autumn came. late september with cool nights. they had to forsake the verandah; but they kindled a fire in the big fireplace and sat before it with jest and laughter. they left the doors open, and banjo and good luck came and went at pleasure. sometimes they sat gravely on the bearskin rug between barney and valancy; sometimes they slunk off into the mystery of the chill night outside. the stars smouldered in the horizon mists through the old oriel. the haunting, persistent croon of the pine-trees filled the air. the little waves began to make soft, sobbing splashes on the rocks below them in the rising winds. they needed no light but the firelight that sometimes leaped up and revealed them—sometimes shrouded them in shadow. when the night wind rose higher barney would shut the door and light a lamp and read to her—poetry and essays and gorgeous, dim chronicles of ancient wars. barney never would read novels: he vowed they bored him. but sometimes she read them herself, curled up on the wolf skins, laughing aloud in peace. for barney was not one of those aggravating people who can never hear you smiling audibly over something you’ve read without inquiring placidly, “what is the joke?”
october—with a gorgeous pageant of color around mistawis, into which valancy plunged her soul. never had she imagined anything so splendid. a great, tinted peace. blue, wind-winnowed skies. sunlight sleeping in the glades of that fairyland. long dreamy purple days paddling idly in their canoe along shores and up the rivers of crimson and gold. a sleepy, red hunter’s moon. enchanted tempests that stripped the leaves from the trees and heaped them along the shores. flying shadows of clouds. what had all the smug, opulent lands out front to compare with this?
november—with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. with murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. with dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes—days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. but days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees. what cared they? old tom had built his roof well, and his chimney drew.
“warm fire—books—comfort—safety from storm—our cats on the rug. moonlight,” said barney, “would you be any happier now if you had a million dollars?”
“no—nor half so happy. i’d be bored by conventions and obligations then.”
december. early snows and orion. the pale fires of the milky way. it was really winter now—wonderful, cold, starry winter. how valancy had always hated winter! dull, brief, uneventful days. long, cold, companionless nights. cousin stickles with her back that had to be rubbed continually. cousin stickles making weird noises gargling her throat in the mornings. cousin stickles whining over the price of coal. her mother, probing, questioning, ignoring. endless colds and bronchitis—or the dread of it. redfern’s liniment and purple pills.
but now she loved winter. winter was beautiful “up back”—almost intolerably beautiful. days of clear brilliance. evenings that were like cups of glamour—the purest vintage of winter’s wine. nights with their fire of stars. cold, exquisite winter sunrises. lovely ferns of ice all over the windows of the blue castle. moonlight on birches in a silver thaw. ragged shadows on windy evenings—torn, twisted, fantastic shadows. great silences, austere and searching. jewelled, barbaric hills. the sun suddenly breaking through grey clouds over long, white mistawis. icy-grey twilights, broken by snow-squalls, when their cosy living-room, with its goblins of firelight and inscrutable cats seemed cosier than ever. every hour brought a new revelation and wonder.
barney ran lady jane into roaring abel’s barn and taught valancy how to snowshoe—valancy, who ought to be laid up with bronchitis. but valancy had not even a cold. later on in the winter barney had a terrible one and valancy nursed him through it with a dread of pneumonia in her heart. but valancy’s colds seemed to have gone where old moons go. which was luck—for she hadn’t even redfern’s liniment. she had thoughtfully bought a bottle at the port and barney had hurled it into frozen mistawis with a scowl.
“bring no more of that devilish stuff here,” he had ordered briefly. it was the first and last time he had spoken harshly to her.
they went for long tramps through the exquisite reticence of winter woods and the silver jungles of frosted trees, and found loveliness everywhere.
at times they seemed to be walking through a spellbound world of crystal and pearl, so white and radiant were clearings and lakes and sky. the air was so crisp and clear that it was half intoxicating.
once they stood in a hesitation of ecstasy at the entrance of a narrow path between ranks of birches. every twig and spray was outlined in snow. the undergrowth along its sides was a little fairy forest cut out of marble. the shadows cast by the pale sunshine were fine and spiritual.
“come away,” said barney, turning. “we must not commit the desecration of tramping through there.”
one evening they came upon a snowdrift far back in an old clearing which was in the exact likeness of a beautiful woman’s profile. seen too close by, the resemblance was lost, as in the fairy-tale of the castle of st. john. seen from behind, it was a shapeless oddity. but at just the right distance and angle the outline was so perfect that when they came suddenly upon it, gleaming out against the dark background of spruce in the glow of that winter sunset they both exclaimed in amazement. there was a low, noble brow, a straight, classic nose, lips and chin and cheek-curve modelled as if some goddess of old time had sat to the sculptor, and a breast of such cold, swelling purity as the very spirit of the winter woods might display.
“‘all the beauty that old greece and rome, sung painted, taught,’” quoted barney.
“and to think no human eyes save ours have seen or will see it,” breathed valancy, who felt at times as if she were living in a book by john foster. as she looked around her she recalled some passages she had marked in the new foster book barney had brought her from the port—with an adjuration not to expect him to read or listen to it.
“‘all the tintings of winter woods are extremely delicate and elusive,’” recalled valancy. “‘when the brief afternoon wanes and the sun just touches the tops of the hills, there seems to be all over the woods an abundance, not of colour, but of the spirit of colour. there is really nothing but pure white after all, but one has the impression of fairy-like blendings of rose and violet, opal and heliotrope on the slopes—in the dingles and along the curves of the forest-land. you feel sure the tint is there, but when you look at it directly it is gone. from the corner of your eye you are aware that it is lurking over yonder in a spot where there was nothing but pale purity a moment ago. only just when the sun is setting is there a fleeting moment of real colour. then the redness streams out over the snow and incarnadines the hills and rivers and smites the crest of the pines with flame. just a few minutes of transfiguration and revelation—and it is gone.’”
“i wonder if john foster ever spent a winter in mistawis,” said valancy.
“not likely,” scoffed barney. “people who write tosh like that generally write it in a warm house on some smug city street.”
“you are too hard on john foster,” said valancy severely. “no one could have written that little paragraph i read you last night without having seen it first—you know he couldn’t.”
“i didn’t listen to it,” said barney morosely. “you know i told you i wouldn’t.”
“then you’ve got to listen to it now,” persisted valancy. she made him stand still on his snowshoes while she repeated it.
“‘she is a rare artist, this old mother nature, who works “for the joy of working” and not in any spirit of vain show. today the fir woods are a symphony of greens and greys, so subtle that you cannot tell where one shade begins to be the other. grey trunk, green bough, grey-green moss above the white, grey-shadowed floor. yet the old gypsy doesn’t like unrelieved monotones. she must have a dash of colour. see it. a broken dead fir bough, of a beautiful red-brown, swinging among the beards of moss.’”
“good lord, do you learn all that fellow’s books by heart?” was barney’s disgusted reaction as he strode off.
“john foster’s books were all that saved my soul alive the past five years,” averred valancy. “oh, barney, look at that exquisite filigree of snow in the furrows of that old elm-tree trunk.”
when they came out to the lake they changed from snowshoes to skates and skated home. for a wonder valancy had learned, when she was a little schoolgirl, to skate on the pond behind the deerwood school. she never had any skates of her own, but some of the other girls had lent her theirs and she seemed to have a natural knack of it. uncle benjamin had once promised her a pair of skates for christmas, but when christmas came he had given her rubbers instead. she had never skated since she grew up, but the old trick came back quickly, and glorious were the hours she and barney spent skimming over the white lakes and past the dark islands where the summer cottages were closed and silent. tonight they flew down mistawis before the wind, in an exhilaration that crimsoned valancy’s cheeks under her white tam. and at the end was her dear little house, on the island of pines, with a coating of snow on its roof, sparkling in the moonlight. its windows glinted impishly at her in the stay gleams.
“looks exactly like a picture-book, doesn’t it?” said barney.
they had a lovely christmas. no rush. no scramble. no niggling attempts to make ends meet. no wild effort to remember whether she hadn’t given the same kind of present to the same person two christmases before—no mob of last-minute shoppers—no dreary family “reunions” where she sat mute and unimportant—no attacks of “nerves.” they decorated the blue castle with pine boughs, and valancy made delightful little tinsel stars and hung them up amid the greenery. she cooked a dinner to which barney did full justice, while good luck and banjo picked the bones.
“a land that can produce a goose like that is an admirable land,” vowed barney. “canada forever!” and they drank to the union jack a bottle of dandelion wine that cousin georgiana had given valancy along with the bedspread.
“one never knows,” cousin georgiana had said solemnly, “when one may need a little stimulant.”
barney had asked valancy what she wanted for a christmas present.
“something frivolous and unnecessary,” said valancy, who had got a pair of goloshes last christmas and two long-sleeved, woolen undervests the year before. and so on back.
to her delight, barney gave her a necklace of pearl beads. valancy had wanted a string of milky pearl beads—like congealed moonshine—all her life. and these were so pretty. all that worried her was that they were really too good. they must have cost a great deal—fifteen dollars, at least. could barney afford that? she didn’t know a thing about his finances. she had refused to let him buy any of her clothes—she had enough for that, she told him, as long as she would need clothes. in a round, black jar on the chimney-piece barney put money for their household expenses—always enough. the jar was never empty, though valancy never caught him replenishing it. he couldn’t have much, of course, and that necklace—but valancy tossed care aside. she would wear it and enjoy it. it was the first pretty thing she had ever had.
