The Blue Castle

by L.M. Montgomery

Valancy wakened early, in the lifeless, hopeless hour just preceding dawn. She had not slept very well. One does not sleep well, sometimes, when one is twenty-nine on the morrow, and unmarried, in a community and connection where the unmarried are simply those who have failed to get a man.

Valancy herself had never quite relinquished a certain pitiful, shamed, little hope that Romance would come her way yet—never, until this wet, horrible morning, when she wakened to the fact that she was twenty-nine and unsought by any man.

What hurt her was that she had never had a chance to be anything but an old maid. No man had ever desired her.

"It is not," Valancy could hear her mother's prim, dictatorial voice asserting, "it is not maidenly to think about men."

The only thing Valancy liked about her room was that she could be alone there at night to cry if she wanted to.

Valancy, so cowed and subdued and overridden and snubbed in real life, was wont to let herself go rather splendidly in her day-dreams.

All that supported her through the boredom of her days was the hope of going on a dream spree at night. Most, if not all, of the Stirlings would have died of horror if they had known half the things Valancy did in her Blue Castle.

The moment when a woman realises that she has nothing to live for—neither love, duty, purpose nor hope—holds for her the bitterness of death.

But Valancy, between the devil of disloyalty to clan and the deep sea of fuss and clatter and advice, thought she would take a chance with the devil.

It was that night the Prince of the Blue Castle changed from a being of grim jaw and hair with a dash of premature grey to a rakish individual with overlong, tawny hair, dashed with red, dark-brown eyes, and ears that stuck out just enough to give him an alert look but not enough to be called flying jibs. But he still retained something a little grim about the jaw.

But was it not symbolical of her life? "I've never been able to have my own dust-pile," thought Valancy.

"I'm sick of the fragrance of dead things," said Valancy.

Now she was no longer afraid of them. The shackles had been stricken off her soul.

Poor Mrs. Frederick was almost in a state of collapse. She had believed—or pretended to believe—that Valancy still supposed that children were found in parsley beds. "Hush—hush!" implored Cousin Stickles.

"Valancy, your poor father would turn over in his grave if he could hear you," said Mrs. Frederick. "I dare say he would like that for a change," said Valancy brazenly.

"Will I do?" said Valancy.

She knelt down by Cissy and put her arms about her. "Cissy dear, I've come to look after you. I'll stay with you till—till—as long as you want me." "Oh!" Cissy put her thin arms about Valancy's neck. "Oh—will you? It's been so—lonely. I can wait on myself—but it's been so lonely. It—would just be like—heaven—to have some one here—like you. You were always—so sweet to me—long ago." Valancy held Cissy close. She was suddenly happy. Here was some one who needed her—some one she could help. She was no longer a superfluity. Old things had passed away; everything had become new.

"No, I can't get well. My lungs are almost gone. And I—don't want to. I'm so tired, Valancy. Only dying can rest me. But it's lovely to have you here—you'll never know how much it means to me. But Valancy—you work too hard. You don't need to—Father only wants his meals cooked. I don't think you are strong yourself. You turn so pale sometimes. And those drops you take. Are you well, dear?"

"Every one has a Blue Castle, I think," said Cissy softly. "Only every one has a different name for it. I had mine—once."

Valancy was acquainted with Barney by now—well acquainted, it seemed, though she had spoken to him only a few times. But then she had felt just as well acquainted with him the first time they had met.

Barney had sprung from it and was leaning over the ramshackle gate. She suddenly straightened up and looked into his face. Their eyes met—Valancy was suddenly conscious of a delicious weakness. Was one of her heart attacks coming on?—But this was a new symptom.

He was thin—too thin—she wished she could feed him up a bit—she wished she could sew the buttons on his coat—and make him cut his hair—and shave every day. There was something in his face—one hardly knew what it was. Tiredness? Sadness? Disillusionment? He had dimples in his thin cheeks when he smiled.

Valancy felt all this vaguely, but she couldn't imagine why she was trembling from head to foot—it must be her heart. If only he didn't notice it!

"And I've told him he's got to stop damning things when you're around." "Why?" asked Valancy slily, with one of her odd, slanted glances and a sudden flake of pink on each cheek, born of the thought that Barney Snaith had actually done so much for her. "I often feel like damning things myself."

Was this elfin girl the little, old-maidish creature who had stood there two minutes ago? Surely there was magic and devilry going on in that shabby, weedy old garden.

She found herself thinking of him in season and out of season. She wanted to know if he ever thought about her when she wasn't before his eyes, and, if so, what. She wanted to see that mysterious house of his back on the Mistawis island.

But then she liked everything about him—his tawny hair—his whimsical smiles—the little glints of fun in his eyes—his loyal affection for that unspeakable Lady Jane—his habit of sitting with his hands in his pockets, his chin sunk on his breast, looking up from under his mismated eyebrows. She liked his nice voice which sounded as if it might become caressing or wooing with very little provocation.

It was one of the delights of Valancy's new life that she could read John Foster's books as often and as long as she liked. She could read them in bed if she wanted to. She read them all to Cissy, who loved them. She also tried to read them to Abel and Barney, who did not love them. Abel was bored and Barney politely refused to listen at all. "Piffle," said Barney.

Valancy candidly and unashamedly owned to herself that she had seen few more satisfying sights than Uncle James' coat-tails flying out into the asparagus bed.

"Mr. Gay," said Dr. Stalling politely and condescendingly, "may I see Miss Stirling alone for a few minutes?" Roaring Abel was a little drunk—just drunk enough to be excessively polite and very cunning. He had been on the point of going away when Dr. Stalling arrived, but now he sat down in a corner of the parlour and folded his arms. "No, no, mister," he said solemnly. "That wouldn't do—wouldn't do at all. I've got the reputation of my household to keep up. I've got to chaperone this young lady. Can't have any sparkin' going on here behind my back." Outraged Dr. Stalling looked so terrible that Valancy wondered how Abel could endure his aspect. But Abel was not worried at all. "D'ye know anything about it, anyway?" he asked genially. "About what?" "Sparking," said Abel coolly.

Dr. Stalling remembered that he was an ambassador of Jehovah—"

"Fear is the original sin," suddenly said a still, small voice away back—back—back of Valancy's consciousness. "Almost all the evil in the world has its origin in the fact that some one is afraid of something."

"You look so nice and—and—different, dear," said Cissy. "Like a green moonbeam with a gleam of red in it, if there could be such a thing."

It was at this moment that she saw Barney Snaith looking in over the heads of the crowd at the doorway. Valancy had two distinct convictions—one was that she was quite safe now; the other was that this was why she had wanted to come to the dance.

Valancy felt a sudden delightful glow irradiating soul and body under the dark pines. So he had actually come up to look after her.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

And my baby was so sweet while he lived. I was even happy—I loved him so much, the dear little thing.

"And he was all mine. Nobody else had any claim on him. When he died, oh, Valancy, I thought I must die too—I didn't see how anybody could endure such anguish and live. To see his dear little eyes and know he would never open them again—to miss his warm little body nestled against mine at night and think of him sleeping alone and cold, his wee face under the hard frozen earth. It was so awful for the first year—after that it was a little easier, one didn't keep thinking 'this day last year'—but I was so glad when I found out I was dying."

your little finger is worth the whole Stirling clan tied together.

"Yes, there is something you can do for me," she said, evenly and distinctly. "Will you marry me?"

I haven't long to live—perhaps only a few months—a few weeks. I want to live them.

"You care that much for me, Valancy?" said Barney incredulously, looking away from the star and into her eyes—her strange, mysterious eyes. "I care—that much," said Valancy in a low voice. She was trembling. He had called her by her name for the first time. It was sweeter than another man's caress could have been just to hear him say her name like that.

"Will you marry me as I stand?" demanded Barney. A passing car, full of tourists, honked loudly—it seemed derisively. Valancy looked at him. Blue homespun shirt, nondescript hat, muddy overalls. Unshaved! "Yes," she said. Barney put his hands over the gate and took her little, cold ones gently in his. "Valancy," he said, trying to speak lightly, "of course I'm not in love with you—never thought of such a thing as being in love. But, do you know, I've always thought you were a bit of a dear."

But it was Barney. That was all that mattered. No veil—no flowers—no guests—no presents—no wedding-cake—but just Barney. For all the rest of her life there would be Barney.