she must write a note. the imp in the back of her mind laughed. in every story she had ever read when a runaway wife decamped from home she left a note, generally on the pin-cushion. it was not a very original idea. but one had to leave something intelligible. what was there to do but write a note? she looked vaguely about her for something to write with. ink? there was none. valancy had never written anything since she had come to the blue castle, save memoranda of household necessaries for barney. a pencil sufficed for them, but now the pencil was not to be found. valancy absently crossed to the door of bluebeard’s chamber and tried it. she vaguely expected to find it locked, but it opened unresistingly. she had never tried it before, and did not know whether barney habitually kept it locked or not. if he did, he must have been badly upset to leave it unlocked. she did not realise that she was doing something he had told her not to do. she was only looking for something to write with. all her faculties were concentrated on deciding just what she would say and how she would say it. there was not the slightest curiosity in her as she went into the lean-to.
there were no beautiful women hanging by their hair on the walls. it seemed a very harmless apartment, with a commonplace little sheet-iron 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.
