage of his drunkenness—perhaps you haven’t
encountered it yet—when he sings ribald songs——”
“Oh, yes. He came home last night like that. Cissy and I just went to our
room and shut ourselves in where we couldn’t hear him. He apologised this
morning. I’m not afraid of any of Roaring Abel’s stages.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be decent to you, apart from his inebriated yowls,”
said Barney. “And I’ve told him he’s got to stop damning things when
you’re around.”
“Why?” asked Valancy slily, with one of her odd, slanted glances and a
sudden flake of pink on each cheek, born of the thought that Barney Snaith
had actually done so much for her. “I often feel like damning things
myself.”
For a moment Barney stared. Was this elfin girl the little, old-maidish
creature who had stood there two minutes ago? Surely there was magic and
devilry going on in that shabby, weedy old garden.
Then he laughed.
“It will be a relief to have some one to do it for you, then. So you don’t
want anything but salt codfish?”
“Not tonight. But I dare say I’ll have some errands for you very often
when you go to Port Lawrence. I can’t trust Mr. Gay to remember to bring
all the things I want.”
Barney had gone away, then, in his Lady Jane, and Valancy stood in the
garden for a long time.
Since then he had called several times, walking down through the
barrens, whistling. How that whistle of his echoed through the spruces on
those June twilights! Valancy caught herself listening for it every evening—
rebuked herself—then let herself go. Why shouldn’t she listen for it?
He always brought Cissy fruit and flowers. Once he brought Valancy a
box of candy—the first box of candy she had ever been given. It seemed
sacrilege to eat it.
She found herself thinking of him in season and out of season. She
wanted to know if he ever thought about her when she wasn’t before his
eyes, and, if so, what. She wanted to see that mysterious house of his back
on the Mistawis island. Cissy had never seen it. Cissy, though she talked
freely of Barney and had known him for five years, really knew little more
of him than Valancy herself.
“But he isn’t bad,” said Cissy. “Nobody need ever tell me he is. He can’t
have done a thing to be ashamed of.”
“Then why does he live as he does?” asked Valancy—to hear somebody
defend him.

“I don’t know. He’s a mystery. And of course there’s something behind it,
but I know it isn’t disgrace. Barney Snaith simply couldn’t do anything
disgraceful, Valancy.”
Valancy was not so sure. Barney must have done something—sometime.
He was a man of education and intelligence. She had soon discovered that,
in listening to his conversations and wrangles with Roaring Abel—who was
surprisingly well read and could discuss any subject under the sun when
sober. Such a man wouldn’t bury himself for five years in Muskoka and live
and look like a tramp if there were not too good—or bad—a reason for it.
But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was sure now that he had
never been Cissy Gay’s lover. There was nothing like that between them.
Though he was very fond of Cissy and she of him, as any one could see.
But it was a fondness that didn’t worry Valancy.
“You don’t know what Barney has been to me, these past two years,”
Cissy had said simply. “Everything would have been unbearable without
him.”
“Cissy Gay is the sweetest girl I ever knew—and there’s a man
somewhere I’d like to shoot if I could find him,” Barney had said savagely.
Barney was an interesting talker, with a knack of telling a great deal
about his adventures and nothing at all about himself. There was one
glorious rainy day when Barney and Abel swapped yarns all the afternoon
while Valancy mended tablecloths and listened. Barney told weird tales of
his adventures with “shacks” on trains while hoboing it across the
continent. Valancy thought she ought to think his stealing rides quite
dreadful, but didn’t. The story of his working his way to England on a
cattle-ship sounded more legitimate. And his yarns of the Yukon enthralled
her—especially the one of the night he was lost on the divide between Gold
Run and Sulphur Valley. He had spent two years out there. Where in all this
was there room for the penitentiary and the other things?
If he were telling the truth. But Valancy knew he was.
“Found no gold,” he said. “Came away poorer than when I went. But
such a place to live! Those silences at the back of the north wind got me.
I’ve never belonged to myself since.”
Yet he was not a great talker. He told a great deal in a few well-chosen
words—how well-chosen Valancy did not realise. And he had a knack of
saying things without opening his mouth at all.

“I like a man whose eyes say more than his lips,” thought Valancy.
But then she liked everything about him—his tawny hair—his whimsical
smiles—the little glints of fun in his eyes—his loyal affection for that
unspeakable Lady Jane—his habit of sitting with his hands in his pockets,
his chin sunk on his breast, looking up from under his mismated eyebrows.
She liked his nice voice which sounded as if it might become caressing or
wooing with very little provocation. She was at times almost afraid to let
herself think these thoughts. They were so vivid that she felt as if the others
must know what she was thinking.
“I’ve been watching a woodpecker all day,” he said one evening on the
shaky old back verandah. His account of the woodpecker’s doings was
satisfying. He had often some gay or cunning little anecdote of the wood
folk to tell them. And sometimes he and Roaring Abel smoked fiercely the
whole evening and never said a word, while Cissy lay in the hammock
swung between the verandah posts and Valancy sat idly on the steps, her
hands clasped over her knees, and wondered dreamily if she were really
Valancy Stirling and if it were only three weeks since she had left the ugly
old house on Elm Street.
The barrens lay before her in a white moon splendour, where dozens of
little rabbits frisked. Barney, when he liked, could sit down on the edge of
the barrens and lure those rabbits right to him by some mysterious sorcery
he possessed. Valancy had once seen a squirrel leap from a scrub pine to his
shoulder and sit there chattering to him. It reminded her of John Foster.
It was one of the delights of Valancy’s new life that she could read John
Foster’s books as often and as long as she liked. She could read them in bed
if she wanted to. She read them all to Cissy, who loved them. She also tried
to read them to Abel and Barney, who did not love them. Abel was bored
and Barney politely refused to listen at all.
“Piffle,” said Barney.

CHAPTER XIX

O f course, the Stirlings had not left the poor maniac alone all this time or
refrained from heroic efforts to rescue her perishing soul and reputation.
Uncle James, whose lawyer had helped him as little as his doctor, came
one day and, finding Valancy alone in the kitchen, as he supposed, gave her a
terrible talking-to—told her she was breaking her mother’s heart and
disgracing her family.
“But why?” said Valancy, not ceasing to scour her porridge pot decently.
“I’m doing honest work for honest pay. What is there in that that is
disgraceful?”
“Don’t quibble, Valancy,” said Uncle James solemnly. “This is no fit place
for you to be, and you know it. Why, I’m told that that jail-bird, Snaith, is
hanging around here every evening.”
“Not every evening,” said Valancy reflectively. “No, not quite every
evening.”
“It’s—it’s insufferable!” said Uncle James violently. “Valancy, you must
come home. We won’t judge you harshly. I assure you we won’t. We will
overlook all this.”
“Thank you,” said Valancy.
“Have you no sense of shame?” demanded Uncle James.
“Oh, yes. But the things I am ashamed of are not the things you are ashamed
of.” Valancy proceeded to rinse her dishcloth meticulously.
Still was Uncle James patient. He gripped the sides of his chair and ground
his teeth.
“We know your mind isn’t just right. We’ll make allowances. But you must
come home. You shall not stay here with that drunken, blasphemous old
scoundrel——”
“Were you by any chance referring to me, Mister Stirling?” demanded
Roaring Abel, suddenly appearing in the doorway of the back verandah where
he had been smoking a peaceful pipe and listening to “old Jim Stirling’s”

tirade with huge enjoyment. His red beard fairly bristled with indignation and
his huge eyebrows quivered. But cowardice was not among James Stirling’s
shortcomings.
“I was. And, furthermore, I want to tell you that you have acted an
iniquitous part in luring this weak and unfortunate girl away from her home
and friends, and I will have you punished yet for it——”
James Stirling got no further. Roaring Abel crossed the kitchen at a bound,
caught him by his collar and his trousers, and hurled him through the doorway
and over the garden paling with as little apparent effort as he might have
employed in whisking a troublesome kitten out of the way.
“The next time you come back here,” he bellowed, “I’ll throw you through
the window—and all the better if the window is shut! Coming here, thinking
yourself God to put the world to rights!”
Valancy candidly and unashamedly owned to herself that she had seen few
more satisfying sights than Uncle James’ coat-tails flying out into the
asparagus bed. She had once been afraid of this man’s judgment. Now she saw
clearly that he was nothing but a rather stupid little village tin-god.
Roaring Abel turned with his great broad laugh.
“He’ll think of that for years when he wakes up in the night. The Almighty
made a mistake in making so many Stirlings. But since they are made, we’ve
got to reckon with them. Too many to kill out. But if they come here bothering
you I’ll shoo ’em off before a cat could lick its ear.”
The next time they sent Dr. Stalling. Surely Roaring Abel would not throw
him into asparagus beds. Dr. Stalling was not so sure of this and had no great
liking for the task. He did not believe Valancy Stirling was out of her mind.
She had always been queer. He, Dr. Stalling, had never been able to understand
her. Therefore, beyond doubt, she was queer. She was only just a little queerer
than usual now. And Dr. Stalling had his own reasons for disliking Roaring
Abel. When Dr. Stalling had first come to Deerwood he had had a liking for
long hikes around Mistawis and Muskoka. On one of these occasions he had
got lost and after much wandering had fallen in with Roaring Abel with his
gun over his shoulder.
Dr. Stalling had contrived to ask his question in about the most idiotic
manner possible. He said, “Can you tell me where I’m going?”
“How the devil should I know where you’re going, gosling?” retorted Abel
contemptuously.

Dr. Stalling was so enraged that he could not speak for a moment or two and
in that moment Abel had disappeared in the woods. Dr. Stalling had eventually
found his way home, but he had never hankered to encounter Abel Gay again.
Nevertheless he came now to do his duty. Valancy greeted him with a
sinking heart. She had to own to herself that she was terribly afraid of Dr.
Stalling still. She had a miserable conviction that if he shook his long, bony
finger at her and told her to go home, she dared not disobey.
“Mr. Gay,” said Dr. Stalling politely and condescendingly, “may I see Miss
Stirling alone for a few minutes?”
Roaring Abel was a little drunk—just drunk enough to be excessively polite
and very cunning. He had been on the point of going away when Dr. Stalling
arrived, but now he sat down in a corner of the parlour and folded his arms.
“No, no, mister,” he said solemnly. “That wouldn’t do—wouldn’t do at all.
I’ve got the reputation of my household to keep up. I’ve got to chaperone this
young lady. Can’t have any sparkin’ going on here behind my back.”
Outraged Dr. Stalling looked so terrible that Valancy wondered how Abel
could endure his aspect. But Abel was not worried at all.
“D’ye know anything about it, anyway?” he asked genially.
“About what?”
“Sparking,” said Abel coolly.
Poor Dr. Stalling, who had never married because he believed in a celibate
clergy, would not notice this ribald remark. He turned his back on Abel and
addressed himself to Valancy.
“Miss Stirling, I am here in response to your mother’s wishes. She begged
me to come. I am charged with some messages from her. Will you”—he
wagged his forefinger—“will you hear them?”
“Yes,” said Valancy faintly, eyeing the forefinger. It had a hypnotic effect on
her.
“The first is this. If you will leave this—this——”
“House,” interjected Roaring Abel. “H-o-u-s-e. Troubled with an
impediment in your speech, ain’t you, Mister?”
“—this place and return to your home, Mr. James Stirling will himself pay
for a good nurse to come here and wait on Miss Gay.”
Back of her terror Valancy smiled in secret. Uncle James must indeed regard
the matter as desperate when he would loosen his purse-strings like that. At

any rate, her clan no longer despised her or ignored her. She had become
important to them.
“That’s my business, Mister,” said Abel. “Miss Stirling can go if she pleases,
or stay if she pleases. I made a fair bargain with her, and she’s free to conclude
it when she likes. She gives me meals that stick to my ribs. She don’t forget to
put salt in the porridge. She never slams doors, and when she has nothing to
say she don’t talk. That’s uncanny in a woman, you know, Mister. I’m
satisfied. If she isn’t, she’s free to go. But no woman comes here in Jim
Stirling’s pay. If any one does”—Abel’s voice was uncannily bland and polite
—“I’ll spatter the road with her brains. Tell him that with A. Gay’s
compliments.”
“Dr. Stalling, a nurse is not what Cissy needs,” said Valancy earnestly. “She
isn’t so ill as that, yet. What she wants is companionship—somebody she
knows and likes just to live with her. You can understand that, I’m sure.”
“I understand that your motive is quite—ahem—commendable.” Dr.
Stalling felt that he was very broad-minded indeed—especially as in his secret
soul he did not believe Valancy’s motive was commendable. He hadn’t the
least idea what she was up to, but he was sure her motive was not
commendable. When he could not understand a thing he straightway
condemned it. Simplicity itself! “But your first duty is to your mother. She
needs you. She implores you to come home—she will forgive everything if
you will only come home.”
“That’s a pretty little thought,” remarked Abel meditatively, as he ground
some tobacco up in his hand.
Dr. Stalling ignored him.
“She entreats, but I, Miss Stirling,”—Dr. Stalling remembered that he was
an ambassador of Jehovah—“I command. As your pastor and spiritual guide, I
command you to come home with me—this very day. Get your hat and coat
and come now.”
Dr. Stalling shook his finger at Valancy. Before that pitiless finger she
drooped and wilted visibly.
“She’s giving in,” thought Roaring Abel. “She’ll go with him. Beats all, the
power these preacher fellows have over women.”
Valancy was on the point of obeying Dr. Stalling. She must go home with
him—and give up. She would lapse back to Doss Stirling again and for her
few remaining days or weeks be the cowed, futile creature she had always
been. It was her fate—typified by that relentless, uplifted forefinger. She could

no more escape from it than Roaring Abel from his predestination. She eyed it
as the fascinated bird eyes the snake. Another moment—
“Fear is the original sin,” suddenly said a still, small voice away back—
back—back of Valancy’s consciousness. “Almost all the evil in the world has
its origin in the fact that some one is afraid of something.”
Valancy stood up. She was still in the clutches of fear, but her soul was her
own again. She would not be false to that inner voice.
“Dr. Stalling,” she said slowly, “I do not at present owe any duty to my
mother. She is quite well; she has all the assistance and companionship she
requires; she does not need me at all. I am needed here. I am going to stay
here.”
“There’s spunk for you,” said Roaring Abel admiringly.
Dr. Stalling dropped his forefinger. One could not keep on shaking a finger
forever.
“Miss Stirling, is there nothing that can influence you? Do you remember
your childhood days——”
“Perfectly. And hate them.”
“Do you realise what people will say? What they are saying?”
“I can imagine it,” said Valancy, with a shrug of her shoulders. She was
suddenly free of fear again. “I haven’t listened to the gossip of Deerwood
teaparties and sewing circles twenty years for nothing. But, Dr. Stalling, it
doesn’t matter in the least to me what they say—not in the least.”
Dr. Stalling went away then. A girl who cared nothing for public opinion!
Over whom sacred family ties had no restraining influence! Who hated her
childhood memories!
Then Cousin Georgiana came—on her own initiative, for nobody would
have thought it worth while to send her. She found Valancy alone, weeding the
little vegetable garden she had planted, and she made all the platitudinous
pleas she could think of. Valancy heard her patiently. Cousin Georgiana wasn’t
such a bad old soul. Then she said:
“And now that you have got all that out of your system, Cousin Georgiana,
can you tell me how to make creamed codfish so that it will not be as thick as
porridge and as salt as the Dead Sea?”

* * * * * * *

“We’ll just have to wait,” said Uncle Benjamin. “After all, Cissy Gay can’t
live long. Dr. Marsh tells me she may drop off any day.”
Mrs. Frederick wept. It would really have been so much easier to bear if
Valancy had died. She could have worn mourning then.

CHAPTER XX

W hen Abel Gay paid Valancy her first month’s wages—which he did
promptly, in bills reeking with the odour of tobacco and whiskey—
Valancy went into Deerwood and spent every cent of it. She got a
pretty green crêpe dress with a girdle of crimson beads, at a bargain sale, a
pair of silk stockings, to match, and a little crinkled green hat with a
crimson rose in it. She even bought a foolish little beribboned and belaced
nightgown.
She passed the house on Elm Street twice—Valancy never even thought
about it as “home”—but saw no one. No doubt her mother was sitting in the
room this lovely June evening playing solitaire—and cheating. Valancy
knew that Mrs. Frederick always cheated. She never lost a game. Most of
the people Valancy met looked at her seriously and passed her with a cool
nod. Nobody stopped to speak to her.
Valancy put on her green dress when she got home. Then she took it off
again. She felt so miserably undressed in its low neck and short sleeves.
And that low, crimson girdle around the hips seemed positively indecent.
She hung it up in the closet, feeling flatly that she had wasted her money.
She would never have the courage to wear that dress. John Foster’s
arraignment of fear had no power to stiffen her against this. In this one
thing habit and custom were still all-powerful. Yet she sighed as she went
down to meet Barney Snaith in her old snuff-brown silk. That green thing
had been very becoming—she had seen so much in her one ashamed
glance. Above it her eyes had looked like odd brown jewels and the girdle
had given her flat figure an entirely different appearance. She wished she
could have left it on. But there were some things John Foster did not know.
Every Sunday evening Valancy went to the little Free Methodist church
in a valley on the edge of “up back”—a spireless little grey building among
the pines, with a few sunken graves and mossy gravestones in the small,
paling-encircled, grass-grown square beside it. She liked the minister who

preached there. He was so simple and sincere. An old man, who lived in
Port Lawrence and came out by the lake in a little disappearing propeller
boat to give a free service to the people of the small, stony farms back of
the hills, who would otherwise never have heard any gospel message. She
liked the simple service and the fervent singing. She liked to sit by the open
window and look out into the pine woods. The congregation was always
small. The Free Methodists were few in number, poor and generally
illiterate. But Valancy loved those Sunday evenings. For the first time in her
life she liked going to church. The rumour reached Deerwood that she had
“turned Free Methodist” and sent Mrs. Frederick to bed for a day. But
Valancy had not turned anything. She went to the church because she liked
it and because in some inexplicable way it did her good. Old Mr. Towers
believed exactly what he preached and somehow it made a tremendous
difference.
Oddly enough, Roaring Abel disapproved of her going to the hill church
as strongly as Mrs. Frederick herself could have done. He had “no use for
Free Methodists. He was a Presbyterian.” But Valancy went in spite of him.
“We’ll hear something worse than that about her soon,” Uncle Benjamin
predicted gloomily.
They did.
Valancy could not quite explain, even to herself, just why she wanted to
go to that party. It was a dance “up back” at Chidley Corners; and dances at
Chidley Corners were not, as a rule, the sort of assemblies where well-
brought-up young ladies were found. Valancy knew it was coming off, for
Roaring Abel had been engaged as one of the fiddlers.
But the idea of going had never occurred to her until Roaring Abel
himself broached it at supper.
“You come with me to the dance,” he ordered. “It’ll do you good—put
some colour in your face. You look peaked—you want something to liven
you up.”
Valancy found herself suddenly wanting to go. She knew nothing at all of
what dances at Chidley Corners were apt to be like. Her idea of dances had
been fashioned on the correct affairs that went by that name in Deerwood
and Port Lawrence. Of course she knew the Corners’ dance wouldn’t be just
like them. Much more informal, of course. But so much the more
interesting. Why shouldn’t she go? Cissy was in a week of apparent health

and improvement. She wouldn’t mind staying alone in the least. She
entreated Valancy to go if she wanted to. And Valancy did want to go.
She went to her room to dress. A rage against the snuff-brown silk seized
her. Wear that to a party! Never. She pulled her green crêpe from its hanger
and put it on feverishly. It was nonsense to feel so—so—naked—just
because her neck and arms were bare. That was just her old maidishness.
She would not be ridden by it. On went the dress—the slippers.
It was the first time she had worn a pretty dress since the organdies of her
early teens. And they had never made her look like this.
If she only had a necklace or something. She wouldn’t feel so bare then.
She ran down to the garden. There were clovers there—great crimson things
growing in the long grass. Valancy gathered handfuls of them and strung
them on a cord. Fastened above her neck they gave her the comfortable
sensation of a collar and were oddly becoming. Another circlet of them
went round her hair, dressed in the low puffs that became her. Excitement
brought those faint pink stains to her face. She flung on her coat and pulled
the little, twisty hat over her hair.
“You look so nice and—and—different, dear,” said Cissy. “Like a green
moonbeam with a gleam of red in it, if there could be such a thing.”
Valancy stooped to kiss her.
“I don’t feel right about leaving you alone, Cissy.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right. I feel better tonight than I have for a long while.
I’ve been feeling badly to see you sticking here so closely on my account. I
hope you’ll have a nice time. I never was at a party at the Corners, but I
used to go sometimes, long ago, to dances up back. We always had good
times. And you needn’t be afraid of Father being drunk tonight. He never
drinks when he engages to play for a party. But—there may be—liquor.
What will you do if it gets rough?”
“Nobody would molest me.”
“Not seriously, I suppose. Father would see to that. But it might be noisy
and—and unpleasant.”
“I won’t mind. I’m only going as a looker-on. I don’t expect to dance. I
just want to see what a party up back is like. I’ve never seen anything
except decorous Deerwood.”

Cissy smiled rather dubiously. She knew much better than Valancy what
a party “up back” might be like if there should be liquor. But again there
mightn’t be.
“I hope you’ll enjoy it, dear,” she repeated.
Valancy enjoyed the drive there. They went early, for it was twelve miles
to Chidley Corners, and they had to go in Abel’s old, ragged top-buggy. The
road was rough and rocky, like most Muskoka roads, but full of the austere
charm of northern woods. It wound through beautiful, purring pines that
were ranks of enchantment in the June sunset, and over the curious jade-
green rivers of Muskoka, fringed by aspens that were always quivering with
some supernal joy.
Roaring Abel was excellent company, too. He knew all the stories and
legends of the wild, beautiful “up back,” and he told them to Valancy as
they drove along. Valancy had several fits of inward laughter over what
Uncle Benjamin and Aunt Wellington, et al., would feel and think and say if
they saw her driving with Roaring Abel in that terrible buggy to a dance at
Chidley Corners.
At first the dance was quiet enough, and Valancy was amused and
entertained. She even danced twice herself, with a couple of nice “up back”
boys who danced beautifully and told her she did, too.
Another compliment came her way—not a very subtle one, perhaps, but
Valancy had had too few compliments in her life to be over-nice on that
point. She overheard two of the “up back” young men talking about her in
the dark “lean-to” behind her.
“Know who that girl in green is?”
“Nope. Guess she’s from out front. The Port, maybe. Got a stylish look to
her.”
“No beaut but cute-looking, I’ll say. ’Jever see such eyes?”
The big room was decorated with pine and fir boughs, and lighted by
Chinese lanterns. The floor was waxed, and Roaring Abel’s fiddle, purring
under his skilled touch, worked magic. The “up back” girls were pretty and
prettily dressed. Valancy thought it the nicest party she had ever attended.
By eleven o’clock she had changed her mind. A new crowd had arrived—
a crowd unmistakably drunk. Whiskey began to circulate freely. Very soon
almost all the men were partly drunk. Those in the porch and outside around

the door began howling “come-all-ye’s” and continued to howl them. The
room grew noisy and reeking. Quarrels started up here and there. Bad
language and obscene songs were heard. The girls, swung rudely in the
dances, became dishevelled and tawdry. Valancy, alone in her corner, was
feeling disgusted and repentant. Why had she ever come to such a place?
Freedom and independence were all very well, but one should not be a little
fool. She might have known what it would be like—she might have taken
warning from Cissy’s guarded sentences. Her head was aching—she was
sick of the whole thing. But what could she do? She must stay to the end.
Abel could not leave till then. And that would probably be not till three or
four in the morning.
The new influx of boys had left the girls far in the minority and partners
were scarce. Valancy was pestered with invitations to dance. She refused
them all shortly, and some of her refusals were not well taken. There were
muttered oaths and sullen looks. Across the room she saw a group of the
strangers talking together and glancing meaningly at her. What were they
plotting?
It was at this moment that she saw Barney Snaith looking in over the
heads of the crowd at the doorway. Valancy had two distinct convictions—
one was that she was quite safe now; the other was that this was why she
had wanted to come to the dance. It had been such an absurd hope that she
had not recognised it before, but now she knew she had come because of
the possibility that Barney might be there, too. She thought that perhaps she
ought to be ashamed for this, but she wasn’t. After her feeling of relief her
next feeling was one of annoyance with Barney for coming there unshaved.
Surely he might have enough self-respect to groom himself up decently
when he went to a party. There he was, bareheaded, bristly-chinned, in his
old trousers and his blue homespun shirt. Not even a coat. Valancy could
have shaken him in her anger. No wonder people believed everything bad of
him.
But she was not afraid any longer. One of the whispering group left his
comrades and came across the room to her, through the whirling couples
that now filled it uncomfortably. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, not
ill-dressed or ill-looking but unmistakably half drunk. He asked Valancy to
dance. Valancy declined civilly. His face turned livid. He threw his arm
about her and pulled her to him. His hot, whiskied breath burned her face.

“We won’t have fine-lady airs here, my girl. If you ain’t too good to
come here you ain’t too good to dance with us. Me and my pals have been
watching you. You’ve got to give us each a turn and a kiss to boot.”
Valancy tried desperately and vainly to free herself. She was being
dragged out into the maze of shouting, stamping, yelling dancers. The next
moment the man who held her went staggering across the room from a
neatly planted blow on the jaw, knocking down whirling couples as he
went. Valancy felt her arm grasped.
“This way—quick,” said Barney Snaith. He swung her out through the
open window behind them, vaulted lightly over the sill and caught her hand.
“Quick—we must run for it—they’ll be after us.”
Valancy ran as she had never run before, clinging tight to Barney’s hand,
wondering why she did not drop dead in such a mad scamper. Suppose she
did! What a scandal it would make for her poor people. For the first time
Valancy felt a little sorry for them. Also, she felt glad that she had escaped
from that horrible row. Also, glad that she was holding tight to Barney’s
hand. Her feelings were badly mixed and she had never had so many in
such a brief time in her life.
They finally reached a quiet corner in the pine woods. The pursuit had
taken a different direction and the whoops and yells behind them were
growing faint. Valancy, out of breath, with a crazily beating heart, collapsed
on the trunk of a fallen pine.
“Thanks,” she gasped.
“What a goose you were to come to such a place!” said Barney.
“I—didn’t—know—it—would—be like this,” protested Valancy.
“You should have known. Chidley Corners!”
“It—was—just—a name—to me.”
Valancy knew Barney could not realise how ignorant she was of the
regions “up back.” She had lived in Deerwood all her life and of course he
supposed she knew. He didn’t know how she had been brought up. There
was no use trying to explain.
“When I drifted in at Abel’s this evening and Cissy told me you’d come
here I was amazed. And downright scared. Cissy told me she was worried
about you but hadn’t liked to say anything to dissuade you for fear you’d

think she was thinking selfishly about herself. So I came on up here instead
of going to Deerwood.”
Valancy felt a sudden delightful glow irradiating soul and body under the
dark pines. So he had actually come up to look after her.
“As soon as they stop hunting for us we’ll sneak around to the Muskoka
road. I left Lady Jane down there. I’ll take you home. I suppose you’ve had
enough of your party.”
“Quite,” said Valancy meekly. The first half of the way home neither of
them said anything. It would not have been much use. Lady Jane made so
much noise they could not have heard each other. Anyway, Valancy did not
feel conversationally inclined. She was ashamed of the whole affair—
ashamed of her folly in going—ashamed of being found in such a place by
Barney Snaith. By Barney Snaith, reputed jail-breaker, infidel, forger and
defaulter. Valancy’s lips twitched in the darkness as she thought of it. But
she was ashamed.
And yet she was enjoying herself—was full of a strange exultation—
bumping over that rough road beside Barney Snaith. The big trees shot by
them. The tall mulleins stood up along the road in stiff, orderly ranks like
companies of soldiers. The thistles looked like drunken fairies or tipsy elves
as their car-lights passed over them. This was the first time she had even
been in a car. After all, she liked it. She was not in the least afraid, with
Barney at the wheel. Her spirits rose rapidly as they tore along. She ceased
to feel ashamed. She ceased to feel anything except that she was part of a
comet rushing gloriously through the night of space.
All at once, just where the pine woods frayed out to the scrub barrens,
Lady Jane became quiet—too quiet. Lady Jane slowed down quietly—and
stopped.
Barney uttered an aghast exclamation. Got out. Investigated. Came
apologetically back.
“I’m a doddering idiot. Out of gas. I knew I was short when I left home,
but I meant to fill up in Deerwood. Then I forgot all about it in my hurry to
get to the Corners.”
“What can we do?” asked Valancy coolly.
“I don’t know. There’s no gas nearer than Deerwood, nine miles away.
And I don’t dare leave you here alone. There are always tramps on this road

—and some of those crazy fools back at the Corners may come straggling
along presently. There were boys there from the Port. As far as I can see, the
best thing to do is for us just to sit patiently here until some car comes along
and lends us enough gas to get to Roaring Abel’s with.”
“Well, what’s the matter with that?” said Valancy.
“We may have to sit here all night,” said Barney.
“I don’t mind,” said Valancy.
Barney gave a short laugh. “If you don’t, I needn’t. I haven’t any
reputation to lose.”
“Nor I,” said Valancy comfortably.

CHAPTER XXI

“W e’ll just sit here,” said Barney, “and if we think of anything worth
while saying we’ll say it. Otherwise, not. Don’t imagine you’re
bound to talk to me.”
“John Foster says,” quoted Valancy, “‘If you can sit in silence with a
person for half an hour and yet be entirely comfortable, you and that person
can be friends. If you cannot, friends you’ll never be and you need not
waste time in trying.’”
“Evidently John Foster says a sensible thing once in a while,” conceded
Barney.
They sat in silence for a long while. Little rabbits hopped across the road.
Once or twice an owl laughed out delightfully. The road beyond them was
fringed with the woven shadow lace of trees. Away off to the southwest the
sky was full of silvery little cirrus clouds above the spot where Barney’s
island must be.
Valancy was perfectly happy. Some things dawn on you slowly. Some
things come by lightning flashes. Valancy had had a lightning flash.
She knew quite well now that she loved Barney. Yesterday she had been
all her own. Now she was this man’s. Yet he had done nothing—said
nothing. He had not even looked at her as a woman. But that didn’t matter.
Nor did it matter what he was or what he had done. She loved him without
any reservations. Everything in her went out wholly to him. She had no
wish to stifle or disown her love. She seemed to be his so absolutely that
thought apart from him—thought in which he did not predominate—was an
impossibility.
She had realised, quite simply and fully, that she loved him, in the
moment when he was leaning on the car door, explaining that Lady Jane
had no gas. She had looked deep into his eyes in the moonlight and had
known. In just that infinitesimal space of time everything was changed. Old
things passed away and all things became new.

She was no longer unimportant, little, old maid Valancy Stirling. She was
a woman, full of love and therefore rich and significant—justified to
herself. Life was no longer empty and futile, and death could cheat her of
nothing. Love had cast out her last fear.
Love! What a searing, torturing, intolerably sweet thing it was—this
possession of body, soul and mind! With something at its core as fine and
remote and purely spiritual as the tiny blue spark in the heart of the
unbreakable diamond. No dream had ever been like this. She was no longer
solitary. She was one of a vast sisterhood—all the women who had ever
loved in the world.
Barney need never know it—though she would not in the least have
minded his knowing. But she knew it and it made a tremendous difference
to her. Just to love! She did not ask to be loved. It was rapture enough just
to sit there beside him in silence, alone in the summer night in the white
splendour of moonshine, with the wind blowing down on them out of the
pine woods. She had always envied the wind. So free. Blowing where it
listed. Through the hills. Over the lakes. What a tang, what a zip it had!
What a magic of adventure! Valancy felt as if she had exchanged her shop-
worn soul for a fresh one, fire-new from the workshop of the gods. As far
back as she could look, life had been dull—colourless—savourless. Now
she had come to a little patch of violets, purple and fragrant—hers for the
plucking. No matter who or what had been in Barney’s past—no matter
who or what might be in his future—no one else could ever have this
perfect hour. She surrendered herself utterly to the charm of the moment.
“Ever dream of ballooning?” said Barney suddenly.
“No,” said Valancy.
“I do—often. Dream of sailing through the clouds—seeing the glories of
sunset—spending hours in the midst of a terrific storm with lightning
playing above and below you—skimming above a silver cloud floor under a
full moon—wonderful!”
“It does sound so,” said Valancy. “I’ve stayed on earth in my dreams.”
She told him about her Blue Castle. It was so easy to tell Barney things.
One felt he understood everything—even the things you didn’t tell him.
And then she told him a little of her existence before she came to Roaring
Abel’s. She wanted him to see why she had gone to the dance “up back.”

“You see—I’ve never had any real life,” she said. “I’ve just—breathed.
Every door has always been shut to me.”
“But you’re still young,” said Barney.
“Oh, I know. Yes, I’m ‘still young’—but that’s so different from young,”
said Valancy bitterly. For a moment she was tempted to tell Barney why her
years had nothing to do with her future; but she did not. She was not going
to think of death tonight.
“Though I never was really young,” she went on—“until tonight,” she
added in her heart. “I never had a life like other girls. You couldn’t
understand. Why,”—she had a desperate desire that Barney should know
the worst about her—“I didn’t even love my mother. Isn’t it awful that I
don’t love my mother?”
“Rather awful—for her,” said Barney drily.
“Oh, she didn’t know it. She took my love for granted. And I wasn’t any
use or comfort to her or anybody. I was just a—a—vegetable. And I got
tired of it. That’s why I came to keep house for Mr. Gay and look after
Cissy.”
“And I suppose your people thought you’d gone mad.”
“They did—and do—literally,” said Valancy. “But it’s a comfort to them.
They’d rather believe me mad than bad. There’s no other alternative. But
I’ve been living since I came to Mr. Gay’s. It’s been a delightful experience.
I suppose I’ll pay for it when I have to go back—but I’ll have had it.”
“That’s true,” said Barney. “If you buy your experience it’s your own. So
it’s no matter how much you pay for it. Somebody else’s experience can
never be yours. Well, it’s a funny old world.”
“Do you think it really is old?” asked Valancy dreamily. “I never believe
that in June. It seems so young tonight—somehow. In that quivering
moonlight—like a young, white girl—waiting.”
“Moonlight here on the verge of up back is different from moonlight
anywhere else,” agreed Barney. “It always makes me feel so clean,
somehow—body and soul. And of course the age of gold always comes
back in spring.”
It was ten o’clock now. A dragon of black cloud ate up the moon. The
spring air grew chill—Valancy shivered. Barney reached back into the
innards of Lady Jane and clawed up an old, tobacco-scented overcoat.

“Put that on,” he ordered.
“Don’t you want it yourself?” protested Valancy.
“No. I’m not going to have you catching cold on my hands.”
“Oh, I won’t catch cold. I haven’t had a cold since I came to Mr. Gay’s—
though I’ve done the foolishest things. It’s funny, too—I used to have them
all the time. I feel so selfish taking your coat.”
“You’ve sneezed three times. No use winding up your ‘experience’ up
back with grippe or pneumonia.”
He pulled it up tight about her throat and buttoned it on her. Valancy
submitted with secret delight. How nice it was to have some one look after
you so! She snuggled down into the tobaccoey folds and wished the night
could last forever.
Ten minutes later a car swooped down on them from “up back.” Barney
sprang from Lady Jane and waved his hand. The car came to a stop beside
them. Valancy saw Uncle Wellington and Olive gazing at her in horror from
it.
So Uncle Wellington had got a car! And he must have been spending the
evening up at Mistawis with Cousin Herbert. Valancy almost laughed aloud
at the expression on his face as he recognised her. The pompous,
bewhiskered old humbug!
“Can you let me have enough gas to take me to Deerwood?” Barney was
asking politely. But Uncle Wellington was not attending to him.
“Valancy, how came you here!” he said sternly.
“By chance or God’s grace,” said Valancy.
“With this jail-bird—at ten o’clock at night!” said Uncle Wellington.
Valancy turned to Barney. The moon had escaped from its dragon and in
its light her eyes were full of deviltry.
“Are you a jail-bird?”
“Does it matter?” said Barney, gleams of fun in his eyes.
“Not to me. I only asked out of curiosity,” continued Valancy.
“Then I won’t tell you. I never satisfy curiosity.” He turned to Uncle
Wellington and his voice changed subtly.

“Mr. Stirling, I asked you if you could let me have some gas. If you can,
well and good. If not, we are only delaying you unnecessarily.”
Uncle Wellington was in a horrible dilemma. To give gas to this
shameless pair! But not to give it to them! To go away and leave them there
in the Mistawis woods—until daylight, likely. It was better to give it to
them and let them get out of sight before any one else saw them.
“Got anything to get gas in?” he grunted surlily.
Barney produced a two-gallon measure from Lady Jane. The two men
went to the rear of the Stirling car and began manipulating the tap. Valancy
stole sly glances at Olive over the collar of Barney’s coat. Olive was sitting
grimly staring straight ahead with an outraged expression. She did not mean
to take any notice of Valancy. Olive had her own secret reasons for feeling
outraged. Cecil had been in Deerwood lately and of course had heard all
about Valancy. He agreed that her mind was deranged and was exceedingly
anxious to find out whence the derangement had been inherited. It was a
serious thing to have in the family—a very serious thing. One had to think
of one’s—descendants.
“She got it from the Wansbarras,” said Olive positively. “There’s nothing
like that in the Stirlings—nothing!”
“I hope not—I certainly hope not,” Cecil had responded dubiously. “But
then—to go out as a servant—for that is what it practically amounts to.
Your cousin!”
Poor Olive felt the implication. The Port Lawrence Prices were not
accustomed to ally themselves with families whose members “worked out.”
Valancy could not resist temptation. She leaned forward.
“Olive, does it hurt?”
Olive bit—stiffly.
“Does what hurt?”
“Looking like that.”
For a moment Olive resolved she would take no further notice of
Valancy. Then duty came uppermost. She must not miss the opportunity.
“Doss,” she implored, leaning forward also, “won’t you come home—
come home tonight?”
Valancy yawned.

“You sound like a revival meeting,” she said. “You really do.”
“If you will come back——”
“All will be forgiven.”
“Yes,” said Olive eagerly. Wouldn’t it be splendid if she could induce the
prodigal daughter to return? “We’ll never cast it up to you. Doss, there are
nights when I cannot sleep for thinking of you.”
“And me having the time of my life,” said Valancy, laughing.
“Doss, I can’t believe you’re bad. I’ve always said you couldn’t be bad
——”
“I don’t believe I can be,” said Valancy. “I’m afraid I’m hopelessly
proper. I’ve been sitting here for three hours with Barney Snaith and he
hasn’t even tried to kiss me. I wouldn’t have minded if he had, Olive.”
Valancy was still leaning forward. Her little hat with its crimson rose was
tilted down over one eye. Olive stared. In the moonlight Valancy’s eyes—
Valancy’s smile—what had happened to Valancy! She looked—not pretty—
Doss couldn’t be pretty—but provocative, fascinating—yes, abominably so.
Olive drew back. It was beneath her dignity to say more. After all, Valancy
must be both mad and bad.
“Thanks—that’s enough,” said Barney behind the car. “Much obliged,
Mr. Stirling. Two gallons—seventy cents. Thank you.”
Uncle Wellington climbed foolishly and feebly into his car. He wanted to
give Snaith a piece of his mind, but dared not. Who knew what the creature
might do if provoked? No doubt he carried firearms.
Uncle Wellington looked indecisively at Valancy. But Valancy had turned
her back on him and was watching Barney pour the gas into Lady Jane’s
maw.
“Drive on,” said Olive decisively. “There’s no use in waiting here. Let
me tell you what she said to me.”
“The little hussy! The shameless little hussy!” said Uncle Wellington.

CHAPTER XXII

T he next thing the Stirlings heard was that Valancy had been seen with
Barney Snaith in a movie theatre in Port Lawrence and after it at supper
in a Chinese restaurant there. This was quite true—and no one was more
surprised at it than Valancy herself. Barney had come along in Lady Jane
one dim twilight and told Valancy unceremoniously if she wanted a drive to
hop in.
“I’m going to the Port. Will you go there with me?”
His eyes were teasing and there was a bit of defiance in his voice.
Valancy, who did not conceal from herself that she would have gone
anywhere with him to any place, “hopped in” without more ado. They tore
into and through Deerwood. Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles, taking a
little air on the verandah, saw them whirl by in a cloud of dust and sought
comfort in each other’s eyes. Valancy, who in some dim pre-existence had
been afraid of a car, was hatless and her hair was blowing wildly round her
face. She would certainly come down with bronchitis—and die at Roaring
Abel’s. She wore a low-necked dress and her arms were bare. That Snaith
creature was in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe. They were going at the
rate of forty miles an hour—sixty, Cousin Stickles averred. Lady Jane could
hit the pike when she wanted to. Valancy waved her hand gaily to her
relatives. As for Mrs. Frederick, she was wishing she knew how to go into
hysterics.
“Was it for this,” she demanded in hollow tones, “that I suffered the
pangs of motherhood?”
“I will not believe,” said Cousin Stickles solemnly, “that our prayers will
not yet be answered.”
“Who—who will protect that unfortunate girl when I am gone?” moaned
Mrs. Frederick.
As for Valancy, she was wondering if it could really be only a few weeks
since she had sat there with them on that verandah. Hating the rubber-plant.

Pestered with teasing questions like black flies. Always thinking of
appearances. Cowed because of Aunt Wellington’s teaspoons and Uncle
Benjamin’s money. Poverty-stricken. Afraid of everybody. Envying Olive.
A slave to moth-eaten traditions. Nothing to hope for or expect.
And now every day was a gay adventure.
Lady Jane flew over the fifteen miles between Deerwood and the Port—
through the Port. The way Barney went past traffic policemen was not holy.
The lights were beginning to twinkle out like stars in the clear, lemon-hued
twilight air. This was the only time Valancy ever really liked the town, and
she was crazy with the delight of speeding. Was it possible she had ever
been afraid of a car? She was perfectly happy, riding beside Barney. Not
that she deluded herself into thinking it had any significance. She knew
quite well that Barney had asked her to go on the impulse of the moment—
an impulse born of a feeling of pity for her and her starved little dreams.
She was looking tired after a wakeful night with a heart attack, followed by
a busy day. She had so little fun. He’d give her an outing for once. Besides,
Abel was in the kitchen, at the point of drunkenness where he was declaring
he did not believe in God and beginning to sing ribald songs. It was just as
well she should be out of the way for a while. Barney knew Roaring Abel’s
repertoire.
They went to the movie—Valancy had never been to a movie. And then,
finding a nice hunger upon them, they went and had fried chicken—
unbelievably delicious—in the Chinese restaurant. After which they rattled
home again, leaving a devastating trail of scandal behind them. Mrs.
Frederick gave up going to church altogether. She could not endure her
friends’ pitying glances and questions. But Cousin Stickles went every
Sunday. She said they had been given a cross to bear.

CHAPTER XXIII

O n one of Cissy’s wakeful nights, she told Valancy her poor little story.
They were sitting by the open window. Cissy could not get her breath
lying down that night. An inglorious gibbous moon was hanging over
the wooded hills and in its spectral light Cissy looked frail and lovely and
incredibly young. A child. It did not seem possible that she could have lived
through all the passion and pain and shame of her story.
“He was stopping at the hotel across the lake. He used to come over in
his canoe at night—we met in the pines down the shore. He was a young
college student—his father was a rich man in Toronto. Oh, Valancy, I didn’t
mean to be bad—I didn’t, indeed. But I loved him so—I love him yet—I’ll
always love him. And I—didn’t know—some things. I didn’t—understand.
Then his father came and took him away. And—after a little—I found out—
oh, Valancy,—I was so frightened. I didn’t know what to do. I wrote him—
and he came. He—he said he would marry me, Valancy.”
“And why—and why?——”
“Oh, Valancy, he didn’t love me any more. I saw that at a glance. He—he
was just offering to marry me because he thought he ought to—because he
was sorry for me. He wasn’t bad—but he was so young—and what was I
that he should keep on loving me?”
“Never mind making excuses for him,” said Valancy a bit shortly. “So
you wouldn’t marry him?”
“I couldn’t—not when he didn’t love me any more. Somehow—I can’t
explain—it seemed a worse thing to do than—the other. He—he argued a
little—but he went away. Do you think I did right, Valancy?”
“Yes, I do. You did right. But he——”
“Don’t blame him, dear. Please don’t. Let’s not talk about him at all.
There’s no need. I wanted to tell you how it was—I didn’t want you to think
me bad——”

“I never did think so.”
“Yes, I felt that—whenever you came. Oh, Valancy, what you’ve been to
me! I can never tell you—but God will bless you for it. I know He will
—‘with what measure ye mete.’”
Cissy sobbed for a few minutes in Valancy’s arms. Then she wiped her
eyes.
“Well, that’s almost all. I came home. I wasn’t really so very unhappy. I
suppose I should have been—but I wasn’t. Father wasn’t hard on me. And
my baby was so sweet while he lived. I was even happy—I loved him so
much, the dear little thing. He was so sweet, Valancy—with such lovely
blue eyes—and little rings of pale gold hair like silk floss—and tiny
dimpled hands. I used to bite his satin-smooth little face all over—softly, so
as not to hurt him, you know——”
“I know,” said Valancy, wincing. “I know—a woman always knows—
and dreams——”
“And he was all mine. Nobody else had any claim on him. When he died,
oh, Valancy, I thought I must die too—I didn’t see how anybody could
endure such anguish and live. To see his dear little eyes and know he would
never open them again—to miss his warm little body nestled against mine
at night and think of him sleeping alone and cold, his wee face under the
hard frozen earth. It was so awful for the first year—after that it was a little
easier, one didn’t keep thinking ‘this day last year’—but I was so glad when
I found out I was dying.”
“‘Who could endure life if it were not for the hope of death?’” murmured
Valancy softly—it was of course a quotation from some book of John
Foster’s.
“I’m glad I’ve told you all about it,” sighed Cissy. “I wanted you to
know.”
Cissy died a few nights after that. Roaring Abel was away. When Valancy
saw the change that had come over Cissy’s face she wanted to telephone for
the doctor. But Cissy wouldn’t let her.
“Valancy, why should you? He can do nothing for me. I’ve known for
several days that—this—was near. Let me die in peace, dear—just holding
your hand. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Tell Father good-bye for me. He’s

always been as good to me as he knew how—and Barney. Somehow, I think
that Barney——”
But a spasm of coughing interrupted and exhausted her. She fell asleep
when it was over, still holding to Valancy’s hand. Valancy sat there in the
silence. She was not frightened—or even sorry. At sunrise Cissy died. She
opened her eyes and looked past Valancy at something—something that
made her smile suddenly and happily. And, smiling, she died.
Valancy crossed Cissy’s hands on her breast and went to the open
window. In the eastern sky, amid the fires of sunrise, an old moon was
hanging—as slender and lovely as a new moon. Valancy had never seen an
old, old moon before. She watched it pale and fade until it paled and faded
out of sight in the living rose of day. A little pool in the barrens shone in the
sunrise like a great golden lily.
But the world suddenly seemed a colder place to Valancy. Again nobody
needed her. She was not in the least sorry Cecilia was dead. She was only
sorry for all her suffering in life. But nobody could ever hurt her again.
Valancy had always thought death dreadful. But Cissy had died so quietly—
so pleasantly. And at the very last—something—had made up to her for
everything. She was lying there now, in her white sleep, looking like a
child. Beautiful! All the lines of shame and pain gone.
Roaring Abel drove in, justifying his name. Valancy went down and told
him. The shock sobered him at once. He slumped down on the seat of his
buggy, his great head hanging.
“Cissy dead—Cissy dead,” he said vacantly. “I didn’t think it would ’a’
come so soon. Dead. She used to run down the lane to meet me with a little
white rose stuck in her hair. Cissy used to be a pretty little girl. And a good
little girl.”
“She has always been a good little girl,” said Valancy.

CHAPTER XXIV

V alancy herself made Cissy ready for burial. No hands but hers should
touch that pitiful, wasted little body. The old house was spotless on the
day of the funeral. Barney Snaith was not there. He had done all he
could to help Valancy before it—he had shrouded the pale Cecilia in white
roses from the garden—and then had gone back to his island. But
everybody else was there. All Deerwood and “up back” came. They forgave
Cissy splendidly at last. Mr. Bradly gave a very beautiful funeral address.
Valancy had wanted her old Free Methodist man, but Roaring Abel was
obdurate. He was a Presbyterian and no one but a Presbyterian minister
should bury his daughter. Mr. Bradly was very tactful. He avoided all
dubious points and it was plain to be seen he hoped for the best. Six
reputable citizens of Deerwood bore Cecilia Gay to her grave in decorous
Deerwood cemetery. Among them was Uncle Wellington.
The Stirlings all came to the funeral, men and women. They had had a
family conclave over it. Surely now that Cissy Gay was dead Valancy
would come home. She simply could not stay there with Roaring Abel. That
being the case, the wisest course—decreed Uncle James—was to attend the
funeral—legitimise the whole thing, so to speak—show Deerwood that
Valancy had really done a most creditable deed in going to nurse poor
Cecilia Gay and that her family backed her up in it. Death, the miracle
worker, suddenly made the thing quite respectable. If Valancy would return
to home and decency while public opinion was under its influence all might
yet be well. Society was suddenly forgetting all Cecilia’s wicked doings and
remembering what a pretty, modest little thing she had been—“and
motherless, you know—motherless!” It was the psychological moment—
said Uncle James.
So the Stirlings went to the funeral. Even Cousin Gladys’ neuritis
allowed her to come. Cousin Stickles was there, her bonnet dripping all
over her face, crying as woefully as if Cissy had been her nearest and

dearest. Funerals always brought Cousin Stickles’ “own sad bereavement”
back.
And Uncle Wellington was a pall-bearer.
Valancy, pale, subdued-looking, her slanted eyes smudged with purple, in
her snuff-brown dress, moving quietly about, finding seats for people,
consulting in undertones with minister and undertaker, marshalling the
“mourners” into the parlour, was so decorous and proper and Stirlingish that
her family took heart of grace. This was not—could not be—the girl who
had sat all night in the woods with Barney Snaith—who had gone tearing
bareheaded through Deerwood and Port Lawrence. This was the Valancy
they knew. Really, surprisingly capable and efficient. Perhaps she had
always been kept down a bit too much—Amelia really was rather strict—
hadn’t had a chance to show what was in her. So thought the Stirlings. And
Edward Beck, from the Port road, a widower with a large family who was
beginning to take notice, took notice of Valancy and thought she might
make a mighty fine second wife. No beauty—but a fifty-year-old widower,
Mr. Beck told himself very reasonably, couldn’t expect everything.
Altogether, it seemed that Valancy’s matrimonial chances were never so
bright as they were at Cecilia Gay’s funeral.
What the Stirlings and Edward Beck would have thought had they known
the back of Valancy’s mind must be left to the imagination. Valancy was
hating the funeral—hating the people who came to stare with curiosity at
Cecilia’s marble-white face—hating the smugness—hating the dragging,
melancholy singing—hating Mr. Bradly’s cautious platitudes. If she could
have had her absurd way, there would have been no funeral at all. She
would have covered Cissy over with flowers, shut her away from prying
eyes, and buried her beside her nameless little baby in the grassy burying-
ground under the pines of the “up back” church, with a bit of kindly prayer
from the old Free Methodist minister. She remembered Cissy saying once,
“I wish I could be buried deep in the heart of the woods where nobody
would ever come to say, ‘Cissy Gay is buried here,’ and tell over my
miserable story.”
But this! However, it would soon be over. Valancy knew, if the Stirlings
and Edward Beck didn’t, exactly what she intended to do then. She had lain
awake all the preceding night thinking about it and finally deciding on it.

When the funeral procession had left the house, Mrs. Frederick sought
out Valancy in the kitchen.
“My child,” she said tremulously, “you’ll come home now?”
“Home,” said Valancy absently. She was getting on an apron and
calculating how much tea she must put to steep for supper. There would be
several guests from “up back”—distant relatives of the Gays’ who had not
remembered them for years. And she was so tired she wished she could
borrow a pair of legs from the cat.
“Yes, home,” said Mrs. Frederick, with a touch of asperity. “I suppose
you won’t dream of staying here now—alone with Roaring Abel.”
“Oh, no, I’m not going to stay here,” said Valancy. “Of course, I’ll have
to stay for a day or two, to put the house in order generally. But that will be
all. Excuse me, Mother, won’t you? I’ve a frightful lot to do—all those ‘up
back’ people will be here to supper.”
Mrs. Frederick retreated in considerable relief, and the Stirlings went
home with lighter hearts.
“We will just treat her as if nothing had happened when she comes back,”
decreed Uncle Benjamin. “That will be the best plan. Just as if nothing had
happened.”

CHAPTER XXV

O n the evening of the day after the funeral Roaring Abel went off for a
spree. He had been sober for four whole days and could endure it no
longer. Before he went, Valancy told him she would be going away the
next day. Roaring Abel was sorry, and said so. A distant cousin from “up
back” was coming to keep house for him—quite willing to do so now since
there was no sick girl to wait on—but Abel was not under any delusions
concerning her.
“She won’t be like you, my girl. Well, I’m obliged to you. You helped me
out of a bad hole and I won’t forget it. And I won’t forget what you did for
Cissy. I’m your friend, and if you ever want any of the Stirlings spanked
and sot in a corner send for me. I’m going to wet my whistle. Lord, but I’m
dry! Don’t reckon I’ll be back afore tomorrow night, so if you’re going
home tomorrow, good-bye now.”
“I may go home tomorrow,” said Valancy, “but I’m not going back to
Deerwood.”
“Not going——”
“You’ll find the key on the woodshed nail,” interrupted Valancy, politely
and unmistakably. “The dog will be in the barn and the cat in the cellar.
Don’t forget to feed her till your cousin comes. The pantry is full and I
made bread and pies today. Good-bye, Mr. Gay. You have been very kind to
me and I appreciate it.”
“We’ve had a d——d decent time of it together, and that’s a fact,” said
Roaring Abel. “You’re the best small sport in the world, and your little
finger is worth the whole Stirling clan tied together. Good-bye and good-
luck.”
Valancy went out to the garden. Her legs trembled a little, but otherwise
she felt and looked composed. She held something tightly in her hand. The
garden was lying in the magic of the warm, odorous July twilight. A few
stars were out and the robins were calling through the velvety silences of

the barrens. Valancy stood by the gate expectantly. Would he come? If he
did not——
He was coming. Valancy heard Lady Jane Grey far back in the woods.
Her breath came a little more quickly. Nearer—and nearer—she could see
Lady Jane now—bumping down the lane—nearer—nearer—he was there—
he had sprung from the car and was leaning over the gate, looking at her.
“Going home, Miss Stirling?”
“I don’t know—yet,” said Valancy slowly. Her mind was made up, with
no shadow of turning, but the moment was very tremendous.
“I thought I’d run down and ask if there was anything I could do for
you,” said Barney.
Valancy took it with a canter.
“Yes, there is something you can do for me,” she said, evenly and
distinctly. “Will you marry me?”
For a moment Barney was silent. There was no particular expression on
his face. Then he gave an odd laugh.
“Come, now! I knew luck was just waiting around the corner for me. All
the signs have been pointing that way today.”
“Wait.” Valancy lifted her hand. “I’m in earnest—but I want to get my
breath after that question. Of course, with my bringing up, I realise
perfectly well that this is one of the things ‘a lady should not do.’”
“But why—why?”
“For two reasons.” Valancy was still a little breathless, but she looked
Barney straight in the eyes, while all the dead Stirlings revolved rapidly in
their graves and the living ones did nothing because they did not know that
Valancy was at that moment proposing lawful marriage to the notorious
Barney Snaith. “The first reason is, I—I”—Valancy tried to say “I love
you” but could not. She had to take refuge in a pretended flippancy. “I’m
crazy about you. The second is—this.”
She handed him Dr. Trent’s letter.
Barney opened it with the air of a man thankful to find some safe, sane
thing to do. As he read it his face changed. He understood—more perhaps
than Valancy wanted him to.
“Are you sure nothing can be done for you?”

Valancy did not misunderstand the question.
“Yes. You know Dr. Trent’s reputation in regard to heart disease. I
haven’t long to live—perhaps only a few months—a few weeks. I want to
live them. I can’t go back to Deerwood—you know what my life was like
there. And”—she managed it this time—“I love you. I want to spend the
rest of my life with you. That’s all.”
Barney folded his arms on the gate and looked gravely enough at a white,
saucy star that was winking at him just over Roaring Abel’s kitchen
chimney.
“You don’t know anything about me. I may be a—murderer.”
“No, I don’t. You may be something dreadful. Everything they say of you
may be true. But it doesn’t matter to me.”
“You care that much for me, Valancy?” said Barney incredulously,
looking away from the star and into her eyes—her strange, mysterious eyes.
“I care—that much,” said Valancy in a low voice. She was trembling. He
had called her by her name for the first time. It was sweeter than another
man’s caress could have been just to hear him say her name like that.
“If we are going to get married,” said Barney, speaking suddenly in a
casual, matter-of-fact voice, “some things must be understood.”
“Everything must be understood,” said Valancy.
“I have things I want to hide,” said Barney coolly. “You are not to ask me
about them.”
“I won’t,” said Valancy.
“You must never ask to see my mail.”
“Never.”
“And we are never to pretend anything to each other.”
“We won’t,” said Valancy. “You won’t even have to pretend you like me.
If you marry me I know you’re only doing it out of pity.”
“And we’ll never tell a lie to each other about anything—a big lie or a
petty lie.”
“Especially a petty lie,” agreed Valancy.
“And you’ll have to live back on my island. I won’t live anywhere else.”
“That’s partly why I want to marry you,” said Valancy.

Barney peered at her.
“I believe you mean it. Well—let’s get married, then.”
“Thank you,” said Valancy, with a sudden return of primness. She would
have been much less embarrassed if he had refused her.
“I suppose I haven’t any right to make conditions. But I’m going to make
one. You are never to refer to my heart or my liability to sudden death. You
are never to urge me to be careful. You are to forget—absolutely forget—
that I’m not perfectly healthy. I have written a letter to my mother—here it
is—you are to keep it. I have explained everything in it. If I drop dead
suddenly—as I likely will do——”
“It will exonerate me in the eyes of your kindred from the suspicion of
having poisoned you,” said Barney with a grin.
“Exactly.” Valancy laughed gaily. “Dear me, I’m glad this is over. It has
been—a bit of an ordeal. You see, I’m not in the habit of going about asking
men to marry me. It is so nice of you not to refuse me—or offer to be a
brother!”
“I’ll go to the Port tomorrow and get a license. We can be married
tomorrow evening. Dr. Stalling, I suppose?”
“Heavens, no.” Valancy shuddered. “Besides, he wouldn’t do it. He’d
shake his forefinger at me and I’d jilt you at the altar. No, I want my old Mr.
Towers to marry me.”
“Will you marry me as I stand?” demanded Barney. A passing car, full of
tourists, honked loudly—it seemed derisively. Valancy looked at him. Blue
homespun shirt, nondescript hat, muddy overalls. Unshaved!
“Yes,” she said.
Barney put his hands over the gate and took her little, cold ones gently in
his.
“Valancy,” he said, trying to speak lightly, “of course I’m not in love with
you—never thought of such a thing as being in love. But, do you know, I’ve
always thought you were a bit of a dear.”

CHAPTER XXVI

T he next day passed for Valancy like a dream. She could not make herself
or anything she did seem real. She saw nothing of Barney, though she
expected he must go rattling past on his way to the Port for a license.
Perhaps he had changed his mind.
But at dusk the lights of Lady Jane suddenly swooped over the crest of
the wooded hill beyond the lane. Valancy was waiting at the gate for her
bridegroom. She wore her green dress and her green hat because she had
nothing else to wear. She did not look or feel at all bride-like—she really
looked like a wild elf strayed out of the greenwood. But that did not matter.
Nothing at all mattered except that Barney was coming for her.
“Ready?” said Barney, stopping Lady Jane with some new, horrible
noises.
“Yes.” Valancy stepped in and sat down. Barney was in his blue shirt and
overalls. But they were clean overalls. He was smoking a villainous-looking
pipe and he was bareheaded. But he had a pair of oddly smart boots on
under his shabby overalls. And he was shaved. They clattered into
Deerwood and through Deerwood and hit the long, wooded road to the Port.
“Haven’t changed your mind?” said Barney.
“No. Have you?”
“No.”
That was their whole conversation on the fifteen miles. Everything was
more dream-like than ever. Valancy didn’t know whether she felt happy. Or
terrified. Or just plain fool.
Then the lights of Port Lawrence were about them. Valancy felt as if she
were surrounded by the gleaming, hungry eyes of hundreds of great,
stealthy panthers. Barney briefly asked where Mr. Towers lived, and
Valancy as briefly told him. They stopped before the shabby little house in
an unfashionable street. They went in to the small, shabby parlour. Barney

produced his license. So he had got it. Also a ring. This thing was real. She,
Valancy Stirling, was actually on the point of being married.
They were standing up together before Mr. Towers. Valancy heard Mr.
Towers and Barney saying things. She heard some other person saying
things. She herself was thinking of the way she had once planned to be
married—away back in her early teens when such a thing had not seemed
impossible. White silk and tulle veil and orange-blossoms; no bridesmaid.
But one flower girl, in a frock of cream shadow lace over pale pink, with a
wreath of flowers in her hair, carrying a basket of roses and lilies-of-the-
valley. And the groom, a noble-looking creature, irreproachably clad in
whatever the fashion of the day decreed. Valancy lifted her eyes and saw
herself and Barney in the little, slanting, distorting mirror over the
mantelpiece. She in her odd, unbridal green hat and dress; Barney in shirt
and overalls. But it was Barney. That was all that mattered. No veil—no
flowers—no guests—no presents—no wedding-cake—but just Barney. For
all the rest of her life there would be Barney.
“Mrs. Snaith, I hope you will be very happy,” Mr. Towers was saying.
He had not seemed surprised at their appearance—not even at Barney’s
overalls. He had seen plenty of queer weddings “up back.” He did not know
Valancy was one of the Deerwood Stirlings—he did not even know there
were Deerwood Stirlings. He did not know Barney Snaith was a fugitive
from justice. Really, he was an incredibly ignorant old man. Therefore he
married them and gave them his blessing very gently and solemnly and
prayed for them that night after they had gone away. His conscience did not
trouble him at all.
“What a nice way to get married!” Barney was saying as he put Lady
Jane in gear. “No fuss and flub-dub. I never supposed it was half so easy.”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Valancy suddenly, “let’s forget we are married
and talk as if we weren’t. I can’t stand another drive like the one we had
coming in.”
Barney howled and threw Lady Jane into high with an infernal noise.
“And I thought I was making it easy for you,” he said. “You didn’t seem
to want to talk.”
“I didn’t. But I wanted you to talk. I don’t want you to make love to me,
but I want you to act like an ordinary human being. Tell me about this

island of yours. What sort of a place is it?”
“The jolliest place in the world. You’re going to love it. The first time I
saw it I loved it. Old Tom MacMurray owned it then. He built the little
shack on it, lived there in winter and rented it to Toronto people in summer.
I bought it from him—became by that one simple transaction a landed
proprietor owning a house and an island. There is something so satisfying in
owning a whole island. And isn’t an uninhabited island a charming idea? I’d
wanted to own one ever since I’d read Robinson Crusoe. It seemed too
good to be true. And beauty! Most of the scenery belongs to the
government, but they don’t tax you for looking at it, and the moon belongs
to everybody. You won’t find my shack very tidy. I suppose you’ll want to
make it tidy.”
“Yes,” said Valancy honestly. “I have to be tidy. I don’t really want to be.
But untidiness hurts me. Yes, I’ll have to tidy up your shack.”
“I was prepared for that,” said Barney, with a hollow groan.
“But,” continued Valancy relentingly, “I won’t insist on your wiping your
feet when you come in.”
“No, you’ll only sweep up after me with the air of a martyr,” said Barney.
“Well, anyway, you can’t tidy the lean-to. You can’t even enter it. The door
will be locked and I shall keep the key.”
“Bluebeard’s chamber,” said Valancy. “I shan’t even think of it. I don’t
care how many wives you have hanging up in it. So long as they’re really
dead.”
“Dead as door-nails. You can do as you like in the rest of the house.
There’s not much of it—just one big living-room and one small bedroom.
Well built, though. Old Tom loved his job. The beams of our house are
cedar and the rafters fir. Our living-room windows face west and east. It’s
wonderful to have a room where you can see both sunrise and sunset. I have
two cats there. Banjo and Good Luck. Adorable animals. Banjo is a big,
enchanting, grey devil-cat. Striped, of course. I don’t care a hang for any cat
that hasn’t stripes. I never knew a cat who could swear as genteelly and
effectively as Banjo. His only fault is that he snores horribly when he is
asleep. Luck is a dainty little cat. Always looking wistfully at you, as if he
wanted to tell you something. Maybe he will pull it off sometime. Once in a
thousand years, you know, one cat is allowed to speak. My cats are
philosophers—neither of them ever cries over spilt milk.

“Two old crows live in a pine-tree on the point and are reasonably
neighbourly. Call ’em Nip and Tuck. And I have a demure little tame owl.
Name, Leander. I brought him up from a baby and he lives over on the
mainland and chuckles to himself o’ nights. And bats—it’s a great place for
bats at night. Scared of bats?”
“No; I like them.”
“So do I. Nice, queer, uncanny, mysterious creatures. Coming from
nowhere—going nowhere. Swoop! Banjo likes ’em, too. Eats ’em. I have a
canoe and a disappearing propeller boat. Went to the Port in it today to get
my license. Quieter than Lady Jane.”
“I thought you hadn’t gone at all—that you had changed your mind,”
admitted Valancy.
Barney laughed—the laugh Valancy did not like—the little, bitter, cynical
laugh.
“I never change my mind,” he said shortly.
They went back through Deerwood. Up the Muskoka road. Past Roaring
Abel’s. Over the rocky, daisied lane. The dark pine woods swallowed them
up. Through the pine woods, where the air was sweet with the incense of
the unseen, fragile bells of the linnæas that carpeted the banks of the trail.
Out to the shore of Mistawis. Lady Jane must be left here. They got out.
Barney led the way down a little path to the edge of the lake.
“There’s our island,” he said gloatingly.
Valancy looked—and looked—and looked again. There was a
diaphanous, lilac mist on the lake, shrouding the island. Through it the two
enormous pine-trees that clasped hands over Barney’s shack loomed out
like dark turrets. Behind them was a sky still rose-hued in the afterlight, and
a pale young moon.
Valancy shivered like a tree the wind stirs suddenly. Something seemed
to sweep over her soul.
“My Blue Castle!” she said. “Oh, my Blue Castle!”
They got into the canoe and paddled out to it. They left behind the realm
of everyday and things known and landed on a realm of mystery and
enchantment where anything might happen—anything might be true.
Barney lifted Valancy out of the canoe and swung her to a lichen-covered
rock under a young pine-tree. His arms were about her and suddenly his lips

were on hers. Valancy found herself shivering with the rapture of her first
kiss.
“Welcome home, dear,” Barney was saying.

CHAPTER XXVII

C ousin Georgiana came down the lane leading up to her little house. She
lived half a mile out of Deerwood and she wanted to go in to Amelia’s
and find out if Doss had come home yet. Cousin Georgiana was
anxious to see Doss. She had something very important to tell her.
Something, she was sure, Doss would be delighted to hear. Poor Doss! She
had had rather a dull life of it. Cousin Georgiana owned to herself that she
would not like to live under Amelia’s thumb. But that would be all changed
now. Cousin Georgiana felt tremendously important. For the time being, she
quite forgot to wonder which of them would go next.
And here was Doss herself, coming along the road from Roaring Abel’s
in such a queer green dress and hat. Talk about luck. Cousin Georgiana
would have a chance to impart her wonderful secret right away, with
nobody else about to interrupt. It was, you might say, a Providence.
Valancy, who had been living for four days on her enchanted island, had
decided that she might as well go in to Deerwood and tell her relatives that
she was married. Otherwise, finding that she had disappeared from Roaring
Abel’s, they might get out a search warrant for her. Barney had offered to
drive her in, but she had preferred to go alone. She smiled very radiantly at
Cousin Georgiana, who, she remembered, as of some one known a long
time ago, had really been not a bad little creature. Valancy was so happy
that she could have smiled at anybody—even Uncle James. She was not
averse to Cousin Georgiana’s company. Already, since the houses along the
road were becoming numerous, she was conscious that curious eyes were
looking at her from every window.
“I suppose you’re going home, dear Doss?” said Cousin Georgiana as she
shook hands—furtively eyeing Valancy’s dress and wondering if she had
any petticoat on at all.
“Sooner or later,” said Valancy cryptically.

“Then I’ll go along with you. I’ve been wanting to see you very
especially, Doss dear. I’ve something quite wonderful to tell you.”
“Yes?” said Valancy absently. What on earth was Cousin Georgiana
looking so mysterious and important about? But did it matter? No. Nothing
mattered but Barney and the Blue Castle up back in Mistawis.
“Who do you suppose called to see me the other day?” asked Cousin
Georgiana archly.
Valancy couldn’t guess.
“Edward Beck.” Cousin Georgiana lowered her voice almost to a
whisper. “Edward Beck.”
Why the italics? And was Cousin Georgiana blushing?
“Who on earth is Edward Beck?” asked Valancy indifferently.
Cousin Georgiana stared.
“Surely you remember Edward Beck,” she said reproachfully. “He lives
in that lovely house on the Port Lawrence road and he comes to our church
—regularly. You must remember him.”
“Oh, I think I do now,” said Valancy, with an effort of memory. “He’s
that old man with a wen on his forehead and dozens of children, who
always sits in the pew by the door, isn’t he?”
“Not dozens of children, dear—oh, no, not dozens. Not even one dozen.
Only nine. At least only nine that count. The rest are dead. He isn’t old—
he’s only about forty-eight—the prime of life, Doss—and what does it
matter about a wen?”
“Nothing, of course,” agreed Valancy quite sincerely. It certainly did not
matter to her whether Edward Beck had a wen or a dozen wens or no wen at
all. But Valancy was getting vaguely suspicious. There was certainly an air
of suppressed triumph about Cousin Georgiana. Could it be possible that
Cousin Georgiana was thinking of marrying again? Marrying Edward
Beck? Absurd. Cousin Georgiana was sixty-five if she were a day and her
little anxious face was as closely covered with fine wrinkles as if she had
been a hundred. But still——
“My dear,” said Cousin Georgiana, “Edward Beck wants to marry you.”
Valancy stared at Cousin Georgiana for a moment. Then she wanted to go
off into a peal of laughter. But she only said:

“Me?”
“Yes, you. He fell in love with you at the funeral. And he came to consult
me about it. I was such a friend of his first wife, you know. He is very much
in earnest, Dossie. And it’s a wonderful chance for you. He’s very well off
—and you know—you—you——”
“Am not so young as I once was,” agreed Valancy. “‘To her that hath
shall be given.’ Do you really think I would make a good stepmother,
Cousin Georgiana?”
“I’m sure you would. You were always so fond of children.”
“But nine is such a family to start with,” objected Valancy gravely.
“The two oldest are grown up and the third almost. That leaves only six
that really count. And most of them are boys. So much easier to bring up
than girls. There’s an excellent book—‘Health Care of the Growing
Child’—Gladys has a copy, I think. It would be such a help to you. And
there are books about morals. You’d manage nicely. Of course I told Mr.
Beck that I thought you would—would——”
“Jump at him,” supplied Valancy.
“Oh, no, no, dear. I wouldn’t use such an indelicate expression. I told him
I thought you would consider his proposal favourably. And you will, won’t
you, dearie?”
“There’s only one obstacle,” said Valancy dreamily. “You see, I’m
married already.”
“Married!” Cousin Georgiana stopped stock-still and stared at Valancy.
“Married!”
“Yes. I was married to Barney Snaith last Tuesday evening in Port
Lawrence.”
There was a convenient gate-post hard by. Cousin Georgiana took firm
hold of it.
“Doss, dear—I’m an old woman—are you trying to make fun of me?”
“Not at all. I’m only telling you the truth. For heaven’s sake, Cousin
Georgiana,”—Valancy was alarmed by certain symptoms—“don’t go crying
here on the public road!”
Cousin Georgiana choked back the tears and gave a little moan of despair
instead.

“Oh, Doss, what have you done? What have you done?”
“I’ve just been telling you. I’ve got married,” said Valancy, calmly and
patiently.
“To that—that—aw—that—Barney Snaith. Why, they say he’s had a
dozen wives already.”
“I’m the only one round at present,” said Valancy.
“What will your poor mother say?” moaned Cousin Georgiana.
“Come along with me and hear, if you want to know,” said Valancy. “I’m
on my way to tell her now.”
Cousin Georgiana let go the gate-post cautiously and found that she
could stand alone. She meekly trotted on beside Valancy—who suddenly
seemed quite a different person in her eyes. Cousin Georgiana had a
tremendous respect for a married woman. But it was terrible to think of
what the poor girl had done. So rash. So reckless. Of course Valancy must
be stark mad. But she seemed so happy in her madness that Cousin
Georgiana had a momentary conviction that it would be a pity if the clan
tried to scold her back to sanity. She had never seen that look in Valancy’s
eyes before. But what would Amelia say? And Ben?
“To marry a man you know nothing about,” thought Cousin Georgiana
aloud.
“I know more about him than I know of Edward Beck,” said Valancy.
“Edward Beck goes to church,” said Cousin Georgiana. “Does Bar—does
your husband?”
“He has promised that he will go with me on fine Sundays,” said
Valancy.
When they turned in at the Stirling gate Valancy gave an exclamation of
surprise.
“Look at my rosebush! Why, it’s blooming!”
It was. Covered with blossoms. Great, crimson, velvety blossoms.
Fragrant. Glowing. Wonderful.
“My cutting it to pieces must have done it good,” said Valancy, laughing.
She gathered a handful of the blossoms—they would look well on the
supper-table of the verandah at Mistawis—and went, still laughing, up the
walk, conscious that Olive was standing on the steps, Olive, goddess-like in

loveliness, looking down with a slight frown on her forehead. Olive,
beautiful, insolent. Her full form voluptuous in its swathings of rose silk
and lace. Her golden-brown hair curling richly under her big, white-frilled
hat. Her colour ripe and melting.
“Beautiful,” thought Valancy coolly, “but”—as if she suddenly saw her
cousin through new eyes—“without the slightest touch of distinction.”
So Valancy had come home, thank goodness, thought Olive. But Valancy
was not looking like a repentant, returned prodigal. This was the cause of
Olive’s frown. She was looking triumphant—graceless! That outlandish
dress—that queer hat—those hands full of blood-red roses. Yet there was
something about both dress and hat, as Olive instantly felt, that was entirely
lacking in her own attire. This deepened the frown. She put out a
condescending hand.
“So you’re back, Doss? Very warm day, isn’t it? Did you walk in?”
“Yes. Coming in?”
“Oh, no. I’ve just been in. I’ve come often to comfort poor Aunty. She’s
been so lonesome. I’m going to Mrs. Bartlett’s tea. I have to help pour.
She’s giving it for her cousin from Toronto. Such a charming girl. You’d
have loved meeting her, Doss. I think Mrs. Bartlett did send you a card.
Perhaps you’ll drop in later on.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Valancy indifferently. “I’ll have to be home to
get Barney’s supper. We’re going for a moonlit canoe ride around Mistawis
tonight.”
“Barney? Supper?” gasped Olive. “What do you mean, Valancy
Stirling?”
“Valancy Snaith, by the grace of God.”
Valancy flaunted her wedding-ring in Olive’s stricken face. Then she
nimbly stepped past her and into the house. Cousin Georgiana followed.
She would not miss a moment of the great scene, even though Olive did
look as if she were going to faint.
Olive did not faint. She went stupidly down the street to Mrs. Bartlett’s.
What did Doss mean? She couldn’t have—that ring—oh, what fresh scandal
was that wretched girl bringing on her defenceless family now? She should
have been—shut up—long ago.

Valancy opened the sitting-room door and stepped unexpectedly right
into a grim assemblage of Stirlings. They had not come together of malice
prepense. Aunt Wellington and Cousin Gladys and Aunt Mildred and
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 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.”
“Valancy could hardly be a changeling at twenty-nine,” said Aunt
Wellington satirically.
“She was the oddest-looking baby I ever saw, anyway,” averred Uncle
Benjamin. “I said so at the time—you remember, Amelia? I said I had never
seen such eyes in a human head.”
“I’m glad I never had any children,” said Cousin Sarah. “If they don’t
break your heart in one way they do it in another.”
“Isn’t it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up?”
queried Valancy. “Before it could be broken it must have felt something
splendid. That would be worth the pain.”
“Dippy—clean dippy,” muttered Uncle Benjamin, with a vague,
unsatisfactory feeling that somebody had said something like that before.
“Valancy,” said Mrs. Frederick solemnly, “do you ever pray to be
forgiven for disobeying your mother?”
“I should pray to be forgiven for obeying you so long,” said Valancy
stubbornly. “But I don’t pray about that at all. I just thank God every day
for my happiness.”
“I would rather,” said Mrs. Frederick, beginning to cry rather belatedly,
“see you dead before me than listen to what you have told me today.”
Valancy looked at her mother and aunts, and wondered if they could ever
have known anything of the real meaning of love. She felt sorrier for them
than ever. They were so very pitiable. And they never suspected it.
“Barney Snaith is a scoundrel to have deluded you into marrying him,”
said Uncle James violently.
“Oh, I did the deluding. I asked him to marry me,” said Valancy, with a
wicked smile.
“Have you no pride?” demanded Aunt Wellington.
“Lots of it. I am proud that I have achieved a husband by my own
unaided efforts. Cousin Georgiana here wanted to help me to Edward

Beck.”
“Edward Beck is worth twenty thousand dollars and has the finest house
between here and Port Lawrence,” said Uncle Benjamin.
“That sounds very fine,” said Valancy scornfully, “but it isn’t worth
that”—she snapped her fingers—“compared to feeling Barney’s arms
around me and his cheek against mine.”
“Oh, Doss!” said Cousin Stickles. Cousin Sarah said, “Oh, Doss!” Aunt
Wellington said, “Valancy, you need not be indecent.”
“Why, it surely isn’t indecent to like to have your husband put his arm
around you? I should think it would be indecent if you didn’t.”
“Why expect decency from her?” inquired Uncle James sarcastically.
“She has cut herself off from decency forevermore. She has made her bed.
Let her lie on it.”
“Thanks,” said Valancy very gratefully. “How you would have enjoyed
being Torquemada! Now, I must really be getting back. Mother, may I have
those three woollen cushions I worked last winter?”
“Take them—take everything!” said Mrs. Frederick.
“Oh, I don’t want everything—or much. I don’t want my Blue Castle
cluttered. Just the cushions. I’ll call for them some day when we motor in.”
Valancy rose and went to the door. There she turned. She was sorrier than
ever for them all. They had no Blue Castle in the purple solitudes of
Mistawis.
“The trouble with you people is that you don’t laugh enough,” she said.
“Doss, dear,” said Cousin Georgiana mournfully, “some day you will
discover that blood is thicker than water.”
“Of course it is. But who wants water to be thick?” parried Valancy. “We
want water to be thin—sparkling—crystal-clear.”
Cousin Stickles groaned.
Valancy would not ask any of them to come and see her—she was afraid
they would come out of curiosity. But she said:
“Do you mind if I drop in and see you once in a while, Mother?”
“My house will always be open to you,” said Mrs. Frederick, with a
mournful dignity.

“You should never recognise her again,” said Uncle James sternly, as the
door closed behind Valancy.
“I cannot quite forget that I am a mother,” said Mrs. Frederick. “My poor,
unfortunate girl!”
“I dare say the marriage isn’t legal,” said Uncle James comfortingly. “He
has probably been married half a dozen times before. But I am through with
her. I have done all I could, Amelia. I think you will admit that.
Henceforth”—Uncle James was terribly solemn about it—“Valancy is to me
as one dead.”
“Mrs. Barney Snaith,” said Cousin Georgiana, as if trying it out to see
how it would sound.
“He has a score of aliases, no doubt,” said Uncle Benjamin. “For my part,
I believe the man is half Indian. I haven’t a doubt they’re living in a
wigwam.”
“If he has married her under the name of Snaith and it isn’t his real name
wouldn’t that make the marriage null and void?” asked Cousin Stickles
hopefully.
Uncle James shook his head.
“No, it is the man who marries, not the name.”
“You know,” said Cousin Gladys, who had recovered and returned but
was still shaky, “I had a distinct premonition of this at Herbert’s silver
dinner. I remarked it at the time. When she was defending Snaith. You
remember, of course. It came over me like a revelation. I spoke to David
when I went home about it.”
“What—what,” demanded Aunt Wellington of the universe, “has come
over Valancy? Valancy!”
The universe did not answer but Uncle James did.
“Isn’t there something coming up of late about secondary personalities
cropping out? I don’t hold with many of those new-fangled notions, but
there may be something in this one. It would account for her
incomprehensible conduct.”
“Valancy is so fond of mushrooms,” sighed Cousin Georgiana. “I’m
afraid she’ll get poisoned eating toadstools by mistake living up back in the
woods.”

“There are worse things than death,” said Uncle James, believing that it
was the first time in the world that such a statement had been made.
“Nothing can ever be the same again!” sobbed Cousin Stickles.
Valancy, hurrying along the dusty road, back to cool Mistawis and her
purple island, had forgotten all about them—just as she had forgotten that
she might drop dead at any moment if she hurried.

CHAPTER XXVIII

S ummer passed by. The Stirling clan—with the insignificant exception of
Cousin Georgiana—had tacitly agreed to follow Uncle James’ example
and look upon Valancy as one dead. To be sure, Valancy had an unquiet,
ghostly habit of recurring resurrections when she and Barney clattered
through Deerwood and out to the Port in that unspeakable car. Valancy,
bareheaded, with stars in her eyes. Barney, bareheaded, smoking his pipe.
But shaved. Always shaved now, if any of them had noticed it. They even
had the audacity to go in to Uncle Benjamin’s store to buy groceries. Twice
Uncle Benjamin ignored them. Was not Valancy one of the dead? While
Snaith had never existed. But the third time he told Barney he was a
scoundrel who should be hung for luring an unfortunate, weak-minded girl
away from her home and friends.
Barney’s one straight eyebrow went up.
“I have made her happy,” he said coolly, “and she was miserable with her
friends. So that’s that.”
Uncle Benjamin stared. It had never occurred to him that women had to
be, or ought to be, “made happy.”
“You—you pup!” he said.
“Why be so unoriginal?” queried Barney amiably. “Anybody could call
me a pup. Why not think of something worthy of the Stirlings? Besides, I’m
not a pup. I’m really quite a middle-aged dog. Thirty-five, if you’re
interested in knowing.”
Uncle Benjamin remembered just in time that Valancy was dead. He
turned his back on Barney.
Valancy was happy—gloriously and entirely so. She seemed to be living
in a wonderful house of life and every day opened a new, mysterious room.
It was in a world which had nothing in common with the one she had left
behind—a world where time was not—which was young with immortal

youth—where there was neither past nor future but only the present. She
surrendered herself utterly to the charm of it.
The absolute freedom of it all was unbelievable. They could do exactly as
they liked. No Mrs. Grundy. No traditions. No relatives. Or in-laws. “Peace,
perfect peace, with loved ones far away,” as Barney quoted shamelessly.
Valancy had gone home once and got her cushions. And Cousin
Georgiana had given her one of her famous candlewick spreads of most
elaborate design. “For your spare-room bed, dear,” she said.
“But I haven’t got any spare-room,” said Valancy.
Cousin Georgiana looked horrified. A house without a spare-room was
monstrous to her.
“But it’s a lovely spread,” said Valancy, with a kiss, “and I’m so glad to
have it. I’ll put it on my own bed. Barney’s old patch-work quilt is getting
ragged.”
“I don’t see how you can be contented to live up back,” sighed Cousin
Georgiana. “It’s so out of the world.”
“Contented!” Valancy laughed. What was the use of trying to explain to
Cousin Georgiana. “It is,” she agreed, “most gloriously and entirely out of
the world.”
“And you are really happy, dear?” asked Cousin Georgiana wistfully.
“I really am,” said Valancy gravely, her eyes dancing.
“Marriage is such a serious thing,” sighed Cousin Georgiana.
“When it’s going to last long,” agreed Valancy.
Cousin Georgiana did not understand this at all. But it worried her and
she lay awake at nights wondering what Valancy meant by it.
Valancy loved her Blue Castle and was completely satisfied with it. The
big living-room had three windows, all commanding exquisite views of
exquisite Mistawis. The one in the end of the room was an oriel window—
which Tom MacMurray, Barney explained, had got out of some little, old
“up back” church that had been sold. It faced the west and when the sunsets
flooded it Valancy’s whole being knelt in prayer as if in some great
cathedral. The new moons always looked down through it, the lower pine
boughs swayed about the top of it, and all through the nights the soft, dim
silver of the lake dreamed through it.

There was a stone fireplace on the other side. No desecrating gas
imitation but a real fireplace where you could burn real logs. With a big
grizzly bearskin on the floor before it, and beside it a hideous, red-plush
sofa of Tom MacMurray’s régime. But its ugliness was hidden by silver-
grey timber wolf skins, and Valancy’s cushions made it gay and
comfortable. In a corner a nice, tall, lazy old clock ticked—the right kind of
a clock. One that did not hurry the hours away but ticked them off
deliberately. It was the jolliest looking old clock. A fat, corpulent clock with
a great, round, man’s face painted on it, the hands stretching out of its nose
and the hours encircling it like a halo.
There was a big glass case of stuffed owls and several deer heads—
likewise of Tom MacMurray’s vintage. Some comfortable old chairs that
asked to be sat upon. A squat little chair with a cushion was prescriptively
Banjo’s. If anybody else dared sit on it Banjo glared him out of it with his
topaz-hued, black-ringed eyes. Banjo had an adorable habit of hanging over
the back of it, trying to catch his own tail. Losing his temper because he
couldn’t catch it. Giving it a fierce bite for spite when he did catch it.
Yowling malignantly with pain. Barney and Valancy laughed at him until
they ached. But it was Good Luck they loved. They were both agreed that
Good Luck was so lovable that he practically amounted to an obsession.
One side of the wall was lined with rough, homemade book-shelves filled
with books, and between the two side windows hung an old mirror in a
faded gilt frame, with fat cupids gamboling in the panel over the glass. A
mirror, Valancy thought, that must be like the fabled mirror into which
Venus had once looked and which thereafter reflected as beautiful every
woman who looked into it. Valancy thought she was almost pretty in that
mirror. But that may have been because she had shingled her hair.
This was before the day of bobs and was regarded as a wild, unheard-of
proceeding—unless you had typhoid. When Mrs. Frederick heard of it she
almost decided to erase Valancy’s name from the family Bible. Barney cut
the hair, square off at the back of Valancy’s neck, bringing it down in a
short black fringe over her forehead. It gave a meaning and a purpose to her
little, three-cornered face that it never had possessed before. Even her nose
ceased to irritate her. Her eyes were bright, and her sallow skin had cleared
to the hue of creamy ivory. The old family joke had come true—she was
really fat at last—anyway, no longer skinny. Valancy might never be

beautiful, but she was of the type that looks its best in the woods—elfin—
mocking—alluring.
Her heart bothered her very little. When an attack threatened she was
generally able to head it off with Dr. Trent’s prescription. The only bad one
she had was one night when she was temporarily out of medicine. And it
was a bad one. For the time being, Valancy realised keenly that death was
actually waiting to pounce on her any moment. But the rest of the time she
would not—did not—let herself remember it at all.

CHAPTER XXIX

V alancy toiled not, neither did she spin. There was really very little work
to do. She cooked their meals on a coal-oil stove, performing all her
little domestic rites carefully and exultingly, and they ate out on the
verandah that almost overhung the lake. Before them lay Mistawis, like a
scene out of some fairy tale of old time. And Barney smiling his twisted,
enigmatical smile at her across the table.
“What a view old Tom picked out when he built this shack!” Barney
would say exultantly.
Supper was the meal Valancy liked best. The faint laughter of winds was
always about them and the colours of Mistawis, imperial and spiritual,
under the changing clouds were something that cannot be expressed in mere
words. Shadows, too. Clustering in the pines until a wind shook them out
and pursued them over Mistawis. They lay all day along the shores,
threaded by ferns and wild blossoms. They stole around the headlands in
the glow of the sunset, until twilight wove them all into one great web of
dusk.
The cats, with their wise, innocent little faces, would sit on the verandah
railing and eat the tidbits Barney flung them. And how good everything
tasted! Valancy, amid all the romance of Mistawis, never forgot that men
had stomachs. Barney paid her no end of compliments on her cooking.
“After all,” he admitted, “there’s something to be said for square meals.
I’ve mostly got along by boiling two or three dozen eggs hard at once and
eating a few when I got hungry, with a slice of bacon once in a while and a
jorum of tea.”
Valancy poured tea out of Barney’s little battered old pewter teapot of
incredible age. She had not even a set of dishes—only Barney’s
mismatched chipped bits—and a dear, big, pobby old jug of robin’s-egg
blue.

After the meal was over they would sit there and talk for hours—or sit
and say nothing, in all the languages of the world, Barney pulling away at
his pipe, Valancy dreaming idly and deliciously, gazing at the far-off hills
beyond Mistawis where the spires of firs came out against the sunset. The
moonlight would begin to silver the Mistawis dusk. Bats would begin to
swoop darkly against the pale, western gold. The little waterfall that came
down on the high bank not far away would, by some whim of the wildwood
gods, begin to look like a wonderful white woman beckoning through the
spicy, fragrant evergreens. And Leander would begin to chuckle
diabolically on the mainland shore. How sweet it was to sit there and do
nothing in the beautiful silence, with Barney at the other side of the table,
smoking!
There were plenty of other islands in sight, though none were near
enough to be troublesome as neighbours. There was one little group of islets
far off to the west which they called the Fortunate Isles. At sunrise they
looked like a cluster of emeralds, at sunset like a cluster of amethysts. They
were too small for houses; but the lights on the larger islands would bloom
out all over the lake, and bonfires would be lighted on their shores,
streaming up into the wood shadows and throwing great, blood-red ribbons
over the waters. Music would drift to them alluringly from boats here and
there, or from the verandahs on the big house of the millionaire on the
biggest island.
“Would you like a house like that, Moonlight?” Barney asked once,
waving his hand at it. He had taken to calling her Moonlight, and Valancy
loved it.
“No,” said Valancy, who had once dreamed of a mountain castle ten
times the size of the rich man’s “cottage” and now pitied the poor
inhabitants of palaces. “No. It’s too elegant. I would have to carry it with
me everywhere I went. On my back like a snail. It would own me—possess
me, body and soul. I like a house I can love and cuddle and boss. Just like
ours here. I don’t envy Hamilton Gossard ‘the finest summer residence in
Canada.’ It is magnificent, but it isn’t my Blue Castle.”
Away down at the far end of the lake they got every night a glimpse of a
big, continental train rushing through a clearing. Valancy liked to watch its
lighted windows flash by and wonder who was on it and what hopes and
fears it carried. She also amused herself by picturing Barney and herself

going to the dances and dinners in the houses on the islands, but she did not
want to go in reality. Once they did go to a masquerade dance in the
pavilion at one of the hotels up the lake, and had a glorious evening, but
slipped away in their canoe, before unmasking time, back to the Blue
Castle.
“It was lovely—but I don’t want to go again,” said Valancy.
So many hours a day Barney shut himself up in Bluebeard’s Chamber.
Valancy never saw the inside of it. From the smells that filtered through at
times she concluded he must be conducting chemical experiments—or
counterfeiting money. Valancy supposed there must be smelly processes in
making counterfeit money. But she did not trouble herself about it. She had
no desire to peer into the locked chambers of Barney’s house of life. His
past and his future concerned her not. Only this rapturous present. Nothing
else mattered.
Once he went away and stayed away two days and nights. He had asked
Valancy if she would be afraid to stay alone and she had said she would not.
He never told her where he had been. She was not afraid to be alone, but
she was horribly lonely. The sweetest sound she had ever heard was Lady
Jane’s clatter through the woods when Barney returned. And then his signal
whistle from the shore. She ran down to the landing rock to greet him—to
nestle herself into his eager arms—they did seem eager.
“Have you missed me, Moonlight?” Barney was whispering.
“It seems a hundred years since you went away,” said Valancy.
“I won’t leave you again.”
“You must,” protested Valancy, “if you want to. I’d be miserable if I
thought you wanted to go and didn’t, because of me. I want you to feel
perfectly free.”
Barney laughed—a little cynically.
“There is no such thing as freedom on earth,” he said. “Only different
kinds of bondages. And comparative bondages. You think you are free now
because you’ve escaped from a peculiarly unbearable kind of bondage. But
are you? You love me—that’s a bondage.”
“Who said or wrote that ‘the prison unto which we doom ourselves no
prison is’?” asked Valancy dreamily, clinging to his arm as they climbed up
the rock steps.

“Ah, now you have it,” said Barney. “That’s all the freedom we can hope
for—the freedom to choose our prison. But, Moonlight,”—he stopped at the
door of the Blue Castle and looked about him—at the glorious lake, the
great, shadowy woods, the bonfires, the twinkling lights—“Moonlight, I’m
glad to be home again. When I came down through the woods and saw my
home lights—mine—gleaming out under the old pines—something I’d
never seen before—oh, girl, I was glad—glad!”
But in spite of Barney’s doctrine of bondage, Valancy thought they were
splendidly free. It was amazing to be able to sit up half the night and look at
the moon if you wanted to. To be late for meals if you wanted to—she who
had always been rebuked so sharply by her mother and so reproachfully by
Cousin Stickles if she were one minute late. Dawdle over meals as long as
you wanted to. Leave your crusts if you wanted to. Not come home at all
for meals if you wanted to. Sit on a sun-warm rock and paddle your bare
feet in the hot sand if you wanted to. Just sit and do nothing in the beautiful
silence if you wanted to. In short, do any fool thing you wanted to
whenever the notion took you. If that wasn’t freedom, what was?

CHAPTER XXX

T hey didn’t spend all their days on the island. They spent more than half
of them wandering at will through the enchanted Muskoka country.
Barney knew the woods as a book and he taught their lore and craft to
Valancy. He could always find trail and haunt of the shy wood people.
Valancy learned the different fairy-likenesses of the mosses—the charm and
exquisiteness of woodland blossoms. She learned to know every bird at
sight and mimic its call—though never so perfectly as Barney. She made
friends with every kind of tree. She learned to paddle a canoe as well as
Barney himself. She liked to be out in the rain and she never caught cold.
Sometimes they took a lunch with them and went berrying—strawberries
and blueberries. How pretty blueberries were—the dainty green of the
unripe berries, the glossy pinks and scarlets of the half ripes, the misty blue
of the fully matured! And Valancy learned the real flavour of the strawberry
in its highest perfection. There was a certain sunlit dell on the banks of
Mistawis along which white birches grew on one side and on the other still,
changeless ranks of young spruces. There were long grasses at the roots of
the birches, combed down by the winds and wet with morning dew late into
the afternoons. Here they found berries that might have graced the banquets
of Lucullus, great ambrosial sweetnesses hanging like rubies to long, rosy
stalks. They lifted them by the stalk and ate them from it, uncrushed and
virgin, tasting each berry by itself with all its wild fragrance ensphered
therein. When Valancy carried any of these berries home that elusive
essence escaped and they became nothing more than the common berries of
the market-place—very kitchenly good indeed, but not as they would have
been, eaten in their birch dell until her fingers were stained as pink as
Aurora’s eyelids.
Or they went after water-lilies. Barney knew where to find them in the
creeks and bays of Mistawis. Then the Blue Castle was glorious with them,
every receptacle that Valancy could contrive filled with the exquisite things.

If not water lilies then cardinal flowers, fresh and vivid from the swamps of
Mistawis, where they burned like ribbons of flame.
Sometimes they went trouting on little nameless rivers or hidden brooks
on whose banks Naiads might have sunned their white, wet limbs. Then all
they took with them were some raw potatoes and salt. They roasted the
potatoes over a fire and Barney showed Valancy how to cook the trout by
wrapping them in leaves, coating them with mud and baking them in a bed
of hot coals. Never were such delicious meals. Valancy had such an appetite
it was no wonder she put flesh on her bones.
Or they just prowled and explored through woods that always seemed to
be expecting something wonderful to happen. At least, that was the way
Valancy felt about them. Down the next hollow—over the next hill—you
would find it.
“We don’t know where we’re going, but isn’t it fun to go?” Barney used
to say.
Once or twice night overtook them, too far from their Blue Castle to get
back. But Barney made a fragrant bed of bracken and fir boughs and they
slept on it dreamlessly, under a ceiling of old spruces with moss hanging
from them, while beyond them moonlight and the murmur of pines blended
together so that one could hardly tell which was light and which was sound.
There were rainy days, of course, when Muskoka was a wet green land.
Days when showers drifted across Mistawis like pale ghosts of rain and
they never thought of staying in because of it. Days when it rained in right
good earnest and they had to stay in. Then Barney shut himself up in
Bluebeard’s Chamber and Valancy read, or dreamed on the wolfskins with
Good Luck purring beside her and Banjo watching them suspiciously from
his own peculiar chair. On Sunday evenings they paddled across to a point
of land and walked from there through the woods to the little Free
Methodist church. One felt really too happy for Sunday. Valancy had never
really liked Sundays before.
And always, Sundays and weekdays, she was with Barney. Nothing else
really mattered. And what a companion he was! How understanding! How
jolly! How—how Barney-like! That summed it all up.
Valancy had taken some of her two hundred dollars out of the bank and
spent it in pretty clothes. She had a little smoke-blue chiffon which she
always put on when they spent the evening at home—smoke-blue with

touches of silver about it. It was after she began wearing it that Barney
began calling her Moonlight.
“Moonlight and blue twilight—that is what you look like in that dress. I
like it. It belongs to you. You aren’t exactly pretty, but you have some
adorable beauty-spots. Your eyes. And that little kissable dent just between
your collar bones. You have the wrist and ankle of an aristocrat. That little
head of yours is beautifully shaped. And when you look backward over
your shoulder you’re maddening—especially in twilight or moonlight. An
elf maiden. A wood sprite. You belong to the woods, Moonlight—you
should never be out of them. In spite of your ancestry, there is something
wild and remote and untamed about you. And you have such a nice, sweet,
throaty, summery voice. Such a nice voice for love-making.”
“Shure an’ ye’ve kissed the Blarney Stone,” scoffed Valancy. But she
tasted these compliments for weeks.
She got a pale green bathing-suit, too—a garment which would have
given her clan their deaths if they had ever seen her in it. Barney taught her
how to swim. Sometimes she put her bathing-dress on when she got up and
didn’t take it off until she went to bed—running down to the water for a
plunge whenever she felt like it and sprawling on the sun-warm rocks to
dry.
She had forgotten all the old humiliating things that used to come up
against her in the night—the injustices and the disappointments. It was as if
they had all happened to some other person—not to her, Valancy Snaith,
who had always been happy.
“I understand now what it means to be born again,” she told Barney.
Holmes speaks of grief “staining backward” through the pages of life; but
Valancy found her happiness had stained backward likewise and flooded
with rose-colour her whole previous drab existence. She found it hard to
believe that she had ever been lonely and unhappy and afraid.
“When death comes, I shall have lived,” thought Valancy. “I shall have
had my hour.”
And her dust-pile!
One day Valancy had heaped up the sand in the little island cove in a
tremendous cone and stuck a gay little Union Jack on top of it.
“What are you celebrating?” Barney wanted to know.

“I’m just exorcising an old demon,” Valancy told him.

CHAPTER XXXI

A utumn came. Late September with cool nights. They had to forsake the
verandah; but they kindled a fire in the big fireplace and sat before it
with jest and laughter. They left the doors open, and Banjo and Good
Luck came and went at pleasure. Sometimes they sat gravely on the
bearskin rug between Barney and Valancy; sometimes they slunk off into
the mystery of the chill night outside. The stars smouldered in the horizon
mists through the old oriel. The haunting, persistent croon of the pine-trees
filled the air. The little waves began to make soft, sobbing splashes on the
rocks below them in the rising winds. They needed no light but the firelight
that sometimes leaped up and revealed them—sometimes shrouded them in
shadow. When the night wind rose higher Barney would shut the door and
light a lamp and read to her—poetry and essays and gorgeous, dim
chronicles of ancient wars. Barney never would read novels: he vowed they
bored him. But sometimes she read them herself, curled up on the wolf
skins, laughing aloud in peace. For Barney was not one of those
aggravating people who can never hear you smiling audibly over something
you’ve read without inquiring placidly, “What is the joke?”
October—with a gorgeous pageant of color around Mistawis, into which
Valancy plunged her soul. Never had she imagined anything so splendid. A
great, tinted peace. Blue, wind-winnowed skies. Sunlight sleeping in the
glades of that fairyland. Long dreamy purple days paddling idly in their
canoe along shores and up the rivers of crimson and gold. A sleepy, red
hunter’s moon. Enchanted tempests that stripped the leaves from the trees
and heaped them along the shores. Flying shadows of clouds. What had all
the smug, opulent lands out front to compare with this?
November—with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red
sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear
days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified
serenity of folded hands and closed eyes—days full of a fine, pale sunshine

that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered
among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing
the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless
turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the
landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of
great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there
was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees.
What cared they? Old Tom had built his roof well, and his chimney drew.
“Warm fire—books—comfort—safety from storm—our cats on the rug.
Moonlight,” said Barney, “would you be any happier now if you had a
million dollars?”
“No—nor half so happy. I’d be bored by conventions and obligations
then.”
December. Early snows and Orion. The pale fires of the Milky Way. It
was really winter now—wonderful, cold, starry winter. How Valancy had
always hated winter! Dull, brief, uneventful days. Long, cold,
companionless nights. Cousin Stickles with her back that had to be rubbed
continually. Cousin Stickles making weird noises gargling her throat in the
mornings. Cousin Stickles whining over the price of coal. Her mother,
probing, questioning, ignoring. Endless colds and bronchitis—or the dread
of it. Redfern’s Liniment and Purple Pills.
But now she loved winter. Winter was beautiful “up back”—almost
intolerably beautiful. Days of clear brilliance. Evenings that were like cups
of glamour—the purest vintage of winter’s wine. Nights with their fire of
stars. Cold, exquisite winter sunrises. Lovely ferns of ice all over the
windows of the Blue Castle. Moonlight on birches in a silver thaw. Ragged
shadows on windy evenings—torn, twisted, fantastic shadows. Great
silences, austere and searching. Jewelled, barbaric hills. The sun suddenly
breaking through grey clouds over long, white Mistawis. Icy-grey twilights,
broken by snow-squalls, when their cosy living-room, with its goblins of
firelight and inscrutable cats seemed cosier than ever. Every hour brought a
new revelation and wonder.
Barney ran Lady Jane into Roaring Abel’s barn and taught Valancy how
to snowshoe—Valancy, who ought to be laid up with bronchitis. But
Valancy had not even a cold. Later on in the winter Barney had a terrible
one and Valancy nursed him through it with a dread of pneumonia in her

heart. But Valancy’s colds seemed to have gone where old moons go.
Which was luck—for she hadn’t even Redfern’s Liniment. She had
thoughtfully bought a bottle at the Port and Barney had hurled it into frozen
Mistawis with a scowl.
“Bring no more of that devilish stuff here,” he had ordered briefly. It was
the first and last time he had spoken harshly to her.
They went for long tramps through the exquisite reticence of winter
woods and the silver jungles of frosted trees, and found loveliness
everywhere.
At times they seemed to be walking through a spellbound world of
crystal and pearl, so white and radiant were clearings and lakes and sky.
The air was so crisp and clear that it was half intoxicating.
Once they stood in a hesitation of ecstasy at the entrance of a narrow path
between ranks of birches. Every twig and spray was outlined in snow. The
undergrowth along its sides was a little fairy forest cut out of marble. The
shadows cast by the pale sunshine were fine and spiritual.
“Come away,” said Barney, turning. “We must not commit the
desecration of tramping through there.”
One evening they came upon a snowdrift far back in an old clearing
which was in the exact likeness of a beautiful woman’s profile. Seen too
close by, the resemblance was lost, as in the fairy-tale of the Castle of St.
John. Seen from behind, it was a shapeless oddity. But at just the right
distance and angle the outline was so perfect that when they came suddenly
upon it, gleaming out against the dark background of spruce in the glow of
that winter sunset they both exclaimed in amazement. There was a low,
noble brow, a straight, classic nose, lips and chin and cheek-curve modelled
as if some goddess of old time had sat to the sculptor, and a breast of such
cold, swelling purity as the very spirit of the winter woods might display.
“‘All the beauty that old Greece and Rome, sung painted, taught,’”
quoted Barney.
“And to think no human eyes save ours have seen or will see it,” breathed
Valancy, who felt at times as if she were living in a book by John Foster. As
she looked around her she recalled some passages she had marked in the
new Foster book Barney had brought her from the Port—with an adjuration
not to expect him to read or listen to it.

“‘All the tintings of winter woods are extremely delicate and elusive,’”
recalled Valancy. “‘When the brief afternoon wanes and the sun just touches
the tops of the hills, there seems to be all over the woods an abundance, not
of colour, but of the spirit of colour. There is really nothing but pure white
after all, but one has the impression of fairy-like blendings of rose and
violet, opal and heliotrope on the slopes—in the dingles and along the
curves of the forest-land. You feel sure the tint is there, but when you look
at it directly it is gone. From the corner of your eye you are aware that it is
lurking over yonder in a spot where there was nothing but pale purity a
moment ago. Only just when the sun is setting is there a fleeting moment of
real colour. Then the redness streams out over the snow and incarnadines
the hills and rivers and smites the crest of the pines with flame. Just a few
minutes of transfiguration and revelation—and it is gone.’
“I wonder if John Foster ever spent a winter in Mistawis,” said Valancy.
“Not likely,” scoffed Barney. “People who write tosh like that generally
write it in a warm house on some smug city street.”
“You are too hard on John Foster,” said Valancy severely. “No one could
have written that little paragraph I read you last night without having seen it
first—you know he couldn’t.”
“I didn’t listen to it,” said Barney morosely. “You know I told you I
wouldn’t.”
“Then you’ve got to listen to it now,” persisted Valancy. She made him
stand still on his snowshoes while she repeated it.
“‘She is a rare artist, this old Mother Nature, who works “for the joy of
working” and not in any spirit of vain show. Today the fir woods are a
symphony of greens and greys, so subtle that you cannot tell where one
shade begins to be the other. Grey trunk, green bough, grey-green moss
above the white, grey-shadowed floor. Yet the old gypsy doesn’t like
unrelieved monotones. She must have a dash of colour. See it. A broken
dead fir bough, of a beautiful red-brown, swinging among the beards of
moss.’”
“Good Lord, do you learn all that fellow’s books by heart?” was Barney’s
disgusted reaction as he strode off.
“John Foster’s books were all that saved my soul alive the past five
years,” averred Valancy. “Oh, Barney, look at that exquisite filigree of snow

in the furrows of that old elm-tree trunk.”
When they came out to the lake they changed from snowshoes to skates
and skated home. For a wonder Valancy had learned, when she was a little
schoolgirl, to skate on the pond behind the Deerwood school. She never had
any skates of her own, but some of the other girls had lent her theirs and she
seemed to have a natural knack of it. Uncle Benjamin had once promised
her a pair of skates for Christmas, but when Christmas came he had given
her rubbers instead. She had never skated since she grew up, but the old
trick came back quickly, and glorious were the hours she and Barney spent
skimming over the white lakes and past the dark islands where the summer
cottages were closed and silent. Tonight they flew down Mistawis before
the wind, in an exhilaration that crimsoned Valancy’s cheeks under her
white tam. And at the end was her dear little house, on the island of pines,
with a coating of snow on its roof, sparkling in the moonlight. Its windows
glinted impishly at her in the stray gleams.
“Looks exactly like a picture-book, doesn’t it?” said Barney.
They had a lovely Christmas. No rush. No scramble. No niggling
attempts to make ends meet. No wild effort to remember whether she hadn’t
given the same kind of present to the same person two Christmases before
—no mob of last-minute shoppers—no dreary family “reunions” where she
sat mute and unimportant—no attacks of “nerves.” They decorated the Blue
Castle with pine boughs, and Valancy made delightful little tinsel stars and
hung them up amid the greenery. She cooked a dinner to which Barney did
full justice, while Good Luck and Banjo picked the bones.
“A land that can produce a goose like that is an admirable land,” vowed
Barney. “Canada forever!” And they drank to the Union Jack a bottle of
dandelion wine that Cousin Georgiana had given Valancy along with the
bedspread.
“One never knows,” Cousin Georgiana had said solemnly, “when one
may need a little stimulant.”
Barney had asked Valancy what she wanted for a Christmas present.
“Something frivolous and unnecessary,” said Valancy, who had got a pair
of goloshes last Christmas and two long-sleeved, woolen undervests the
year before. And so on back.

To her delight, Barney gave her a necklace of pearl beads. Valancy had
wanted a string of milky pearl beads—like congealed moonshine—all her
life. And these were so pretty. All that worried her was that they were really
too good. They must have cost a great deal—fifteen dollars, at least. Could
Barney afford that? She didn’t know a thing about his finances. She had
refused to let him buy any of her clothes—she had enough for that, she told
him, as long as she would need clothes. In a round, black jar on the
chimney-piece Barney put money for their household expenses—always
enough. The jar was never empty, though Valancy never caught him
replenishing it. He couldn’t have much, of course, and that necklace—but
Valancy tossed care aside. She would wear it and enjoy it. It was the first
pretty thing she had ever had.

CHAPTER XXXII

N ew Year. The old, shabby, inglorious outlived calendar came down. The
new one went up. January was a month of storms. It snowed for three
weeks on end. The thermometer went miles below zero and stayed
there. But, as Barney and Valancy pointed out to each other, there were no
mosquitoes. And the roar and crackle of their big fire drowned the howls of
the north wind. Good Luck and Banjo waxed fat and developed resplendent
coats of thick, silky fur. Nip and Tuck had gone.
“But they’ll come back in spring,” promised Barney.
There was no monotony. Sometimes they had dramatic little private spats
that never even thought of becoming quarrels. Sometimes Roaring Abel
dropped in—for an evening or a whole day—with his old tartan cap and his
long red beard coated with snow. He generally brought his fiddle and
played for them, to the delight of all except Banjo, who would go
temporarily insane and retreat under Valancy’s bed. Sometimes Abel and
Barney talked while Valancy made candy for them; sometimes they sat and
smoked in silence à la Tennyson and Carlyle, until the Blue Castle reeked
and Valancy fled to the open. Sometimes they played checkers fiercely and
silently the whole night through. Sometimes they all ate the russet apples
Abel had brought, while the jolly old clock ticked the delightful minutes
away.
“A plate of apples, an open fire, and ‘a jolly goode booke whereon to
looke’ are a fair substitute for heaven,” vowed Barney. “Any one can have
the streets of gold. Let’s have another whack at Carman.”
It was easier now for the Stirlings to believe Valancy of the dead. Not
even dim rumours of her having been over at the Port came to trouble them,
though she and Barney used to skate there occasionally to see a movie and
eat hot dogs shamelessly at the corner stand afterwards. Presumably none of
the Stirlings ever thought about her—except Cousin Georgiana, who used

to lie awake worrying about poor Doss. Did she have enough to eat? Was
that dreadful creature good to her? Was she warm enough at nights?
Valancy was quite warm at nights. She used to wake up and revel silently
in the cosiness of those winter nights on that little island in the frozen lake.
The nights of other winters had been so cold and long. Valancy hated to
wake up in them and think about the bleakness and emptiness of the day
that had passed and the bleakness and emptiness of the day that would
come. Now she almost counted that night lost on which she didn’t wake up
and lie awake for half an hour just being happy, while Barney’s regular
breathing went on beside her, and through the open door the smouldering
brands in the fireplace winked at her in the gloom. It was very nice to feel a
little Lucky cat jump up on your bed in the darkness and snuggle down at
your feet, purring; but Banjo would be sitting dourly by himself out in front
of the fire like a brooding demon. At such moments Banjo was anything but
canny, but Valancy loved his uncanniness.
The side of the bed had to be right against the window. There was no
other place for it in the tiny room. Valancy, lying there, could look out of
the window, through the big pine boughs that actually touched it, away up
Mistawis, white and lustrous as a pavement of pearl, or dark and terrible in
the storm. Sometimes the pine boughs tapped against the panes with
friendly signals. Sometimes she heard the little hissing whisper of snow
against them right at her side. Some nights the whole outer world seemed
given over to the empery of silence; then came nights when there would be
a majestic sweep of wind in the pines; nights of dear starlight when it
whistled freakishly and joyously around the Blue Castle; brooding nights
before storm when it crept along the floor of the lake with a low, wailing
cry of boding and mystery. Valancy wasted many perfectly good sleeping
hours in these delightful communings. But she could sleep as long in the
morning as she wanted to. Nobody cared. Barney cooked his own breakfast
of bacon and eggs and then shut himself up in Bluebeard’s Chamber till
supper time. Then they had an evening of reading and talk. They talked
about everything in this world and a good many things in other worlds.
They laughed over their own jokes until the Blue Castles re-echoed.
“You do laugh beautifully,” Barney told her once. “It makes me want to
laugh just to hear you laugh. There’s a trick about your laugh—as if there

were so much more fun back of it that you wouldn’t let out. Did you laugh
like that before you came to Mistawis, Moonlight?”
“I never laughed at all—really. I used to giggle foolishly when I felt I
was expected to. But now—the laugh just comes.”
It struck Valancy more than once that Barney himself laughed a great
deal oftener than he used to and that his laugh had changed. It had become
wholesome. She rarely heard the little cynical note in it now. Could a man
laugh like that who had crimes on his conscience? Yet Barney must have
done something. Valancy had indifferently made up her mind as to what he
had done. She concluded he was a defaulting bank cashier. She had found in
one of Barney’s books an old clipping cut from a Montreal paper in which a
vanished, defaulting cashier was described. The description applied to
Barney—as well as to half a dozen other men Valancy knew—and from
some casual remarks he had dropped from time to time she concluded he
knew Montreal rather well. Valancy had it all figured out in the back of her
mind. Barney had been in a bank. He was tempted to take some money to
speculate—meaning, of course, to put it back. He had got in deeper and
deeper, until he found there was nothing for it but flight. It had happened so
to scores of men. He had, Valancy was absolutely certain, never meant to do
wrong. Of course, the name of the man in the clipping was Bernard Craig.
But Valancy had always thought Snaith was an alias. Not that it mattered.
Valancy had only one unhappy night that winter. It came in late March
when most of the snow had gone and Nip and Tuck had returned. Barney
had gone off in the afternoon for a long, woodland tramp, saying he would
be back by dark if all went well. Soon after he had gone it had begun to
snow. The wind rose and presently Mistawis was in the grip of one of the
worst storms of the winter. It tore up the lake and struck at the little house.
The dark angry woods on the mainland scowled at Valancy, menace in the
toss of their boughs, threats in their windy gloom, terror in the roar of their
hearts. The trees on the island crouched in fear. Valancy spent the night
huddled on the rug before the fire, her face buried in her hands, when she
was not vainly peering from the oriel in a futile effort to see through the
furious smoke of wind and snow that had once been blue-dimpled
Mistawis. Where was Barney? Lost on the merciless lakes? Sinking
exhausted in the drifts of the pathless woods? Valancy died a hundred
deaths that night and paid in full for all the happiness of her Blue Castle.

When morning came the storm broke and cleared; the sun shone gloriously
over Mistawis; and at noon Barney came home. Valancy saw him from the
oriel as he came around a wooded point, slender and black against the
glistening white world. She did not run to meet him. Something happened
to her knees and she dropped down on Banjo’s chair. Luckily Banjo got out
from under in time, his whiskers bristling with indignation. Barney found
her there, her head buried in her hands.
“Barney, I thought you were dead,” she whispered.
Barney hooted.
“After two years of the Klondike did you think a baby storm like this
could get me? I spent the night in that old lumber shanty over by Muskoka.
A bit cold but snug enough. Little goose! Your eyes look like burnt holes in
a blanket. Did you sit up here all night worrying over an old woodsman like
me?”
“Yes,” said Valancy. “I—couldn’t help it. The storm seemed so wild.
Anybody might have been lost in it. When—I saw you—come round the
point—there—something happened to me. I don’t know what. It was as if I
had died and come back to life. I can’t describe it any other way.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

S pring. Mistawis black and sullen for a week or two, then flaming in
sapphire and turquoise, lilac and rose again, laughing through the oriel,
caressing its amethyst islands, rippling under winds soft as silk. Frogs,
little green wizards of swamp and pool, singing everywhere in the long
twilights and long into the nights; islands fairy-like in a green haze; the
evanescent beauty of wild young trees in early leaf; frost-like loveliness of
the new foliage of juniper-trees; the woods putting on a fashion of spring
flowers, dainty, spiritual things akin to the soul of the wilderness; red mist
on the maples; willows decked out with glossy silver pussies; all the
forgotten violets of Mistawis blooming again; lure of April moons.
“Think how many thousands of springs have been here on Mistawis—
and all of them beautiful,” said Valancy. “Oh, Barney, look at that wild
plum! I will—I must quote from John Foster. There’s a passage in one of
his books—I’ve re-read it a hundred times. He must have written it before a
tree just like that:
“‘Behold the young wild plum-tree which has adorned herself after
immemorial fashion in a wedding-veil of fine lace. The fingers of wood
pixies must have woven it, for nothing like it ever came from an earthly
loom. I vow the tree is conscious of its loveliness. It is bridling before our
very eyes—as if its beauty were not the most ephemeral thing in the woods,
as it is the rarest and most exceeding, for today it is and tomorrow it is not.
Every south wind purring through the boughs will winnow away a shower
of slender petals. But what matter? Today it is queen of the wild places and
it is always today in the woods.’”
“I’m sure you feel much better since you’ve got that out of your system,”
said Barney heartlessly.
“Here’s a patch of dandelions,” said Valancy, unsubdued. “Dandelions
shouldn’t grow in the woods, though. They haven’t any sense of the fitness

of things at all. They are too cheerful and self-satisfied. They haven’t any of
the mystery and reserve of the real wood-flowers.”
“In short, they’ve no secrets,” said Barney. “But wait a bit. The woods
will have their own way even with those obvious dandelions. In a little
while all that obtrusive yellowness and complacency will be gone and we’ll
find here misty, phantom-like globes hovering over those long grasses in
full harmony with the traditions of the forest.”
“That sounds John Fosterish,” teased Valancy.
“What have I done that deserved a slam like that?” complained Barney.
One of the earliest signs of spring was the renaissance of Lady Jane.
Barney put her on roads that no other car would look at, and they went
through Deerwood in mud to the axles. They passed several Stirlings, who
groaned and reflected that now spring was come they would encounter that
shameless pair everywhere. Valancy, prowling about Deerwood shops, met
Uncle Benjamin on the street; but he did not realise until he had gone two
blocks further on that the girl in the scarlet-collared blanket coat, with
cheeks reddened in the sharp April air and the fringe of black hair over
laughing, slanted eyes, was Valancy. When he did realise it, Uncle
Benjamin was indignant. What business had Valancy to look like—like—
like a young girl? The way of the transgressor was hard. Had to be.
Scriptural and proper. Yet Valancy’s path couldn’t be hard. She wouldn’t
look like that if it were. There was something wrong. It was almost enough
to make a man turn modernist.
Barney and Valancy clanged on to the Port, so that it was dark when they
went through Deerwood again. At her old home Valancy, seized with a
sudden impulse, got out, opened the little gate and tiptoed around to the
sitting-room window. There sat her mother and Cousin Stickles drearily,
grimly knitting. Baffling and inhuman as ever. If they had looked the least
bit lonesome Valancy would have gone in. But they did not. Valancy would
not disturb them for worlds.

CHAPTER XXXIV

V alancy had two wonderful moments that spring.
One day, coming home through the woods, with her arms full of
trailing arbutus and creeping spruce, she met a man who she knew
must be Allan Tierney. Allan Tierney, the celebrated painter of beautiful
women. He lived in New York in winter, but he owned an island cottage at
the northern end of Mistawis to which he always came the minute the ice
was out of the lake. He was reputed to be a lonely, eccentric man. He never
flattered his sitters. There was no need to, for he would not paint any one
who required flattery. To be painted by Allan Tierney was all the cachet of
beauty a woman could desire. Valancy had heard so much about him that
she couldn’t help turning her head back over her shoulder for another shy,
curious look at him. A shaft of pale spring sunlight fell through a great pine
athwart her bare black head and her slanted eyes. She wore a pale green
sweater and had bound a fillet of linnæa vine about her hair. The feathery
fountain of trailing spruce overflowed her arms and fell around her. Allan
Tierney’s eyes lighted up.
“I’ve had a caller,” said Barney the next afternoon, when Valancy had
returned from another flower quest.
“Who?” Valancy was surprised but indifferent. She began filling a basket
with arbutus.
“Allan Tierney. He wants to paint you, Moonlight.”
“Me!” Valancy dropped her basket and her arbutus. “You’re laughing at
me, Barney.”
“I’m not. That’s what Tierney came for. To ask my permission to paint
my wife—as the Spirit of Muskoka, or something like that.”
“But—but—” stammered Valancy, “Allan Tierney never paints any but—
any but——”

“Beautiful women,” finished Barney. “Conceded. Q. E. D., Mistress
Barney Snaith is a beautiful woman.”
“Nonsense,” said Valancy, stooping to retrieve her arbutus. “You know
that’s nonsense, Barney. I know I’m a heap better-looking than I was a year
ago, but I’m not beautiful.”
“Allan Tierney never makes a mistake,” said Barney. “You forget,
Moonlight, that there are different kinds of beauty. Your imagination is
obsessed by the very obvious type of your cousin Olive. Oh, I’ve seen her
—she’s a stunner—but you’d never catch Allan Tierney wanting to paint
her. In the horrible but expressive slang phrase, she keeps all her goods in
the shop-window. But in your subconscious mind you have a conviction
that nobody can be beautiful who doesn’t look like Olive. Also, you
remember your face as it was in the days when your soul was not allowed to
shine through it. Tierney said something about the curve of your cheek as
you looked back over your shoulder. You know I’ve often told you it was
distracting. And he’s quite batty about your eyes. If I wasn’t absolutely sure
it was solely professional—he’s really a crabbed old bachelor, you know—
I’d be jealous.”
“Well, I don’t want to be painted,” said Valancy. “I hope you told him
that.”
“I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t know what you wanted. But I told him I
didn’t want my wife painted—hung up in a salon for the mob to stare at.
Belonging to another man. For of course I couldn’t buy the picture. So even
if you had wanted to be painted, Moonlight, your tyrannous husband would
not have permitted it. Tierney was a bit squiffy. He isn’t used to being
turned down like that. His requests are almost like royalty’s.”
“But we are outlaws,” laughed Valancy. “We bow to no decrees—we
acknowledge no sovereignty.”
In her heart she thought unashamedly:
“I wish Olive could know that Allan Tierney wanted to paint me. Me!
Little-old-maid-Valancy-Stirling-that-was.”
Her second wonder-moment came one evening in May. She realised that
Barney actually liked her. She had always hoped he did, but sometimes she
had a little, disagreeable, haunting dread that he was just kind and nice and
chummy out of pity; knowing that she hadn’t long to live and determined

she should have a good time as long as she did live; but away back in his
mind rather looking forward to freedom again, with no intrusive woman
creature in his island fastness and no chattering thing beside him in his
woodland prowls. She knew he could never love her. She did not even want
him to. If he loved her he would be unhappy when she died—Valancy never
flinched from the plain word. No “passing away” for her. And she did not
want him to be the least unhappy. But neither did she want him to be glad—
or relieved. She wanted him to like her and miss her as a good chum. But
she had never been sure until this night that he did.
They had walked over the hills in the sunset. They had the delight of
discovering a virgin spring in a ferny hollow and had drunk together from it
out of a birch-bark cup; they had come to an old tumble-down rail fence
and sat on it for a long time. They didn’t talk much, but Valancy had a
curious sense of oneness. She knew that she couldn’t have felt that if he
hadn’t liked her.
“You nice little thing,” said Barney suddenly. “Oh, you nice little thing!
Sometimes I feel you’re too nice to be real—that I’m just dreaming you.”
“Why can’t I die now—this very minute—when I am so happy!” thought
Valancy.
Well, it couldn’t be so very long now. Somehow, Valancy had always felt
she would live out the year Dr. Trent had allotted. She had not been careful
—she had never tried to be. But, somehow, she had always counted on
living out her year. She had not let herself think about it at all. But now,
sitting here beside Barney, with her hand in his, a sudden realisation came
to her. She had not had a heart attack for a long while—two months at least.
The last one she had had was two or three nights before Barney was out in
the storm. Since then she had not remembered she had a heart. Well, no
doubt, it betokened the nearness of the end. Nature had given up the
struggle. There would be no more pain.
“I’m afraid heaven will be very dull after this past year,” thought
Valancy. “But perhaps one will not remember. Would that be—nice? No,
no. I don’t want to forget Barney. I’d rather be miserable in heaven
remembering him than happy forgetting him. And I’ll always remember
through all eternity—that he really, really liked me.”

CHAPTER XXXV

T hirty seconds can be very long sometimes. Long enough to work a
miracle or a revolution. In thirty seconds life changed wholly for
Barney and Valancy Snaith.
They had gone around the lake one June evening in their disappearing
propeller, fished for an hour in a little creek, left their boat there, and
walked up through the woods to Port Lawrence two miles away. Valancy
prowled a bit in the shops and got herself a new pair of sensible shoes. Her
old pair had suddenly and completely given out, and this evening she had
been compelled to put on the little fancy pair of patent-leather with rather
high, slender heels, which she had bought in a fit of folly one day in the
winter because of their beauty and because she wanted to make one foolish,
extravagant purchase in her life. She sometimes put them on of an evening
in the Blue Castle, but this was the first time she had worn them outside.
She had not found it any too easy walking up through the woods in them,
and Barney guyed her unmercifully about them. But in spite of the
inconvenience, Valancy secretly rather liked the look of her trim ankles and
high instep above those pretty, foolish shoes and did not change them in the
shop as she might have done.
The sun was hanging low above the pines when they left Port Lawrence.
To the north of it the woods closed around the town quite suddenly. Valancy
always had a sense of stepping from one world to another—from reality to
fairyland—when she went out of Port Lawrence and in a twinkling found it
shut off behind her by the armies of the pines.
A mile and a half from Port Lawrence there was a small railroad station
with a little station-house which at this hour of the day was deserted, since
no local train was due. Not a soul was in sight when Barney and Valancy
emerged from the woods. Off to the left a sudden curve in the track hid it
from view, but over the tree-tops beyond, the long plume of smoke
betokened the approach of a through train. The rails were vibrating to its

thunder as Barney stepped across the switch. Valancy was a few steps
behind him, loitering to gather June-bells along the little, winding path. But
there was plenty of time to get across before the train came. She stepped
unconcernedly over the first rail.
She could never tell how it happened. The ensuing thirty seconds always
seemed in her recollection like a chaotic nightmare in which she endured
the agony of a thousand lifetimes.
The heel of her pretty, foolish shoe caught in a crevice of the switch. She
could not pull it loose.
“Barney—Barney!” she called in alarm.
Barney turned—saw her predicament—saw her ashen face—dashed
back. He tried to pull her clear—he tried to wrench her foot from the
prisoning hold. In vain. In a moment the train would sweep around the
curve—would be on them.
“Go—go—quick—you’ll be killed, Barney!” shrieked Valancy, trying to
push him away.
Barney dropped on his knees, ghost-white, frantically tearing at her shoe-
lace. The knot defied his trembling fingers. He snatched a knife from his
pocket and slashed at it. Valancy still strove blindly to push him away. Her
mind was full of the hideous thought that Barney was going to be killed.
She had no thought for her own danger.
“Barney—go—go—for God’s sake—go!”
“Never!” muttered Barney between his set teeth. He gave one mad
wrench at the lace. As the train thundered around the curve he sprang up
and caught Valancy—dragging her clear, leaving the shoe behind her. The
wind from the train as it swept by turned to icy cold the streaming
perspiration on his face.
“Thank God!” he breathed.
For a moment they stood stupidly staring at each other, two white,
shaken, wild-eyed creatures. Then they stumbled over to the little seat at the
end of the station-house and dropped on it. Barney buried his face in his
hands and said not a word. Valancy sat, staring straight ahead of her with
unseeing eyes at the great pine woods, the stumps of the clearing, the long,
gleaming rails. There was only one thought in her dazed mind—a thought
that seemed to burn it as a shaving of fire might burn her body.

Dr. Trent had told her over a year ago that she had a serious form of
heart-disease—that any excitement might be fatal.
If that were so, why was she not dead now? This very minute? She had
just experienced as much and as terrible excitement as most people
experience in a lifetime, crowded into that endless thirty seconds. Yet she
had not died of it. She was not an iota the worse for it. A little wobbly at the
knees, as any one would have been; a quicker heart-beat, as any one would
have; nothing more.
Why!
Was it possible Dr. Trent had made a mistake?
Valancy shivered as if a cold wind had suddenly chilled her to the soul.
She looked at Barney, hunched up beside her. His silence was very
eloquent. Had the same thought occurred to him? Did he suddenly find
himself confronted by the appalling suspicion that he was married, not for a
few months or a year, but for good and all to a woman he did not love and
who had foisted herself upon him by some trick or lie? Valancy turned sick
before the horror of it. It could not be. It would be too cruel—too devilish.
Dr. Trent couldn’t have made a mistake. Impossible. He was one of the best
heart specialists in Ontario. She was foolish—unnerved by the recent
horror. She remembered some of the hideous spasms of pain she had had.
There must be something serious the matter with her heart to account for
them.
But she had not had any for nearly three months.
Why?
Presently Barney bestirred himself. He stood up, without looking at
Valancy, and said casually:
“I suppose we’d better be hiking back. Sun’s getting low. Are you good
for the rest of the road?”
“I think so,” said Valancy miserably.
Barney went across the clearing and picked up the parcel he had dropped
—the parcel containing her new shoes. He brought it to her and let her take
out the shoes and put them on without any assistance, while he stood with
his back to her and looked out over the pines.
They walked in silence down the shadowy trail to the lake. In silence
Barney steered his boat into the sunset miracle that was Mistawis. In silence

they went around feathery headlands and across coral bays and silver rivers
where canoes were slipping up and down in the afterglow. In silence they
went past cottages echoing with music and laughter. In silence drew up at
the landing-place below the Blue Castle.
Valancy went up the rock steps and into the house. She dropped
miserably on the first chair she came to and sat there staring through the
oriel, oblivious of Good Luck’s frantic purrs of joy and Banjo’s savage
glares of protest at her occupancy of his chair.
Barney came in a few minutes later. He did not come near her, but he
stood behind her and asked gently if she felt any the worse for her
experience. Valancy would have given her year of happiness to have been
able honestly to answer “Yes.”
“No,” she said flatly.
Barney went into Bluebeard’s Chamber and shut the door. She heard him
pacing up and down—up and down. He had never paced like that before.
And an hour ago—only an hour ago—she had been so happy!

CHAPTER XXXVI

F inally Valancy went to bed. Before she went she re-read Dr. Trent’s
letter. It comforted her a little. So positive. So assured. The writing so
black and steady. Not the writing of a man who didn’t know what he
was writing about. But she could not sleep. She pretended to be asleep
when Barney came in. Barney pretended to go to sleep. But Valancy knew
perfectly well he wasn’t sleeping any more than she was. She knew he was
lying there, staring through the darkness. Thinking of what? Trying to face
—what?
Valancy, who had spent so many happy wakeful hours of night lying by
that window, now paid the price of them all in this one night of misery. A
horrible, portentous fact was slowly looming out before her from the nebula
of surmise and fear. She could not shut her eyes to it—push it away—
ignore it.
There could be nothing seriously wrong with her heart, no matter what
Dr. Trent had said. If there had been, those thirty seconds would have killed
her. It was no use to recall Dr. Trent’s letter and reputation. The greatest
specialists made mistakes sometimes. Dr. Trent had made one.
Towards morning Valancy fell into a fitful doze with ridiculous dreams.
One of them was of Barney taunting her with having tricked him. In her
dream she lost her temper and struck him violently on the head with her
rolling-pin. He proved to be made of glass and shivered into splinters all
over the floor. She woke with a cry of horror—a gasp of relief—a short
laugh over the absurdity of her dream—a miserable sickening recollection
of what had happened.
Barney was gone. Valancy knew, as people sometimes know things—
inescapably, without being told—that he was not in the house or in
Bluebeard’s Chamber either. There was a curious silence in the living-room.
A silence with something uncanny about it. The old clock had stopped.
Barney must have forgotten to wind it up, something he had never done

before. The room without it was dead, though the sunshine streamed in
through the oriel and dimples of light from the dancing waves beyond
quivered over the walls.
The canoe was gone but Lady Jane was under the mainland trees. So
Barney had betaken himself to the wilds. He would not return till night—
perhaps not even then. He must be angry with her. That furious silence of
his must mean anger—cold, deep, justifiable resentment. Well, Valancy
knew what she must do first. She was not suffering very keenly now. Yet
the curious numbness that pervaded her being was in a way worse than
pain. It was as if something in her had died. She forced herself to cook and
eat a little breakfast. Mechanically she put the Blue Castle in perfect order.
Then she put on her hat and coat, locked the door and hid the key in the
hollow of the old pine and crossed to the mainland in the motor boat. She
was going into Deerwood to see Dr. Trent. She must know.

CHAPTER XXXVII

D r. Trent looked at her blankly and fumbled among his recollections.
“Er—Miss—Miss—”
“Mrs. Snaith,” said Valancy quietly. “I was Miss Valancy Stirling when I
came to you last May—over a year ago. I wanted to consult you about my
heart.”
Dr. Trent’s face cleared.
“Oh, of course. I remember now. I’m really not to blame for not knowing
you. You’ve changed—splendidly. And married. Well, well, it has agreed
with you. You don’t look much like an invalid now, hey? I remember that
day. I was badly upset. Hearing about poor Ned bowled me over. But Ned’s
as good as new and you, too, evidently. I told you so, you know—told you
there was nothing to worry over.”
Valancy looked at him.
“You told me, in your letter,” she said slowly, with a curious feeling that
some one else was talking through her lips, “that I had angina pectoris—in
the last stages—complicated with an aneurism. That I might die any minute
—that I couldn’t live longer than a year.”
Dr. Trent stared at her.
“Impossible!” he said blankly. “I couldn’t have told you that!”
Valancy took his letter from her bag and handed it to him.
“Miss Valancy Stirling,” he read. “Yes—yes. Of course I wrote you—on
the train—that night. But I told you there was nothing serious——”
“Read your letter,” insisted Valancy.
Dr. Trent took it out—unfolded it—glanced over it. A dismayed look
came into his face. He jumped to his feet and strode agitatedly about the
room.

“Good heavens! This is the letter I meant for old Miss Jane Sterling.
From Port Lawrence. She was here that day, too. I sent you the wrong letter.
What unpardonable carelessness! But I was beside myself that night. My
God, and you believed that—you believed—but you didn’t—you went to
another doctor——”
Valancy stood up, turned round, looked foolishly about her and sat down
again.
“I believed it,” she said faintly. “I didn’t go to any other doctor. I—I—it
would take too long to explain. But I believed I was going to die soon.”
Dr. Trent halted before her.
“I can never forgive myself. What a year you must have had! But you
don’t look—I can’t understand!”
“Never mind,” said Valancy dully. “And so there’s nothing the matter
with my heart?”
“Well, nothing serious. You had what is called pseudo-angina. It’s never
fatal—passes away completely with proper treatment. Or sometimes with a
shock of joy. Have you been troubled much with it?”
“Not at all since March,” answered Valancy. She remembered the
marvellous feeling of re-creation she had had when she saw Barney coming
home safe after the storm. Had that “shock of joy” cured her?
“Then likely you’re all right. I told you what to do in the letter you
should have got. And of course I supposed you’d go to another doctor.
Child, why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want anybody to know.”
“Idiot,” said Dr. Trent bluntly. “I can’t understand such folly. And poor
old Miss Sterling. She must have got your letter—telling her there was
nothing serious the matter. Well, well, it couldn’t have made any difference.
Her case was hopeless. Nothing that she could have done or left undone
could have made any difference. I was surprised she lived as long as she did
—two months. She was here that day—not long before you. I hated to tell
her the truth. You think I’m a blunt old curmudgeon—and my letters are
blunt enough. I can’t soften things. But I’m a snivelling coward when it
comes to telling a woman face to face that she’s got to die soon. I told her
I’d look up some features of the case I wasn’t quite sure of and let her know
next day. But you got her letter—look here, ‘Dear Miss S-t-e-r-l-i-n-g.’”

“Yes. I noticed that. But I thought it a mistake. I didn’t know there were
any Sterlings in Port Lawrence.”
“She was the only one. A lonely old soul. Lived by herself with only a
little home girl. She died two months after she was here—died in her sleep.
My mistake couldn’t have made any difference to her. But you! I can’t
forgive myself for inflicting a year’s misery on you. It’s time I retired, all
right, when I do things like that—even if my son was supposed to be fatally
injured. Can you ever forgive me?”
A year of misery! Valancy smiled a tortured smile as she thought of all
the happiness Dr. Trent’s mistake had bought her. But she was paying for it
now—oh, she was paying. If to feel was to live she was living with a
vengeance.
She let Dr. Trent examine her and answered all his questions. When he
told her she was fit as a fiddle and would probably live to be a hundred, she
got up and went away silently. She knew that there were a great many
horrible things outside waiting to be thought over. Dr. Trent thought she
was odd. Anybody would have thought, from her hopeless eyes and
woebegone face, that he had given her a sentence of death instead of life.
Snaith? Snaith? Who the devil had she married? He had never heard of
Snaiths in Deerwood. And she had been such a sallow, faded, little old
maid. Gad, but marriage had made a difference in her, anyhow, whoever
Snaith was. Snaith? Dr. Trent remembered. That rapscallion “up back!” Had
Valancy Stirling married him? And her clan had let her! Well, probably that
solved the mystery. She had married in haste and repented at leisure, and
that was why she wasn’t overjoyed at learning she was a good insurance
prospect, after all. Married! To God knew whom! Or what! Jail-bird?
Defaulter? Fugitive from justice? It must be pretty bad if she had looked to
death as a release, poor girl. But why were women such fools? Dr. Trent
dismissed Valancy from his mind, though to the day of his death he was
ashamed of putting those letters into the wrong envelopes.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

V alancy walked quickly through the back streets and through Lover’s
Lane. She did not want to meet any one she knew. She didn’t want to
meet even people she didn’t know. She hated to be seen. Her mind was
so confused, so torn, so messy. She felt that her appearance must be the
same. She drew a sobbing breath of relief as she left the village behind and
found herself on the “up back” road. There was little fear of meeting any
one she knew here. The cars that fled by her with raucous shrieks were
filled with strangers. One of them was packed with young people who
whirled past her singing uproariously:

“My wife has the fever, O then,
My wife has the fever, O then,
My wife has the fever,
Oh, I hope it won’t leave her,
For I want to be single again.”

Valancy flinched as if one of them had leaned from the car and cut her
across the face with a whip.
She had made a covenant with death and death had cheated her. Now life
stood mocking her. She had trapped Barney. Trapped him into marrying her.
And divorce was so hard to get in Ontario. So expensive. And Barney was
poor.
With life, fear had come back into her heart. Sickening fear. Fear of what
Barney would think. Would say. Fear of the future that must be lived
without him. Fear of her insulted, repudiated clan.
She had had one draught from a divine cup and now it was dashed from
her lips. With no kind, friendly death to rescue her. She must go on living
and longing for it. Everything was spoiled, smirched, defaced. Even that
year in the Blue Castle. Even her unashamed love for Barney. It had been

beautiful because death waited. Now it was only sordid because death was
gone. How could any one bear an unbearable thing?
She must go back and tell him. Make him believe she had not meant to
trick him—she must make him believe that. She must say good-bye to her
Blue Castle and return to the brick house on Elm Street. Back to everything
she had thought left behind forever. The old bondage—the old fears. But
that did not matter. All that mattered now was that Barney must somehow
be made to believe she had not consciously tricked him.
When Valancy reached the pines by the lake she was brought out of her
daze of pain by a startling sight. There, parked by the side of old, battered
ragged Lady Jane, was another car. A wonderful car. A purple car. Not a
dark, royal purple but a blatant, screaming purple. It shone like a mirror and
its interior plainly indicated the car caste of Vere de Vere. On the driver’s
seat sat a haughty chauffeur in livery. And in the tonneau sat a man who
opened the door and bounced out nimbly as Valancy came down the path to
the landing-place. He stood under the pines waiting for her and Valancy
took in every detail of him.
A stout, short, pudgy man, with a broad, rubicund, good-humoured face
—a clean-shaven face, though an unparalysed little imp at the back of
Valancy’s paralysed mind suggested the thought, “Such a face should have
a fringe of white whisker around it.” Old-fashioned, steel-rimmed
spectacles on prominent blue eyes. A pursey mouth; a little round, knobby
nose. Where—where—where, groped Valancy, had she seen that face
before? It seemed as familiar to her as her own.
The stranger wore a green hat and a light fawn overcoat over a suit of a
loud check pattern. His tie was a brilliant green of lighter shade; on the
plump hand he outstretched to intercept Valancy an enormous diamond
winked at her. But he had a pleasant, fatherly smile, and in his hearty,
unmodulated voice was a ring of something that attracted her.
“Can you tell me, Miss, if that house yonder belongs to a Mr. Redfern?
And if so, how can I get to it?”
Redfern! A vision of bottles seemed to dance before Valancy’s eyes—
long bottles of bitters—round bottles of hair tonic—square bottles of
liniment—short, corpulent little bottles of purple pills—and all of them
bearing that very prosperous, beaming moon-face and steel-rimmed
spectacles on the label.

Dr. Redfern!
“No,” said Valancy faintly. “No—that house belongs to Mr. Snaith.”
Dr. Redfern nodded.
“Yes, I understand Bernie’s been calling himself Snaith. Well, it’s his
middle name—was his poor mother’s. Bernard Snaith Redfern—that’s him.
And now, Miss, you can tell me how to get over to that island? Nobody
seems to be home there. I’ve done some waving and yelling. Henry, there,
wouldn’t yell. He’s a one-job man. But old Doc Redfern can yell with the
best of them yet, and ain’t above doing it. Raised nothing but a couple of
crows. Guess Bernie’s out for the day.”
“He was away when I left this morning,” said Valancy. “I suppose he
hasn’t come home yet.”
She spoke flatly and tonelessly. This last shock had temporarily bereft her
of whatever little power of reasoning had been left her by Dr. Trent’s
revelation. In the back of her mind the aforesaid little imp was jeeringly
repeating a silly old proverb, “It never rains but it pours.” But she was not
trying to think. What was the use?
Dr. Redfern was gazing at her in perplexity.
“When you left this morning? Do you live—over there?”
He waved his diamond at the Blue Castle.
“Of course,” said Valancy stupidly. “I’m his wife.”
Dr. Redfern took out a yellow silk handkerchief, removed his hat and
mopped his brow. He was very bald, and Valancy’s imp whispered, “Why
be bald? Why lose your manly beauty? Try Redfern’s Hair Vigor. It keeps
you young.”
“Excuse me,” said Dr. Redfern. “This is a bit of a shock.”
“Shocks seem to be in the air this morning.” The imp said this out loud
before Valancy could prevent it.
“I didn’t know Bernie was—married. I didn’t think he would have got
married without telling his old dad.”
Were Dr. Redfern’s eyes misty? Amid her own dull ache of misery and
fear and dread, Valancy felt a pang of pity for him.
“Don’t blame him,” she said hurriedly. “It—it wasn’t his fault. It—was
all my doing.”

“You didn’t ask him to marry you, I suppose,” twinkled Dr. Redfern. “He
might have let me know. I’d have got acquainted with my daughter-in-law
before this if he had. But I’m glad to meet you now, my dear—very glad.
You look like a sensible young woman. I used to sorter fear Barney’d pick
out some pretty bit of fluff just because she was good-looking. They were
all after him, of course. Wanted his money? Eh? Didn’t like the pills and the
bitters but liked the dollars. Eh? Wanted to dip their pretty little fingers in
old Doc’s millions. Eh?”
“Millions!” said Valancy faintly. She wished she could sit down
somewhere—she wished she could have a chance to think—she wished she
and the Blue Castle could sink to the bottom of Mistawis and vanish from
human sight forevermore.
“Millions,” said Dr. Redfern complacently. “And Bernie chucks them for
—that.” Again he shook the diamond contemptuously at the Blue Castle.
“Wouldn’t you think he’d have more sense? And all on account of a white
bit of a girl. He must have got over that feeling, anyhow, since he’s married.
You must persuade him to come back to civilisation. All nonsense wasting
his life like this. Ain’t you going to take me over to your house, my dear? I
suppose you’ve some way of getting there.”
“Of course,” said Valancy stupidly. She led the way down to the little
cove where the disappearing propeller boat was snuggled.
“Does your—your man want to come, too?”
“Who? Henry. Not he. Look at him sitting there disapproving.
Disapproves of the whole expedition. The trail up from the road nearly gave
him a conniption. Well, it was a devilish road to put a car on. Whose old bus
is that up there?”
“Barney’s.”
“Good Lord! Does Bernie Redfern ride in a thing like that? It looks like
the great-great-grandmother of all the Fords.”
“It isn’t a Ford. It’s a Grey Slosson,” said Valancy spiritedly. For some
occult reason, Dr. Redfern’s good-humoured ridicule of dear old Lady Jane
stung her to life. A life that was all pain but still life. Better than the horrible
half-dead-and-half-aliveness of the past few minutes—or years. She waved
Dr. Redfern curtly into the boat and took him over to the Blue Castle. The
key was still in the old pine—the house still silent and deserted. Valancy

took the doctor through the living-room to the western verandah. She must
at least be out where there was air. It was still sunny, but in the southwest a
great thundercloud, with white crests and gorges of purple shadow, was
slowly rising over Mistawis. The doctor dropped with a gasp on a rustic
chair and mopped his brow again.
“Warm, eh? Lord, what a view! Wonder if it would soften Henry if he
could see it.”
“Have you had dinner?” asked Valancy.
“Yes, my dear—had it before we left Port Lawrence. Didn’t know what
sort of wild hermit’s hollow we were coming to, you see. Hadn’t any idea I
was going to find a nice little daughter-in-law here all ready to toss me up a
meal. Cats, eh? Puss, puss! See that. Cats love me. Bernie was always fond
of cats! It’s about the only thing he took from me. He’s his poor mother’s
boy.”
Valancy had been thinking idly that Barney must resemble his mother.
She had remained standing by the steps, but Dr. Redfern waved her to the
swing seat.
“Sit down, dear. Never stand when you can sit. I want to get a good look
at Barney’s wife. Well, well, I like your face. No beauty—you don’t mind
my saying that—you’ve sense enough to know it, I reckon. Sit down.”
Valancy sat down. To be obliged to sit still when mental agony urges us
to stride up and down is the refinement of torture. Every nerve in her being
was crying out to be alone—to be hidden. But she had to sit and listen to
Dr. Redfern, who didn’t mind talking at all.
“When do you think Bernie will be back?”
“I don’t know—not before night probably.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know that either. Likely to the woods—up back.”
“So he doesn’t tell you his comings and goings, either? Bernie was
always a secretive young devil. Never understood him. Just like his poor
mother. But I thought a lot of him. It hurt me when he disappeared as he
did. Eleven years ago. I haven’t seen my boy for eleven years.”
“Eleven years.” Valancy was surprised. “It’s only six since he came
here.”

“Oh, he was in the Klondike before that—and all over the world. He used
to drop me a line now and then—never give any clue to where he was but
just a line to say he was all right. I s’pose he’s told you all about it.”
“No. I know nothing of his past life,” said Valancy with sudden
eagerness. She wanted to know—she must know now. It hadn’t mattered
before. Now she must know all. And she could never hear it from Barney.
She might never even see him again. If she did, it would not be to talk of his
past.
“What happened? Why did he leave his home? Tell me. Tell me.”
“Well, it ain’t much of a story. Just a young fool gone mad because of a
quarrel with his girl. Only Bernie was a stubborn fool. Always stubborn.
You never could make that boy do anything he didn’t want to do. From the
day he was born. Yet he was always a quiet, gentle little chap, too. Good as
gold. His poor mother died when he was only two years old. I’d just begun
to make money with my Hair Vigor. I’d dreamed the formula for it, you see.
Some dream that. The cash rolled in. Bernie had everything he wanted. I
sent him to the best schools—private schools. I meant to make a gentleman
of him. Never had any chance myself. Meant he should have every chance.
He went through McGill. Got honours and all that. I wanted him to go in for
law. He hankered after journalism and stuff like that. Wanted me to buy a
paper for him—or back him in publishing what he called a ‘real,
worthwhile, honest-to-goodness Canadian Magazine.’ I s’pose I’d have
done it—I always did what he wanted me to do. Wasn’t he all I had to live
for? I wanted him to be happy. And he never was happy. Can you believe it?
Not that he said so. But I’d always a feeling that he wasn’t happy.
Everything he wanted—all the money he could spend—his own bank
account—travel—seeing the world—but he wasn’t happy. Not till he fell in
love with Ethel Traverse. Then he was happy for a little while.”
The cloud had reached the sun and a great, chill, purple shadow came
swiftly over Mistawis. It touched the Blue Castle—rolled over it. Valancy
shivered.
“Yes,” she said, with painful eagerness, though every word was cutting
her to the heart. “What—was—she—like?”
“Prettiest girl in Montreal,” said Dr. Redfern. “Oh, she was a looker, all
right. Eh? Gold hair—shiny as silk—great, big, soft, black eyes—skin like
milk and roses. Don’t wonder Bernie fell for her. And brains as well. She

wasn’t a bit of fluff. B. A. from McGill. A thoroughbred, too. One of the
best families. But a bit lean in the purse. Eh! Bernie was mad about her.
Happiest young fool you ever saw. Then—the bust-up.”
“What happened?” Valancy had taken off her hat and was absently
thrusting a pin in and out of it. Good Luck was purring beside her. Banjo
was regarding Dr. Redfern with suspicion. Nip and Tuck were lazily cawing
in the pines. Mistawis was beckoning. Everything was the same. Nothing
was the same. It was a hundred years since yesterday. Yesterday, at this
time, she and Barney had been eating a belated dinner here with laughter.
Laughter? Valancy felt that she had done with laughter forever. And with
tears, for that matter. She had no further use for either of them.
“Blest if I know, my dear. Some fool quarrel, I suppose. Bernie just lit
out—disappeared. He wrote me from the Yukon. Said his engagement was
broken and he wasn’t coming back. And not to try to hunt him up because
he was never coming back. I didn’t. What was the use? I knew Bernie. I
went on piling up money because there wasn’t anything else to do. But I
was mighty lonely. All I lived for was them little notes now and then from
Bernie—Klondike—England—South Africa—China—everywhere. I
thought maybe he’d come back some day to his lonesome old dad. Then six
years ago even the letters stopped. I didn’t hear a word of or from him till
last Christmas.”
“Did he write?”
“No. But he drew a check for fifteen thousand dollars on his bank
account. The bank manager is a friend of mine—one of my biggest
shareholders. He’d always promised me he’d let me know if Bernie drew
any checks. Bernie had fifty thousand there. And he’d never touched a cent
of it till last Christmas. The check was made out to Aynsley’s, Toronto——”
“Aynsley’s?” Valancy heard herself saying Aynsley’s! She had a box on
her dressing-table with the Aynsley trademark.
“Yes. The big jewellery house there. After I’d thought it over a while, I
got brisk. I wanted to locate Bernie. Had a special reason for it. It was time
he gave up his fool hoboing and come to his senses. Drawing that fifteen
told me there was something in the wind. The manager communicated with
the Aynsleys—his wife was an Aynsley—and found out that Bernard
Redfern had bought a pearl necklace there. His address was given as Box
444, Port Lawrence, Muskoka, Ont. First I thought I’d write. Then I thought

I’d wait till the open season for cars and come down myself. Ain’t no hand
at writing. I’ve motored from Montreal. Got to Port Lawrence yesterday.
Enquired at the post-office. Told me they knew nothing of any Bernard
Snaith Redfern, but there was a Barney Snaith had a P. O. box there. Lived
on an island out here, they said. So here I am. And where’s Barney?”
Valancy was fingering her necklace. She was wearing fifteen thousand
dollars around her neck. And she had worried lest Barney had paid fifteen
dollars for it and couldn’t afford it. Suddenly she laughed in Dr. Redfern’s
face.
“Excuse me. It’s so—amusing,” said poor Valancy.
“Isn’t it?” said Dr. Redfern, seeing a joke—but not exactly hers. “Now,
you seem like a sensible young woman, and I dare say you’ve lots of
influence over Bernie. Can’t you get him to come back to civilisation and
live like other people? I’ve a house up there. Big as a castle. Furnished like
a palace. I want company in it—Bernie’s wife—Bernie’s children.”
“Did Ethel Traverse ever marry?” queried Valancy irrelevantly.
“Bless you, yes. Two years after Bernie levanted. But she’s a widow now.
Pretty as ever. To be frank, that was my special reason for wanting to find
Bernie. I thought they’d make it up, maybe. But, of course, that’s all off
now. Doesn’t matter. Bernie’s choice of a wife is good enough for me. It’s
my boy I want. Think he’ll soon be back?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think he’ll come before night. Quite late,
perhaps. And perhaps not till tomorrow. But I can put you up comfortably.
He’ll certainly be back tomorrow.”
Dr. Redfern shook his head.
“Too damp. I’ll take no chances with rheumatism.”
“Why suffer that ceaseless anguish? Why not try Redfern’s Liniment?”
quoted the imp in the back of Valancy’s mind.
“I must get back to Port Lawrence before rain starts. Henry goes quite
mad when he gets mud on the car. But I’ll come back tomorrow. Meanwhile
you talk Bernie into reason.”
He shook her hand and patted her kindly on the shoulder. He looked as if
he would have kissed her, with a little encouragement, but Valancy did not
give it. Not that she would have minded. He was rather dreadful and loud—
and—and—dreadful. But there was something about him she liked. She

thought dully that she might have liked being his daughter-in-law if he had
not been a millionaire. A score of times over. And Barney was his son—and
heir.
She took him over in the motor boat and watched the lordly purple car
roll away through the woods with Henry at the wheel looking things not
lawful to be uttered. Then she went back to the Blue Castle. What she had
to do must be done quickly. Barney might return at any moment. And it was
certainly going to rain. She was thankful she no longer felt very bad. When
you are bludgeoned on the head repeatedly, you naturally and mercifully
become more or less insensible and stupid.
She stood briefly like a faded flower bitten by frost, by the hearth,
looking down on the white ashes of the last fire that had blazed in the Blue
Castle.
“At any rate,” she thought wearily, “Barney isn’t poor. He will be able to
afford a divorce. Quite nicely.”

CHAPTER XXXIX

S he must write a note. The imp in the back of her mind laughed. In every
story she had ever read when a runaway wife decamped from home she
left a note, generally on the pin-cushion. It was not a very original idea.
But one had to leave something intelligible. What was there to do but write
a note? She looked vaguely about her for something to write with. Ink?
There was none. Valancy had never written anything since she had come to
the Blue Castle, save memoranda of household necessaries for Barney. A
pencil sufficed for them, but now the pencil was not to be found. Valancy
absently crossed to the door of Bluebeard’s Chamber and tried it. She
vaguely expected to find it locked, but it opened unresistingly. She had
never tried it before, and did not know whether Barney habitually kept it
locked or not. If he did, he must have been badly upset to leave it unlocked.
She did not realise that she was doing something he had told her not to do.
She was only looking for something to write with. All her faculties were
concentrated on deciding just what she would say and how she would say it.
There was not the slightest curiosity in her as she went into the lean-to.
There were no beautiful women hanging by their hair on the walls. It
seemed a very harmless apartment, with a commonplace little sheet-iron
stove in the middle of it, its pipe sticking out through the roof. At one end
was a table or counter crowded with odd-looking utensils. Used no doubt by
Barney in his smelly operations. Chemical experiments, probably, she
reflected dully. At the other end was a big writing desk and swivel-chair.
The side walls were lined with books.
Valancy went blindly to the desk. There she stood motionless for a few
minutes, looking down at something that lay on it. A bundle of galley-
proofs. The page on top bore the title Wild Honey, and under the title were
the words “by John Foster.”
The opening sentence—“Pines are the trees of myth and legend. They
strike their roots deep into the traditions of an older world, but wind and

star love their lofty tops. What music when old Æolus draws his bow across
the branches of the pines—” She had heard Barney say that one day when
they walked under them.
So Barney was John Foster!
Valancy was not excited. She had absorbed all the shocks and sensations
that she could compass for one day. This affected her neither one way nor
the other. She only thought:
“So this explains it.”
“It” was a small matter that had, somehow, stuck in her mind more
persistently than its importance seemed to justify. Soon after Barney had
brought her John Foster’s latest book she had been in a Port Lawrence
bookshop and heard a customer ask the proprietor for John Foster’s new
book. The proprietor had said curtly, “Not out yet. Won’t be out till next
week.”
Valancy had opened her lips to say, “Oh, yes, it is out,” but closed them
again. After all, it was none of her business. She supposed the proprietor
wanted to cover up his negligence in not getting the book in promptly. Now
she knew. The book Barney had given her had been one of the author’s
complimentary copies, sent in advance.
Well! Valancy pushed the proofs indifferently aside and sat down in the
swivel-chair. She took up Barney’s pen—and a vile one it was—pulled a
sheet of paper to her and began to write. She could not think of anything to
say except bald facts.

“Dear Barney:—
I went to Dr. Trent this morning and found out he had sent me the
wrong letter by mistake. There never was anything serious the matter
with my heart and I am quite well now.
I did not mean to trick you. Please believe that. I could not bear it if
you did not believe that. I am very sorry for the mistake. But surely
you can get a divorce if I leave you. Is desertion a ground for divorce
in Canada? Of course if there is anything I can do to help or hasten it I
will do it gladly, if your lawyer will let me know.
I thank you for all your kindness to me. I shall never forget it. Think
as kindly of me as you can, because I did not mean to trap you. Good-

bye.
Yours gratefully,
VALANCY.”

It was very cold and stiff, she knew. But to try to say anything else would
be dangerous—like tearing away a dam. She didn’t know what torrent of
wild incoherences and passionate anguish might pour out. In a postscript
she added:

“Your father was here today. He is coming back tomorrow. He told
me everything. I think you should go back to him. He is very lonely
for you.”

She put the letter in an envelope, wrote “Barney” across it, and left it on
the desk. On it she laid the string of pearls. If they had been the beads she
believed them she would have kept them in memory of that wonderful year.
But she could not keep the fifteen thousand dollar gift of a man who had
married her out of pity and whom she was now leaving. It hurt her to give
up her pretty bauble. That was an odd thing, she reflected. The fact that she
was leaving Barney did not hurt her—yet. It lay at her heart like a cold,
insensible thing. If it came to life—Valancy shuddered and went out——
She put on her hat and mechanically fed Good Luck and Banjo. She
locked the door and carefully hid the key in the old pine. Then she crossed
to the mainland in the disappearing propeller. She stood for a moment on
the bank, looking at her Blue Castle. The rain had not yet come, but the sky
was dark, and Mistawis grey and sullen. The little house under the pines
looked very pathetic—a casket rifled of its jewels—a lamp with its flame
blown out.
“I shall never again hear the wind crying over Mistawis at night,” thought
Valancy. This hurt her, too. She could have laughed to think that such a
trifle could hurt her at such a time.

CHAPTER XL

V alancy paused a moment on the porch of the brick house in Elm Street.
She felt that she ought to knock like a stranger. Her rosebush, she idly
noticed, was loaded with buds. The rubber-plant stood beside the prim
door. A momentary horror overcame her—a horror of the existence to
which she was returning. Then she opened the door and walked in.
“I wonder if the Prodigal Son ever felt really at home again,” she
thought.
Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles were in the sitting-room. Uncle
Benjamin was there, too. They looked blankly at Valancy, realising at once
that something was wrong. This was not the saucy, impudent thing who had
laughed at them in this very room last summer. This was a grey-faced
woman with the eyes of a creature who had been stricken by a mortal blow.
Valancy looked indifferently around the room. She had changed so much
—and it had changed so little. The same pictures hung on the walls. The
little orphan who knelt at her never-finished prayer by the bed whereon
reposed the black kitten that never grew up into a cat. The grey “steel
engraving” of Quatre Bras, where the British regiment forever stood at bay.
The crayon enlargement of the boyish father she had never known. There
they all hung in the same places. The green cascade of “Wandering Jew”
still tumbled out of the old granite saucepan on the window-stand. The
same elaborate, never-used pitcher stood at the same angle on the sideboard
shelf. The blue and gilt vases that had been among her mother’s wedding-
presents still primly adorned the mantelpiece, flanking the china clock of
berosed and besprayed ware that never went. The chairs in exactly the same
places. Her mother and Cousin Stickles, likewise unchanged, regarding her
with stony unwelcome.
Valancy had to speak first.
“I’ve come home, Mother,” she said tiredly.

“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?”
Valancy began to speak mechanically. She told her tale bluntly and
barely.

“A year ago Dr. Trent told me I had angina pectoris and could not live
long. I wanted to have some—life—before I died. That’s why I went away.
Why I married Barney. And now I’ve found it is all a mistake. There is
nothing wrong with my heart. I’ve got to live—and Barney only married me
out of pity. So I have to leave him—free.”
“God bless me!” said Uncle Benjamin. Cousin Stickles began to cry.
“Valancy, if you’d only had confidence in your own mother——”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Valancy impatiently. “What’s the use of going
into that now? I can’t undo this year. God knows I wish I could. I’ve tricked
Barney into marrying me—and he’s really Bernard Redfern. Dr. Redfern’s
son, of Montreal. And his father wants him to go back to him.”
Uncle Benjamin made a queer sound. Cousin Stickles took her black-
bordered handkerchief away from her eyes and stared at Valancy. A queer
gleam suddenly shot into Mrs. Frederick’s stone-grey orbs.
“Dr. Redfern—not the Purple Pill man?” she said.
Valancy nodded. “He’s John Foster, too—the writer of those nature
books.”
“But—but—” Mrs. Frederick was visibly agitated, though not over the
thought that she was the mother-in-law of John Foster—“Dr. Redfern is a
millionaire!”
Uncle Benjamin shut his mouth with a snap.
“Ten times over,” he said.
Valancy nodded.
“Yes. Barney left home years ago—because of—of some trouble—some
—disappointment. Now he will likely go back. So you see—I had to come
home. He doesn’t love me. I can’t hold him to a bond he was tricked into.”
Uncle Benjamin looked incredibly sly.
“Did he say so? Does he want to get rid of you?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since I found out. But I tell you—he only
married me out of pity—because I asked him to—because he thought it
would only be for a little while.”
Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles both tried to speak, but Uncle
Benjamin waved a hand at them and frowned portentously.
“Let me handle this,” wave and frown seemed to say. To Valancy:

“Well, well, dear, we’ll talk it all over later. You see, we don’t quite
understand everything yet. As Cousin Stickles says, you should have
confided in us before. Later on—I dare say we can find a way out of this.”
“You think Barney can easily get a divorce, don’t you?” said Valancy
eagerly.
Uncle Benjamin silenced with another wave the exclamation of horror he
knew was trembling on Mrs. Frederick’s lips.
“Trust to me, Valancy. Everything will arrange itself. Tell me this,
Dossie. Have you been happy up back? Was Sn—Mr. Redfern good to
you?”
“I have been very happy and Barney was very good to me,” said Valancy,
as if reciting a lesson. She remembered when she studied grammar at school
she had disliked the past and perfect tenses. They had always seemed so
pathetic. “I have been”—it was all over and done with.
“Then don’t worry, little girl.” How amazingly paternal Uncle Benjamin
was! “Your family will stand behind you. We’ll see what can be done.”
“Thank you,” said Valancy dully. Really, it was quite decent of Uncle
Benjamin. “Can I go and lie down a little while? I’m—I’m—tired.”
“Of course you’re tired.” Uncle Benjamin patted her hand gently—very
gently. “All worn out and nervous. Go and lie down, by all means. You’ll
see things in quite a different light after you’ve had a good sleep.”
He held the door open. As she went through he whispered, “What is the
best way to keep a man’s love?”
Valancy smiled wanly. But she had come back to the old life—the old
shackles. “What?” she asked as meekly as of yore.
“Not to return it,” said Uncle Benjamin with a chuckle. He shut the door
and rubbed his hands. Nodded and smiled mysteriously round the room.
“Poor little Doss!” he said pathetically.
“Do you really suppose that—Snaith—can actually be Dr. Redfern’s
son?” gasped Mrs. Frederick.
“I see no reason for doubting it. She says Dr. Redfern has been there.
Why, the man is rich as wedding-cake. Amelia, I’ve always believed there
was more in Doss than most people thought. You kept her down too much

—repressed her. She never had a chance to show what was in her. And now
she’s landed a millionaire for a husband.”
“But—” hesitated Mrs. Frederick, “he—he—they told terrible tales about
him.”
“All gossip and invention—all gossip and invention. It’s always been a
mystery to me why people should be so ready to invent and circulate
slanders about other people they know absolutely nothing about. I can’t
understand why you paid so much attention to gossip and surmise. Just
because he didn’t choose to mix up with everybody, people resented it. I
was surprised to find what a decent fellow he seemed to be that time he
came into my store with Valancy. I discounted all the yarns then and there.”
“But he was seen dead drunk in Port Lawrence once,” said Cousin
Stickles. Doubtfully, yet as one very willing to be convinced to the contrary.
“Who saw him?” demanded Uncle Benjamin truculently. “Who saw him?
Old Jemmy Strang said he saw him. I wouldn’t take old Jemmy Strang’s
word on oath. He’s too drunk himself half the time to see straight. He said
he saw him lying drunk on a bench in the Park. Pshaw! Redfern’s been
asleep there. Don’t worry over that.”
“But his clothes—and that awful old car—” said Mrs. Frederick
uncertainly.
“Eccentricities of genius,” declared Uncle Benjamin. “You heard Doss
say he was John Foster. I’m not up in literature myself, but I heard a
lecturer from Toronto say that John Foster’s books had put Canada on the
literary map of the world.”
“I—suppose—we must forgive her,” yielded Mrs. Frederick.
“Forgive her!” Uncle Benjamin snorted. Really, Amelia was an
incredibly stupid woman. No wonder poor Doss had gone sick and tired of
living with her. “Well, yes, I think you’d better forgive her! The question is
—will Snaith forgive us!”
“What if she persists in leaving him? You’ve no idea how stubborn she
can be,” said Mrs. Frederick.
“Leave it all to me, Amelia. Leave it all to me. You women have muddled
it enough. This whole affair has been bungled from start to finish. If you
had put yourself to a little trouble years ago, Amelia, she would not have
bolted over the traces as she did. Just let her alone—don’t worry her with

advice or questions till she’s ready to talk. She’s evidently run away in a
panic because she’s afraid he’d be angry with her for fooling him. Most
extraordinary thing of Trent to tell her such a yarn! That’s what comes of
going to strange doctors. Well, well, we mustn’t blame her too harshly, poor
child. Redfern will come after her. If he doesn’t, I’ll hunt him up and talk to
him as man to man. He may be a millionaire, but Valancy is a Stirling. He
can’t repudiate her just because she was mistaken about her heart disease.
Not likely he’ll want to. Doss is a little overstrung. Bless me, I must get in
the habit of calling her Valancy. She isn’t a baby any longer. Now,
remember, Amelia. Be very kind and sympathetic.”
It was something of a large order to expect Mrs. Frederick to be kind and
sympathetic. But she did her best. When supper was ready she went up and
asked Valancy if she wouldn’t like a cup of tea. Valancy, lying on her bed,
declined. She just wanted to be left alone for a while. Mrs. Frederick left
her alone. She did not even remind Valancy that her plight was the outcome
of her own lack of daughterly respect and obedience. One could not—
exactly—say things like that to the daughter-in-law of a millionaire.

CHAPTER XLI

V alancy looked dully about her old room. It, too, was so exactly the
same that it seemed almost impossible to believe in the changes that
had come to her since she had last slept in it. It seemed—somehow—
indecent that it should be so much the same. There was Queen Louise
everlastingly coming down the stairway, and nobody had let the forlorn
puppy in out of the rain. Here was the purple paper blind and the greenish
mirror. Outside, the old carriage-shop with its blatant advertisements.
Beyond it, the station with the same derelicts and flirtatious flappers.
Here the old life waited for her, like some grim ogre that bided his time
and licked his chops. A monstrous horror of it suddenly possessed her.
When night fell and she had undressed and got into bed, the merciful
numbness passed away and she lay in anguish and thought of her island
under the stars. The camp-fires—all their little household jokes and phrases
and catch words—their furry beautiful cats—the lights agleam on the fairy
islands—canoes skimming over Mistawis in the magic of morning—white
birches shining among the dark spruces like beautiful women’s bodies—
winter snows and rose-red sunset fires—lakes drunken with moonshine—
all the delights of her lost paradise. She would not let herself think of
Barney. Only of these lesser things. She could not endure to think of
Barney.
Then she thought of him inescapably. She ached for him. She wanted his
arms around her—his face against hers—his whispers in her ear. She
recalled all his friendly looks and quips and jests—his little compliments—
his caresses. She counted them all over as a woman might count her jewels
—not one did she miss from the first day they had met. These memories
were all she could have now. She shut her eyes and prayed.
“Let me remember every one, God! Let me never forget one of them!”
Yet it would be better to forget. This agony of longing and loneliness
would not be so terrible if one could forget. And Ethel Traverse. That

shimmering witch woman with her white skin and black eyes and shining
hair. The woman Barney had loved. The woman whom he still loved.
Hadn’t he told her he never changed his mind? Who was waiting for him in
Montreal. Who was the right wife for a rich and famous man. Barney would
marry her, of course, when he got his divorce. How Valancy hated her! And
envied her! Barney had said, “I love you,” to her. Valancy had wondered
what tone Barney would say “I love you” in—how his dark-blue eyes
would look when he said it. Ethel Traverse knew. Valancy hated her for the
knowledge—hated and envied her.
“She can never have those hours in the Blue Castle. They are mine,”
thought Valancy savagely. Ethel would never make strawberry jam or dance
to old Abel’s fiddle or fry bacon for Barney over a camp-fire. She would
never come to the little Mistawis shack at all.
What was Barney doing—thinking—feeling now? Had he come home
and found her letter? Was he still angry with her? Or a little pitiful. Was he
lying on their bed looking out on stormy Mistawis and listening to the rain
streaming down on the roof? Or was he still wandering in the wilderness,
raging at the predicament in which he found himself? Hating her? Pain took
her and wrung her like some great pitiless giant. She got up and walked the
floor. Would morning never come to end this hideous night? And yet what
could morning bring her? The old life without the old stagnation that was at
least bearable. The old life with the new memories, the new longings, the
new anguish.
“Oh, why can’t I die?” moaned Valancy.

CHAPTER XLII

I t was not until early afternoon the next day that a dreadful old car clanked
up Elm Street and stopped in front of the brick house. A hatless man
sprang from it and rushed up the steps. The bell was rung as it had never
been rung before—vehemently, intensely. The ringer was demanding
entrance, not asking it. Uncle Benjamin chuckled as he hurried to the door.
Uncle Benjamin had “just dropped in” to enquire how dear Doss—Valancy
was. Dear Doss—Valancy, he had been informed, was just the same. She
had come down for breakfast—which she didn’t eat—gone back to her
room, come down for dinner—which she didn’t eat—gone back to her
room. That was all. She had not talked. And she had been let, kindly,
considerately, alone.
“Very good. Redfern will be here today,” said Uncle Benjamin. And now
Uncle Benjamin’s reputation as a prophet was made. Redfern was here—
unmistakably so.
“Is my wife here?” he demanded of Uncle Benjamin without preface.
Uncle Benjamin smiled expressively.
“Mr. Redfern, I believe? Very glad to meet you, sir. Yes, that naughty
little girl of yours is here. We have been——”
“I must see her,” Barney cut Uncle Benjamin ruthlessly short.
“Certainly, Mr. Redfern. Just step in here. Valancy will be down in a
minute.”
He ushered Barney into the parlour and betook himself to the sitting-
room and Mrs. Frederick.
“Go up and tell Valancy to come down. Her husband is here.”
But so dubious was Uncle Benjamin as to whether Valancy could really
come down in a minute—or at all—that he followed Mrs. Frederick on
tiptoe up the stairs and listened in the hall.

“Valancy dear,” said Mrs. Frederick tenderly, “your husband is in the
parlour, asking for you.”
“Oh, Mother.” Valancy got up from the window and wrung her hands. “I
cannot see him—I cannot! Tell him to go away—ask him to go away. I
can’t see him!”
“Tell her,” hissed Uncle Benjamin through the keyhole, “that Redfern
says he won’t go away until he has seen her.”
Redfern had not said anything of the kind, but Uncle Benjamin thought
he was that sort of a fellow. Valancy knew he was. She understood that she
might as well go down first as last.
She did not even look at Uncle Benjamin as she passed him on the
landing. Uncle Benjamin did not mind. Rubbing his hands and chuckling,
he retreated to the kitchen, where he genially demanded of Cousin Stickles:
“Why are good husbands like bread?”
Cousin Stickles asked why.
“Because women need them,” beamed Uncle Benjamin.
Valancy was looking anything but beautiful when she entered the parlour.
Her white night had played fearful havoc with her face. She wore an ugly
old brown-and-blue gingham, having left all her pretty dresses in the Blue
Castle. But Barney dashed across the room and caught her in his arms.
“Valancy, darling—oh, you darling little idiot! Whatever possessed you
to run away like that? When I came home last night and found your letter I
went quite mad. It was twelve o’clock—I knew it was too late to come here
then. I walked the floor all night. Then this morning Dad came—I couldn’t
get away till now. Valancy, whatever got into you? Divorce, forsooth! Don’t
you know——”
“I know you only married me out of pity,” said Valancy, brushing him
away feebly. “I know you don’t love me—I know——”
“You’ve been lying awake at three o’clock too long,” said Barney,
shaking her. “That’s all that’s the matter with you. Love you! Oh, don’t I
love you! My girl, when I saw that train coming down on you I knew
whether I loved you or not!”
“Oh, I was afraid you would try to make me think you cared,” cried
Valancy passionately. “Don’t—don’t! I know. I know all about Ethel

Traverse—your father told me everything. Oh, Barney, don’t torture me! I
can never go back to you!”
Barney released her and looked at her for a moment. Something in her
pallid, resolute face spoke more convincingly than words of her
determination.
“Valancy,” he said quietly, “Father couldn’t have told you everything
because he didn’t know it. Will you let me tell you—everything?”
“Yes,” said Valancy wearily. Oh, how dear he was! How she longed to
throw herself into his arms! As he put her gently down in a chair, she could
have kissed the slender, brown hands that touched her arms. She could not
look up as he stood before her. She dared not meet his eyes. For his sake,
she must be brave. She knew him—kind, unselfish. Of course he would
pretend he did not want his freedom—she might have known he would
pretend that, once the first shock of realisation was over. He was so sorry
for her—he understood her terrible position. When had he ever failed to
understand? But she would never accept his sacrifice. Never!
“You’ve seen Dad and you know I’m Bernard Redfern. And I suppose
you’ve guessed that I’m John Foster—since you went into Bluebeard’s
Chamber.”
“Yes. But I didn’t go in out of curiosity. I forgot you had told me not to
go in—I forgot——”
“Never mind. I’m not going to kill you and hang you up on the wall, so
there’s no need to call for Sister Anne. I’m only going to tell you my story
from the beginning. I came back last night intending to do it. Yes, I’m ‘old
Doc. Redfern’s son’—of Purple Pills and Bitters fame. Oh, don’t I know it?
Wasn’t it rubbed into me for years?”
Barney laughed bitterly and strode up and down the room a few times.
Uncle Benjamin, tiptoeing through the hall, heard the laugh and frowned.
Surely Doss wasn’t going to be a stubborn little fool. Barney threw himself
into a chair before Valancy.
“Yes. As long as I can remember I’ve been a millionaire’s son. But when
I was born Dad wasn’t a millionaire. He wasn’t even a doctor—isn’t yet. He
was a veterinary and a failure at it. He and Mother lived in a little village up
in Quebec and were abominably poor. I don’t remember Mother. Haven’t
even a picture of her. She died when I was two years old. She was fifteen

years younger than Father—a little school teacher. When she died Dad
moved into Montreal and formed a company to sell his hair tonic. He’d
dreamed the prescription one night, it seems. Well, it caught on. Money
began to flow in. Dad invented—or dreamed—the other things, too—Pills,
Bitters, Liniment and so on. He was a millionaire by the time I was ten,
with a house so big a small chap like myself always felt lost in it. I had
every toy a boy could wish for—and I was the loneliest little devil in the
world. I remember only one happy day in my childhood, Valancy. Only one.
Even you were better off than that. Dad had gone out to see an old friend in
the country and took me along. I was turned loose in the barnyard and I
spent the whole day hammering nails in a block of wood. I had a glorious
day. When I had to go back to my roomful of playthings in the big house in
Montreal I cried. But I didn’t tell Dad why. I never told him anything. It’s
always been a hard thing for me to tell things, Valancy—anything that went
deep. And most things went deep with me. I was a sensitive child and I was
even more sensitive as a boy. No one ever knew what I suffered. Dad never
dreamed of it.
“When he sent me to a private school—I was only eleven—the boys
ducked me in the swimming-tank until I stood on a table and read aloud all
the advertisements of Father’s patent abominations. I did it—then”—
Barney clinched his fists—“I was frightened and half drowned and all my
world was against me. But when I went to college and the sophs tried the
same stunt I didn’t do it.” Barney smiled grimly. “They couldn’t make me
do it. But they could—and did—make my life miserable. I never heard the
last of the Pills and the Bitters and the Hair Tonic. ‘After using’ was my
nickname—you see I’d always such a thick thatch. My four college years
were a nightmare. You know—or you don’t know—what merciless beasts
boys can be when they get a victim like me. I had few friends—there was
always some barrier between me and the kind of people I cared for. And the
other kind—who would have been very willing to be intimate with rich old
Doc. Redfern’s son—I didn’t care for. But I had one friend—or thought I
had. A clever, bookish chap—a bit of a writer. That was a bond between us
—I had some secret aspirations along that line. He was older than I was—I
looked up to him and worshipped him. For a year I was happier than I’d
ever been. Then—a burlesque sketch came out in the college magazine—a
mordant thing, ridiculing Dad’s remedies. The names were changed, of
course, but everybody knew what and who was meant. Oh, it was clever—

damnably so—and witty. McGill rocked with laughter over it. I found out
he had written it.”
“Oh, were you sure?” Valancy’s dull eyes flamed with indignation.
“Yes. He admitted it when I asked him. Said a good idea was worth more
to him than a friend, any time. And he added a gratuitous thrust. ‘You know,
Redfern, there are some things money won’t buy. For instance—it won’t
buy you a grandfather.’ Well, it was a nasty slam. I was young enough to
feel cut up. And it destroyed a lot of my ideals and illusions, which was the
worst thing about it. I was a young misanthrope after that. Didn’t want to be
friends with any one. And then—the year after I left college—I met Ethel
Traverse.”
Valancy shivered. Barney, his hands stuck in his pockets, was regarding
the floor moodily and didn’t notice it.
“Dad told you about her, I suppose. She was very beautiful. And I loved
her. Oh, yes, I loved her. I won’t deny it or belittle it now. It was a lonely,
romantic boy’s first passionate love, and it was very real. And I thought she
loved me. I was fool enough to think that. I was wildly happy when she
promised to marry me. For a few months. Then—I found out she didn’t. I
was an involuntary eavesdropper on a certain occasion for a moment. That
moment was enough. The proverbial fate of the eavesdropper overtook me.
A girl friend of hers was asking her how she could stomach Doc. Redfern’s
son and the patent-medicine background.
“‘His money will gild the Pills and sweeten the Bitters,’ said Ethel, with a
laugh. ‘Mother told me to catch him if I could. We’re on the rocks. But pah!
I smell turpentine whenever he comes near me.’”
“Oh, Barney!” cried Valancy, wrung with pity for him. She had forgotten
all about herself and was filled with compassion for Barney and rage
against Ethel Traverse. How dared she?
“Well,”—Barney got up and began pacing round the room—“that
finished me. Completely. I left civilisation and those accursed dopes behind
me and went to the Yukon. For five years I knocked about the world—in all
sorts of outlandish places. I earned enough to live on—I wouldn’t touch a
cent of Dad’s money. Then one day I woke up to the fact that I no longer
cared a hang about Ethel, one way or another. She was somebody I’d
known in another world—that was all. But I had no hankering to go back to
the old life. None of that for me. I was free and I meant to keep so. I came

to Mistawis—saw Tom MacMurray’s island. My first book had been
published the year before, and made a hit—I had a bit of money from my
royalties. I bought my island. But I kept away from people. I had no faith in
anybody. I didn’t believe there was such a thing as real friendship or true
love in the world—not for me, anyhow—the son of Purple Pills. I used to
revel in all the wild yarns they told of me. In fact, I’m afraid I suggested a
few of them myself. By mysterious remarks which people interpreted in the
light of their own prepossessions.
“Then—you came. I had to believe you loved me—really loved me—not
my father’s millions. There was no other reason why you should want to
marry a penniless devil with my supposed record. And I was sorry for you.
Oh, yes, I don’t deny I married you because I was sorry for you. And then—
I found you the best and jolliest and dearest little pal and chum a fellow
ever had. Witty—loyal—sweet. You made me believe again in the reality of
friendship and love. The world seemed good again just because you were in
it, honey. I’d have been willing to go on forever just as we were. I knew
that, the night I came home and saw my homelight shining out from the
island for the first time. And knew you were there waiting for me. After
being homeless all my life it was beautiful to have a home. To come home
hungry at night and know there was a good supper and a cheery fire—and
you.
“But I didn’t realise what you actually meant to me till that moment at
the switch. Then it came like a lightning flash. I knew I couldn’t live
without you—that if I couldn’t pull you loose in time I’d have to die with
you. I admit it bowled me over—knocked me silly. I couldn’t get my
bearings for a while. That’s why I acted like a mule. But the thought that
drove me to the tall timber was the awful one that you were going to die. I’d
always hated the thought of it—but I supposed there wasn’t any chance for
you, so I put it out of my mind. Now I had to face it—you were under
sentence of death and I couldn’t live without you. When I came home last
night I had made up my mind that I’d take you to all the specialists in the
world—that something surely could be done for you. I felt sure you
couldn’t be as bad as Dr. Trent thought, when those moments on the track
hadn’t even hurt you. And I found your note—and went mad with happiness
—and a little terror for fear you didn’t care much for me, after all, and had
gone away to get rid of me. But now, it’s all right, isn’t it, darling?”

Was she, Valancy being called “darling”?
“I can’t believe you care for me,” she said helplessly. “I know you can’t.
What’s the use, Barney? Of course, you’re sorry for me—of course you
want to do the best you can to straighten out the mess. But it can’t be
straightened out that way. You couldn’t love me—me.” She stood up and
pointed tragically to the mirror over the mantel. Certainly, not even Allan
Tierney could have seen beauty in the woeful, haggard little face reflected
there.
Barney didn’t look at the mirror. He looked at Valancy as if he would like
to snatch her—or beat her.
“Love you! Girl, you’re in the very core of my heart. I hold you there like
a jewel. Didn’t I promise you I’d never tell you a lie? Love you! I love you
with all there is of me to love. Heart, soul, brain. Every fibre of body and
spirit thrilling to the sweetness of you. There’s nobody in the world for me
but you, Valancy.”
“You’re—a good actor, Barney,” said Valancy, with a wan little smile.
Barney looked at her.
“So you don’t believe me—yet?”
“I—can’t.”
“Oh—damn!” said Barney violently.
Valancy looked up startled. She had never seen this Barney. Scowling!
Eyes black with anger. Sneering lips. Dead-white face.
“You don’t want to believe it,” said Barney in the silk-smooth voice of
ultimate rage. “You’re tired of me. You want to get out of it—free from me.
You’re ashamed of the Pills and the Liniment, just as she was. Your Stirling
pride can’t stomach them. It was all right as long as you thought you hadn’t
long to live. A good lark—you could put up with me. But a lifetime with old
Doc Redfern’s son is a different thing. Oh, I understand—perfectly. I’ve
been very dense—but I understand, at last.”
Valancy stood up. She stared into his furious face. Then—she suddenly
laughed.
“You darling!” she said. “You do mean it! You do really love me! You
wouldn’t be so enraged if you didn’t.”

Barney stared at her for a moment. Then he caught her in his arms with
the little low laugh of the triumphant lover.
Uncle Benjamin, who had been frozen with horror at the keyhole,
suddenly thawed out and tiptoed back to Mrs. Frederick and Cousin
Stickles.
“Everything is all right,” he announced jubilantly.
Dear little Doss! He would send for his lawyer right away and alter his
will again. Doss should be his sole heiress. To her that had should certainly
be given.
Mrs. Frederick, returning to her comfortable belief in an overruling
Providence, got out the family Bible and made an entry under “Marriages.”

CHAPTER XLIII

“B ut, Barney,” protested Valancy after a few minutes, “your father—
somehow—gave me to understand that you still loved her.”
“He would. Dad holds the championship for making blunders. If
there’s a thing that’s better left unsaid you can trust him to say it. But he
isn’t a bad old soul, Valancy. You’ll like him.”
“I do, now.”
“And his money isn’t tainted money. He made it honestly. His medicines
are quite harmless. Even his Purple Pills do people whole heaps of good
when they believe in them.”
“But—I’m not fit for your life,” sighed Valancy. “I’m not—clever—or
well-educated—or——”
“My life is in Mistawis—and all the wild places of the world. I’m not
going to ask you to live the life of a society woman. Of course, we must
spend a bit of the time with Dad—he’s lonely and old——”
“But not in that big house of his,” pleaded Valancy. “I can’t live in a
palace.”
“Can’t come down to that after your Blue Castle,” grinned Barney.
“Don’t worry, sweet. I couldn’t live in that house myself. It has a white
marble stairway with gilt bannisters and looks like a furniture shop with the
labels off. Likewise it’s the pride of Dad’s heart. We’ll get a little house
somewhere outside of Montreal—in the real country—near enough to see
Dad often. I think we’ll build one for ourselves. A house you build for
yourself is so much nicer than a hand-me-down. But we’ll spend our
summers in Mistawis. And our autumns travelling. I want you to see the
Alhambra—it’s the nearest thing to the Blue Castle of your dreams I can
think of. And there’s an old-world garden in Italy where I want to show you
the moon rising over Rome through the dark cypress-trees.”
“Will that be any lovelier than the moon rising over Mistawis?”

“Not lovelier. But a different kind of loveliness. There are so many kinds
of loveliness. Valancy, before this year you’ve spent all your life in
ugliness. You know nothing of the beauty of the world. We’ll climb
mountains—hunt for treasures in the bazaars of Samarcand—search out the
magic of east and west—run hand in hand to the rim of the world. I want to
show you it all—see it again through your eyes. Girl, there are a million
things I want to show you—do with you—say to you. It will take a lifetime.
And we must see about that picture by Tierney, after all.”
“Will you promise me one thing?” asked Valancy solemnly.
“Anything,” said Barney recklessly.
“Only one thing. You are never, under any circumstances or under any
provocation, to cast it up to me that I asked you to marry me.”

CHAPTER XLIV

E xtract from letter written by Miss Olive Stirling to Mr. Cecil
Bruce:
“It’s really disgusting that Doss’ crazy adventures should have
turned out like this. It makes one feel that there is no use in behaving
properly.
“I’m sure her mind was unbalanced when she left home. What she
said about a dust-pile showed that. Of course I don’t think there was
ever a thing the matter with her heart. Or perhaps Snaith or Redfern or
whatever his name really is fed Purple Pills to her, back in that
Mistawis hut and cured her. It would make quite a testimonial for the
family ads, wouldn’t it?
“He’s such an insignificant-looking creature. I mentioned this to
Doss but all she said was, ‘I don’t like collar ad men.’
“Well, he’s certainly no collar ad man. Though I must say there is
something rather distinguished about him, now that he has cut his hair
and put on decent clothes. I really think, Cecil, you should exercise
more. It doesn’t do to get too fleshy.
“He also claims, I believe, to be John Foster. We can believe that or
not, as we like, I suppose.
“Old Doc Redfern has given them two millions for a wedding-
present. Evidently the Purple Pills bring in the bacon. They’re going to
spend the fall in Italy and the winter in Egypt and motor through
Normandy in apple-blossom time. Not in that dreadful old Lizzie,
though. Redfern has got a wonderful new car.
“Well, I think I’ll run away, too, and disgrace myself. It seems to
pay.
“Uncle Ben is a scream. Likewise Uncle James. The fuss they all
make over Doss now is absolutely sickening. To hear Aunt Amelia

talking of ‘my son-in-law, Bernard Redfern’ and ‘my daughter, Mrs.
Bernard Redfern.’ Mother and Father are as bad as the rest. And they
can’t see that Valancy is just laughing at them all in her sleeve.”

CHAPTER XLV

V alancy and Barney turned under the mainland pines in the cool dusk of
the September night for a farewell look at the Blue Castle.
Mistawis was drowned in sunset lilac light, incredibly delicate and
elusive. Nip and Tuck were cawing lazily in the old pines. Good Luck and
Banjo were mewed and mewing in separate baskets in Barney’s new, dark-
green car en route to Cousin Georgiana’s. Cousin Georgiana was going to
take care of them until Barney and Valancy came back. Aunt Wellington
and Cousin Sarah and Aunt Alberta had also entreated the privilege of
looking after them, but to Cousin Georgiana was it given. Valancy was in
tears.
“Don’t cry, Moonlight. We’ll be back next summer. And now we’re off
for a real honeymoon.”
Valancy smiled through her tears. She was so happy that her happiness
terrified her. But, despite the delights before her—‘the glory that was
Greece and the grandeur that was Rome’—lure of the ageless Nile—
glamour of the Riviera—mosque and palace and minaret—she knew
perfectly well that no spot or place or home in the world could ever possess
the sorcery of her Blue Castle.

THE END

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