“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 campfire. 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.
XLII
It 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
