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he came into my store with Valancy. I discounted all the yarns then and
there.”
“But he was seen dead drunk in Port Lawrence once,” said Cousin
Stickles. Doubtfully, yet as one very willing to be convinced to the
contrary.
“Who saw him?” demanded Uncle Benjamin truculently. “Who saw him? Old
Jemmy Strang _said_ he saw him. I wouldn’t take old Jemmy Strang’s word
on oath. He’s too drunk himself half the time to see straight. He said
he saw him lying drunk on a bench in the Park. Pshaw! Redfern’s been
asleep there. Don’t worry over _that_.”
“But his clothes—and that awful old car—” said Mrs. Frederick
uncertainly.
“Eccentricities of genius,” declared Uncle Benjamin. “You heard Doss
say he was John Foster. I’m not up in literature myself, but I heard a
lecturer from Toronto say that John Foster’s books had put Canada on
the literary map of the world.”
“I—suppose—we must forgive her,” yielded Mrs. Frederick.
“Forgive her!” Uncle Benjamin snorted. Really, Amelia was an incredibly
stupid woman. No wonder poor Doss had gone sick and tired of living
with her. “Well, yes, I think you’d better forgive her! The question
is—will Snaith forgive _us_!”
“What if she persists in leaving him? You’ve no idea how stubborn she
can be,” said Mrs. Frederick.
“Leave it all to me, Amelia. Leave it all to me. You women have muddled
it enough. This whole affair has been bungled from start to finish. If
you had put yourself to a little trouble years ago, Amelia, she would
not have bolted over the traces as she did. Just let her alone—don’t
worry her with advice or questions till she’s ready to talk. She’s
evidently run away in a panic because she’s afraid he’d be angry with
her for fooling him. Most extraordinary thing of Trent to tell her such
a yarn! That’s what comes of going to strange doctors. Well, well, we
mustn’t blame her too harshly, poor child. Redfern will come after her.
If he doesn’t, I’ll hunt him up and talk to him as man to man. He may
be a millionaire, but Valancy is a Stirling. He can’t repudiate her
just because she was mistaken about her heart disease. Not likely he’ll
want to. Doss is a little overstrung. Bless me, I must get in the habit
of calling her Valancy. She isn’t a baby any longer. Now, remember,
Amelia. Be very kind and sympathetic.”
It was something of a large order to expect Mrs. Frederick to be kind
and sympathetic. But she did her best. When supper was ready she went
up and asked Valancy if she wouldn’t like a cup of tea. Valancy, lying
on her bed, declined. She just wanted to be left alone for a while.
Mrs. Frederick left her alone. She did not even remind Valancy that her
plight was the outcome of her own lack of daughterly respect and
obedience. One could not—exactly—say things like that to the
daughter-in-law of a millionaire.
CHAPTER XLI
Valancy looked dully about her old room. It, too, was so exactly the
same that it seemed almost impossible to believe in the changes that
had come to her since she had last slept in it. It
seemed—somehow—indecent that it should be so much the same. There was
Queen Louise everlastingly coming down the stairway, and nobody had let
the forlorn puppy in out of the rain. Here was the purple paper blind
and the greenish mirror. Outside, the old carriage-shop with its
blatant advertisements. Beyond it, the station with the same derelicts
and flirtatious flappers.
Here the old life waited for her, like some grim ogre that bided his
time and licked his chops. A monstrous horror of it suddenly possessed
her. When night fell and she had undressed and got into bed, the
merciful numbness passed away and she lay in anguish and thought of her
island under the stars. The camp-fires—all their little household jokes
and phrases and catch words—their furry beautiful cats—the lights
agleam on the fairy islands—canoes skimming over Mistawis in the magic
of morning—white birches shining among the dark spruces like beautiful
women’s bodies—winter snows and rose-red sunset fires—lakes drunken
with moonshine—all the delights of her lost paradise. She would not let
herself think of Barney. Only of these lesser things. She could not
endure to think of Barney.
Then she thought of him inescapably. She ached for him. She wanted his
arms around her—his face against hers—his whispers in her ear. She
recalled all his friendly looks and quips and jests—his little
compliments—his caresses. She counted them all over as a woman might
count her jewels—not one did she miss from the first day they had met.
These memories were all she could have now. She shut her eyes and
prayed.
“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