The Blue Castle: a novel

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 “Let 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 Valancy 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