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edwindvinas
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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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longer. Before he went, Valancy told him she would be going away the
next day. Roaring Abel was sorry, and said so. A distant cousin from
“up back” was coming to keep house for him—quite willing to do so now
since there was no sick girl to wait on—but Abel was not under any
delusions concerning her.
“She won’t be like you, my girl. Well, I’m obliged to you. You helped
me out of a bad hole and I won’t forget it. And I won’t forget what you
did for Cissy. I’m your friend, and if you ever want any of the
Stirlings spanked and sot in a corner send for me. I’m going to wet my
whistle. Lord, but I’m dry! Don’t reckon I’ll be back afore tomorrow
night, so if you’re going home tomorrow, good-bye now.”
“I _may_ go home tomorrow,” said Valancy, “but I’m not going back to
Deerwood.”
“Not going——”
“You’ll find the key on the woodshed nail,” interrupted Valancy,
politely and unmistakably. “The dog will be in the barn and the cat in
the cellar. Don’t forget to feed her till your cousin comes. The pantry
is full and I made bread and pies today. Good-bye, Mr. Gay. You have
been very kind to me and I appreciate it.”
“We’ve had a d——d decent time of it together, and that’s a fact,” said
Roaring Abel. “You’re the best small sport in the world, and your
little finger is worth the whole Stirling clan tied together. Good-bye
and good-luck.”
Valancy went out to the garden. Her legs trembled a little, but
otherwise she felt and looked composed. She held something tightly in
her hand. The garden was lying in the magic of the warm, odorous July
twilight. A few stars were out and the robins were calling through the
velvety silences of the barrens. Valancy stood by the gate expectantly.
Would he come? If he did not——
He was coming. Valancy heard Lady Jane Grey far back in the woods. Her
breath came a little more quickly. Nearer—and nearer—she could see Lady
Jane now—bumping down the lane—nearer—nearer—he was there—he had sprung
from the car and was leaning over the gate, looking at her.
“Going home, Miss Stirling?”
“I don’t know—yet,” said Valancy slowly. Her mind was made up, with no
shadow of turning, but the moment was very tremendous.
“I thought I’d run down and ask if there was anything I could do for
you,” said Barney.
Valancy took it with a canter.
“Yes, there is something you can do for me,” she said, evenly and
distinctly. “Will you marry me?”
For a moment Barney was silent. There was no particular expression on
his face. Then he gave an odd laugh.
“Come, now! I knew luck was just waiting around the corner for me. All
the signs have been pointing that way today.”
“Wait.” Valancy lifted her hand. “I’m in earnest—but I want to get my
breath after that question. Of course, with my bringing up, I realise
perfectly well that this is one of the things ‘a lady should not do.’”
“But why—why?”
“For two reasons.” Valancy was still a little breathless, but she
looked Barney straight in the eyes, while all the dead Stirlings
revolved rapidly in their graves and the living ones did nothing
because they did not know that Valancy was at that moment proposing
lawful marriage to the notorious Barney Snaith. “The first reason is,
I—I”—Valancy tried to say “I love you” but could not. She had to take
refuge in a pretended flippancy. “I’m crazy about you. The second
is—this.”
She handed him Dr. Trent’s letter.
Barney opened it with the air of a man thankful to find some safe, sane
thing to do. As he read it his face changed. He understood—more perhaps
than Valancy wanted him to.
“Are you sure nothing can be done for you?”
Valancy did not misunderstand the question.
“Yes. You know Dr. Trent’s reputation in regard to heart disease. I
haven’t long to live—perhaps only a few months—a few weeks. I want to
_live_ them. I can’t go back to Deerwood—you know what my life was like
there. And”—she managed it this time—“I love you. I want to spend the
rest of my life with you. That’s all.”
Barney folded his arms on the gate and looked gravely enough at a
white, saucy star that was winking at him just over Roaring Abel’s
kitchen chimney.
“You don’t know anything about me. I may be a—murderer.”
“No, I don’t. You _may_ be something dreadful. Everything they say of
you may be true. But it doesn’t matter to me.”