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howls—“both of them dead drunk, my dear.” And every one knew that he
was an escaped convict and a defaulting bank clerk and a murderer in
hiding and an infidel and an illegitimate son of old Roaring Abel Gay
and the father of Roaring Abel’s illegitimate grandchild and a
counterfeiter and a forger and a few other awful things. But still
Valancy didn’t believe he was bad. Nobody with a smile like that could
be bad, no matter what he had done.
It was that night the Prince of the Blue Castle changed from a being of
grim jaw and hair with a dash of premature grey to a rakish individual
with overlong, tawny hair, dashed with red, dark-brown eyes, and ears
that stuck out just enough to give him an alert look but not enough to
be called flying jibs. But he still retained something a little grim
about the jaw.
Barney Snaith looked even more disreputable than usual just now. It was
very evident that he hadn’t shaved for days, and his hands and arms,
bare to the shoulders, were black with grease. But he was whistling
gleefully to himself and he seemed so happy that Valancy envied him.
She envied him his light-heartedness and his irresponsibility and his
mysterious little cabin up on an island in Lake Mistawis—even his
rackety old Grey Slosson. Neither he nor his car had to be respectable
and live up to traditions. When he rattled past her a few minutes
later, bareheaded, leaning back in his Lizzie at a raffish angle, his
longish hair blowing in the wind, a villainous-looking old black pipe
in his mouth, she envied him again. Men had the best of it, no doubt
about that. This outlaw was happy, whatever he was or wasn’t. She,
Valancy Stirling, respectable, well-behaved to the last degree, was
unhappy and had always been unhappy. So there you were.
Valancy was just in time for supper. The sun had clouded over, and a
dismal, drizzling rain was falling again. Cousin Stickles had the
neuralgia. Valancy had to do the family darning and there was no time
for _Magic of Wings_.
“Can’t the darning wait till tomorrow?” she pleaded.
“Tomorrow will bring its own duties,” said Mrs. Frederick inexorably.
Valancy darned all the evening and listened to Mrs. Frederick and
Cousin Stickles talking the eternal, niggling gossip of the clan, as
they knitted drearily at interminable black stockings. They discussed
Second Cousin Lilian’s approaching wedding in all its bearings. On the
whole, they approved. Second Cousin Lilian was doing well for herself.
“Though she hasn’t hurried,” said Cousin Stickles. “She must be
twenty-five.”
“There have not—fortunately—been many old maids in our connection,”
said Mrs. Frederick bitterly.
Valancy flinched. She had run the darning needle into her finger.
Third Cousin Aaron Gray had been scratched by a cat and had
blood-poisoning in his finger. “Cats are most dangerous animals,” said
Mrs. Frederick. “I would never have a cat about the house.”
She glared significantly at Valancy through her terrible glasses. Once,
five years ago, Valancy had asked if she might have a cat. She had
never referred to it since, but Mrs. Frederick still suspected her of
harbouring the unlawful desire in her heart of hearts.
Once Valancy sneezed. Now, in the Stirling code, it was very bad form
to sneeze in public.
“You can always repress a sneeze by pressing your finger on your upper
lip,” said Mrs. Frederick rebukingly.
Half-past nine o’clock and so, as Mr. Pepys would say, to bed. But
First Cousin Stickles’ neuralgic back must be rubbed with Redfern’s
Liniment. Valancy did that. Valancy always had to do it. She hated the
smell of Redfern’s Liniment—she hated the smug, beaming, portly,
be-whiskered, be-spectacled picture of Dr. Redfern on the bottle. Her
fingers smelled of the horrible stuff after she got into bed, in spite
of all the scrubbing she gave them.
Valancy’s day of destiny had come and gone. She ended it as she had
begun it, in tears.
CHAPTER VII
There was a rosebush on the little Stirling lawn, growing beside the
gate. It was called “Doss’s rosebush.” Cousin Georgiana had given it to
Valancy five years ago and Valancy had planted it joyfully. She loved
roses. But—of course—the rosebush never bloomed. That was her luck.
Valancy did everything she could think of and took the advice of
everybody in the clan, but still the rosebush would not bloom. It
throve and grew luxuriantly, with great leafy branches untouched of
rust or spider; but not even a bud had ever appeared on it. Valancy,
looking at it two days after her birthday, was filled with a sudden,
overwhelming hatred for it. The thing wouldn’t bloom: very well, then,
she would cut it down. She marched to the tool-room in the barn for her
garden knife and she went at the rosebush viciously. A few minutes
later horrified Mrs. Frederick came out to the verandah and beheld her
daughter slashing insanely among the rosebush boughs. Half of them were
already strewn on the walk. The bush looked sadly dismantled.