CHAPTER XXVII

Cousin 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.