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all figured out in the back of her mind. Barney had been in a bank. He
was tempted to take some money to speculate—meaning, of course, to put
it back. He had got in deeper and deeper, until he found there was
nothing for it but flight. It had happened so to scores of men. He had,
Valancy was absolutely certain, never meant to do wrong. Of course, the
name of the man in the clipping was Bernard Craig. But Valancy had
always thought Snaith was an alias. Not that it mattered.
Valancy had only one unhappy night that winter. It came in late March
when most of the snow had gone and Nip and Tuck had returned. Barney
had gone off in the afternoon for a long, woodland tramp, saying he
would be back by dark if all went well. Soon after he had gone it had
begun to snow. The wind rose and presently Mistawis was in the grip of
one of the worst storms of the winter. It tore up the lake and struck
at the little house. The dark angry woods on the mainland scowled at
Valancy, menace in the toss of their boughs, threats in their windy
gloom, terror in the roar of their hearts. The trees on the island
crouched in fear. Valancy spent the night huddled on the rug before the
fire, her face buried in her hands, when she was not vainly peering
from the oriel in a futile effort to see through the furious smoke of
wind and snow that had once been blue-dimpled Mistawis. Where was
Barney? Lost on the merciless lakes? Sinking exhausted in the drifts of
the pathless woods? Valancy died a hundred deaths that night and paid
in full for all the happiness of her Blue Castle. When morning came the
storm broke and cleared; the sun shone gloriously over Mistawis; and at
noon Barney came home. Valancy saw him from the oriel as he came around
a wooded point, slender and black against the glistening white world.
She did not run to meet him. Something happened to her knees and she
dropped down on Banjo’s chair. Luckily Banjo got out from under in
time, his whiskers bristling with indignation. Barney found her there,
her head buried in her hands.
“Barney, I thought you were dead,” she whispered.
Barney hooted.
“After two years of the Klondike did you think a baby storm like this
could get me? I spent the night in that old lumber shanty over by
Muskoka. A bit cold but snug enough. Little goose! Your eyes look like
burnt holes in a blanket. Did you sit up here all night worrying over
an old woodsman like me?”
“Yes,” said Valancy. “I—couldn’t help it. The storm seemed so wild.
Anybody might have been lost in it. When—I saw you—come round the
point—there—something happened to me. I don’t know what. It was as if I
had died and come back to life. I can’t describe it any other way.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
Spring. Mistawis black and sullen for a week or two, then flaming in
sapphire and turquoise, lilac and rose again, laughing through the
oriel, caressing its amethyst islands, rippling under winds soft as
silk. Frogs, little green wizards of swamp and pool, singing everywhere
in the long twilights and long into the nights; islands fairy-like in a
green haze; the evanescent beauty of wild young trees in early leaf;
frost-like loveliness of the new foliage of juniper-trees; the woods
putting on a fashion of spring flowers, dainty, spiritual things akin
to the soul of the wilderness; red mist on the maples; willows decked
out with glossy silver pussies; all the forgotten violets of Mistawis
blooming again; lure of April moons.
“Think how many thousands of springs have been here on Mistawis—and all
of them beautiful,” said Valancy. “Oh, Barney, look at that wild plum!
I will—I must quote from John Foster. There’s a passage in one of his
books—I’ve re-read it a hundred times. He must have written it before a
tree just like that:
“‘Behold the young wild plum-tree which has adorned herself after
immemorial fashion in a wedding-veil of fine lace. The fingers of wood
pixies must have woven it, for nothing like it ever came from an
earthly loom. I vow the tree is conscious of its loveliness. It is
bridling before our very eyes—as if its beauty were not the most
ephemeral thing in the woods, as it is the rarest and most exceeding,
for today it is and tomorrow it is not. Every south wind purring
through the boughs will winnow away a shower of slender petals. But
what matter? Today it is queen of the wild places and it is always
today in the woods.’”
“I’m sure you feel much better since you’ve got that out of your
system,” said Barney heartlessly.
“Here’s a patch of dandelions,” said Valancy, unsubdued. “Dandelions
shouldn’t grow in the woods, though. They haven’t any sense of the
fitness of things at all. They are too cheerful and self-satisfied.
They haven’t any of the mystery and reserve of the real wood-flowers.”
“In short, they’ve no secrets,” said Barney. “But wait a bit. The woods
will have their own way even with those obvious dandelions. In a little
while all that obtrusive yellowness and complacency will be gone and
we’ll find here misty, phantom-like globes hovering over those long
grasses in full harmony with the traditions of the forest.”
“That sounds John Fosterish,” teased Valancy.
“What have I done that deserved a slam like that?” complained Barney.