Datasets:
edwindvinas
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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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stove in the middle of it, its pipe sticking out through the roof. At
one end was a table or counter crowded with odd-looking utensils. Used
no doubt by Barney in his smelly operations. Chemical experiments,
probably, she reflected dully. At the other end was a big writing desk
and swivel-chair. The side walls were lined with books.
Valancy went blindly to the desk. There she stood motionless for a few
minutes, looking down at something that lay on it. A bundle of
galley-proofs. The page on top bore the title _Wild Honey_, and under
the title were the words “by John Foster.”
The opening sentence—“Pines are the trees of myth and legend. They
strike their roots deep into the traditions of an older world, but wind
and star love their lofty tops. What music when old Æolus draws his bow
across the branches of the pines—” She had heard Barney say that one
day when they walked under them.
So Barney was John Foster!
Valancy was not excited. She had absorbed all the shocks and sensations
that she could compass for one day. This affected her neither one way
nor the other. She only thought:
“So this explains it.”
“It” was a small matter that had, somehow, stuck in her mind more
persistently than its importance seemed to justify. Soon after Barney
had brought her John Foster’s latest book she had been in a Port
Lawrence bookshop and heard a customer ask the proprietor for John
Foster’s new book. The proprietor had said curtly, “Not out yet. Won’t
be out till next week.”
Valancy had opened her lips to say, “Oh, yes, it _is_ out,” but closed
them again. After all, it was none of her business. She supposed the
proprietor wanted to cover up his negligence in not getting the book in
promptly. Now she knew. The book Barney had given her had been one of
the author’s complimentary copies, sent in advance.
Well! Valancy pushed the proofs indifferently aside and sat down in the
swivel-chair. She took up Barney’s pen—and a vile one it was—pulled a
sheet of paper to her and began to write. She could not think of
anything to say except bald facts.
“Dear Barney:—
I went to Dr. Trent this morning and found out he had sent me the wrong
letter by mistake. There never was anything serious the matter with my
heart and I am quite well now.
I did not mean to trick you. Please believe that. I could not bear it
if you did not believe that. I am very sorry for the mistake. But
surely you can get a divorce if I leave you. Is desertion a ground for
divorce in Canada? Of course if there is anything I can do to help or
hasten it I will do it gladly, if your lawyer will let me know.
I thank you for all your kindness to me. I shall never forget it. Think
as kindly of me as you can, because I did not mean to trap you.
Good-bye.
Yours gratefully,
VALANCY.”
It was very cold and stiff, she knew. But to try to say anything else
would be dangerous—like tearing away a dam. She didn’t know what
torrent of wild incoherences and passionate anguish might pour out. In
a postscript she added:
“Your father was here today. He is coming back tomorrow. He told me
everything. I think you should go back to him. He is very lonely for
you.”
She put the letter in an envelope, wrote “Barney” across it, and left
it on the desk. On it she laid the string of pearls. If they had been
the beads she believed them she would have kept them in memory of that
wonderful year. But she could not keep the fifteen thousand dollar gift
of a man who had married her out of pity and whom she was now leaving.
It hurt her to give up her pretty bauble. That was an odd thing, she
reflected. The fact that she was leaving Barney did not hurt her—yet.
It lay at her heart like a cold, insensible thing. If it came to
life—Valancy shuddered and went out——
She put on her hat and mechanically fed Good Luck and Banjo. She locked
the door and carefully hid the key in the old pine. Then she crossed to
the mainland in the disappearing propeller. She stood for a moment on
the bank, looking at her Blue Castle. The rain had not yet come, but
the sky was dark, and Mistawis grey and sullen. The little house under
the pines looked very pathetic—a casket rifled of its jewels—a lamp
with its flame blown out.
“I shall never again hear the wind crying over Mistawis at night,”
thought Valancy. This hurt her, too. She could have laughed to think
that such a trifle could hurt her at such a time.