The Blue Castle: a novel
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
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