The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “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 Mistawa 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 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 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,” averted 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.”

  “Dipp — 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 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

  Summer 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 scroundrel 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 Valanacy, 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 i
t 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.