CHAPTER XXI

“We’ll just sit here,” said Barney, “and if we think of anything worth
while saying we’ll say it. Otherwise, not. Don’t imagine you’re bound
to talk to me.”

“John Foster says,” quoted Valancy, “‘If you can sit in silence with a
person for half an hour and yet be entirely comfortable, you and that
person can be friends. If you cannot, friends you’ll never be and you
need not waste time in trying.’”

“Evidently John Foster says a sensible thing once in a while,” conceded
Barney.

They sat in silence for a long while. Little rabbits hopped across the
road. Once or twice an owl laughed out delightfully. The road beyond
them was fringed with the woven shadow lace of trees. Away off to the
southwest the sky was full of silvery little cirrus clouds above the
spot where Barney’s island must be.

Valancy was perfectly happy. Some things dawn on you slowly. Some
things come by lightning flashes. Valancy had had a lightning flash.

She knew quite well now that she loved Barney. Yesterday she had been
all her own. Now she was this man’s. Yet he had done nothing—said
nothing. He had not even looked at her as a woman. But that didn’t
matter. Nor did it matter what he was or what he had done. She loved
him without any reservations. Everything in her went out wholly to him.
She had no wish to stifle or disown her love. She seemed to be his so
absolutely that thought apart from him—thought in which he did not
predominate—was an impossibility.

She had realised, quite simply and fully, that she loved him, in the
moment when he was leaning on the car door, explaining that Lady Jane
had no gas. She had looked deep into his eyes in the moonlight and had
known. In just that infinitesimal space of time everything was changed.
Old things passed away and all things became new.

She was no longer unimportant, little, old maid Valancy Stirling. She
was a woman, full of love and therefore rich and significant—justified
to herself. Life was no longer empty and futile, and death could cheat
her of nothing. Love had cast out her last fear.

Love! What a searing, torturing, intolerably sweet thing it was—this
possession of body, soul and mind! With something at its core as fine
and remote and purely spiritual as the tiny blue spark in the heart of
the unbreakable diamond. No dream had ever been like this. She was no
longer solitary. She was one of a vast sisterhood—all the women who had
ever loved in the world.

Barney need never know it—though she would not in the least have minded
his knowing. But _she_ knew it and it made a tremendous difference to
her. Just to love! She did not ask to be loved. It was rapture enough
just to sit there beside him in silence, alone in the summer night in
the white splendour of moonshine, with the wind blowing down on them
out of the pine woods. She had always envied the wind. So free. Blowing
where it listed. Through the hills. Over the lakes. What a tang, what a
zip it had! What a magic of adventure! Valancy felt as if she had
exchanged her shop-worn soul for a fresh one, fire-new from the
workshop of the gods. As far back as she could look, life had been
dull—colourless—savourless. Now she had come to a little patch of
violets, purple and fragrant—hers for the plucking. No matter who or
what had been in Barney’s past—no matter who or what might be in his
future—no one else could ever have this perfect hour. She surrendered
herself utterly to the charm of the moment.

“Ever dream of ballooning?” said Barney suddenly.

“No,” said Valancy.

“I do—often. Dream of sailing through the clouds—seeing the glories of
sunset—spending hours in the midst of a terrific storm with lightning
playing above and below you—skimming above a silver cloud floor under a
full moon—wonderful!”

“It does sound so,” said Valancy. “I’ve stayed on earth in my dreams.”

She told him about her Blue Castle. It was so easy to tell Barney
things. One felt he understood everything—even the things you didn’t
tell him. And then she told him a little of her existence before she
came to Roaring Abel’s. She wanted him to see why she had gone to the
dance “up back.”

“You see—I’ve never had any real life,” she said. “I’ve just—breathed.
Every door has always been shut to me.”

“But you’re still young,” said Barney.

“Oh, I know. Yes, I’m ‘still young’—but that’s so different from
_young_,” said Valancy bitterly. For a moment she was tempted to tell
Barney why her years had nothing to do with her future; but she did
not. She was not going to think of death tonight.

“Though I never was really young,” she went on—“until tonight,” she
added in her heart. “I never had a life like other girls. You couldn’t
understand. Why,”—she had a desperate desire that Barney should know
the worst about her—“I didn’t even love my mother. Isn’t it awful that
I don’t love my mother?”

“Rather awful—for her,” said Barney drily.

“Oh, she didn’t know it. She took my love for granted. And I wasn’t any
use or comfort to her or anybody. I was just a—a—vegetable. And I got
tired of it. That’s why I came to keep house for Mr. Gay and look after
Cissy.”

“And I suppose your people thought you’d gone mad.”

“They did—and do—literally,” said Valancy. “But it’s a comfort to them.
They’d rather believe me mad than bad. There’s no other alternative.
But I’ve been _living_ since I came to Mr. Gay’s. It’s been a
delightful experience. I suppose I’ll pay for it when I have to go
back—but I’ll have _had_ it.”

“That’s true,” said Barney. “If you buy your experience it’s your own.
So it’s no matter how much you pay for it. Somebody else’s experience
can never be yours. Well, it’s a funny old world.”

“Do you think it really is old?” asked Valancy dreamily. “I never
believe _that_ in June. It seems so young tonight—somehow. In that
quivering moonlight—like a young, white girl—waiting.”

“Moonlight here on the verge of up back is different from moonlight
anywhere else,” agreed Barney. “It always makes me feel so clean,
somehow—body and soul. And of course the age of gold always comes back
in spring.”

It was ten o’clock now. A dragon of black cloud ate up the moon. The
spring air grew chill—Valancy shivered. Barney reached back into the
innards of Lady Jane and clawed up an old, tobacco-scented overcoat.

“Put that on,” he ordered.

“Don’t you want it yourself?” protested Valancy.

“No. I’m not going to have you catching cold on my hands.”

“Oh, I won’t catch cold. I haven’t had a cold since I came to Mr.
Gay’s—though I’ve done the foolishest things. It’s funny, too—I used to
have them all the time. I feel so selfish taking your coat.”

“You’ve sneezed three times. No use winding up your ‘experience’ up
back with grippe or pneumonia.”

He pulled it up tight about her throat and buttoned it on her. Valancy
submitted with secret delight. How nice it was to have some one look
after you so! She snuggled down into the tobaccoey folds and wished the
night could last forever.

Ten minutes later a car swooped down on them from “up back.” Barney
sprang from Lady Jane and waved his hand. The car came to a stop beside
them. Valancy saw Uncle Wellington and Olive gazing at her in horror
from it.

So Uncle Wellington had got a car! And he must have been spending the
evening up at Mistawis with Cousin Herbert. Valancy almost laughed
aloud at the expression on his face as he recognised her. The pompous,
bewhiskered old humbug!

“Can you let me have enough gas to take me to Deerwood?” Barney was
asking politely. But Uncle Wellington was not attending to him.

“Valancy, how came you _here_!” he said sternly.

“By chance or God’s grace,” said Valancy.

“With this jail-bird—at ten o’clock at night!” said Uncle Wellington.

Valancy turned to Barney. The moon had escaped from its dragon and in
its light her eyes were full of deviltry.

“_Are_ you a jail-bird?”

“Does it matter?” said Barney, gleams of fun in _his_ eyes.

“Not to me. I only asked out of curiosity,” continued Valancy.

“Then I won’t tell you. I never satisfy curiosity.” He turned to Uncle
Wellington and his voice changed subtly.

“Mr. Stirling, I asked you if you could let me have some gas. If you
can, well and good. If not, we are only delaying you unnecessarily.”

Uncle Wellington was in a horrible dilemma. To give gas to this
shameless pair! But not to give it to them! To go away and leave them
there in the Mistawis woods—until daylight, likely. It was better to
give it to them and let them get out of sight before any one else saw
them.

“Got anything to get gas in?” he grunted surlily.

Barney produced a two-gallon measure from Lady Jane. The two men went
to the rear of the Stirling car and began manipulating the tap. Valancy
stole sly glances at Olive over the collar of Barney’s coat. Olive was
sitting grimly staring straight ahead with an outraged expression. She
did not mean to take any notice of Valancy. Olive had her own secret
reasons for feeling outraged. Cecil had been in Deerwood lately and of
course had heard all about Valancy. He agreed that her mind was
deranged and was exceedingly anxious to find out whence the derangement
had been inherited. It was a serious thing to have in the family—a very
serious thing. One had to think of one’s—descendants.

“She got it from the Wansbarras,” said Olive positively. “There’s
nothing like that in the Stirlings—nothing!”

“I hope not—I certainly hope not,” Cecil had responded dubiously. “But
then—to go out as a servant—for that is what it practically amounts to.
Your cousin!”

Poor Olive felt the implication. The Port Lawrence Prices were not
accustomed to ally themselves with families whose members “worked out.”

Valancy could not resist temptation. She leaned forward.

“Olive, does it hurt?”

Olive bit—stiffly.

“Does _what_ hurt?”

“Looking like that.”

For a moment Olive resolved she would take no further notice of
Valancy. Then duty came uppermost. She must not miss the opportunity.

“Doss,” she implored, leaning forward also, “won’t you come home—come
home tonight?”

Valancy yawned.

“You sound like a revival meeting,” she said. “You really do.”

“If you will come back——”

“All will be forgiven.”

“Yes,” said Olive eagerly. Wouldn’t it be splendid if _she_ could
induce the prodigal daughter to return? “We’ll never cast it up to you.
Doss, there are nights when I cannot sleep for thinking of you.”

“And me having the time of my life,” said Valancy, laughing.

“Doss, I can’t believe you’re bad. I’ve always said you couldn’t be
bad——”

“I don’t believe I can be,” said Valancy. “I’m afraid I’m hopelessly
proper. I’ve been sitting here for three hours with Barney Snaith and
he hasn’t even tried to kiss me. I wouldn’t have minded if he had,
Olive.”

Valancy was still leaning forward. Her little hat with its crimson rose
was tilted down over one eye. Olive stared. In the moonlight Valancy’s
eyes—Valancy’s smile—what had happened to Valancy! She looked—not
pretty—Doss couldn’t be pretty—but provocative, fascinating—yes,
abominably so. Olive drew back. It was beneath her dignity to say more.
After all, Valancy must be both mad _and_ bad.

“Thanks—that’s enough,” said Barney behind the car. “Much obliged, Mr.
Stirling. Two gallons—seventy cents. Thank you.”

Uncle Wellington climbed foolishly and feebly into his car. He wanted
to give Snaith a piece of his mind, but dared not. Who knew what the
creature might do if provoked? No doubt he carried firearms.

Uncle Wellington looked indecisively at Valancy. But Valancy had turned
her back on him and was watching Barney pour the gas into Lady Jane’s
maw.

“Drive on,” said Olive decisively. “There’s no use in waiting here. Let
me tell you what she said to me.”

“The little hussy! The shameless little hussy!” said Uncle Wellington.