The Blue Castle by Lucy Maud Montgomery

She had been sure Uncle Benjamin would drag that jam in somehow.
    “Of course I do,” she said. “It was good jam. I’ve always been sorry I hadn’t time to eat more of it before you found me. Oh, LOOK at Aunt Isabel’s profile on the wall. Did you ever see anything so funny?”
    Everybody looked, including Aunt Isabel herself which of course, destroyed it. But Uncle Herbert said kindly, “I—I wouldn’t eat any more if I were you, Doss. It isn’t that I grudge it—but don’t you think it would be better for yourself? Your—your stomach seems a little out of order.”
    “Don’t worry about my stomach, old dear,” said Valancy. “It is all right. I’m going to keep right on eating. It’s so seldom I get the chance of a satisfying meal.”
    It was the first time any one had been called “old dear” in Deerwood. The Stirlings thought Valancy had invented the phrase and they were afraid of her from that moment. There was something so uncanny about such an expression. But in poor Mrs. Frederick’s opinion the reference to a satisfying meal was the worst thing Valancy had said yet. Valancy had always been a disappointment to her. Now she was a disgrace. She thought she would have to get up and go away from the table. Yet she dared not leave Valancy there.
    Aunt Alberta’s maid came in to remove the salad plates and bring in the dessert. It was a welcome diversion. Everybody brightened up with a determination to ignore Valancy and talk as if she wasn’t there. Uncle Wellington mentioned Barney Snaith. Eventually somebody did mention Barney Snaith at every Stirling function, Valancy reflected. Whatever he was, he was an individual that could not be ignored. She resigned herself to listen. There was a subtle fascination in the subject for her, though she had not yet faced this fact. She could feel her pulses beating to her finger-tips.
    Of course they abused him. Nobody ever had a good word to say of Barney Snaith. All the old, wild tales were canvassed—the defaulting cashier-counterfeiter-infidel-murderer-in-hiding legends were thrashed out. Uncle Wellington was very indignant that such a creature should be allowed to exist at all in the neighbourhood of Deerwood. He didn’t know what the police at Port Lawrence were thinking of. Everybody would be murdered in their beds some night. It was a shame that he should be allowed to be at large after all that he had done.
    “What HAS he done?” asked Valancy suddenly.
    Uncle Wellington stared at her, forgetting that she was to be ignored.
    “Done! Done! He’s done EVERYTHING.”
    “WHAT has he done?” repeated Valancy inexorably. “What do you KNOW that he has done? You’re always running him down. And what has ever been proved against him?”
    “I don’t argue with women,” said Uncle Wellington. “And I don’t need proof. When a man hides himself up there on an island in Muskoka, year in and year out, and nobody can find out where he came from or how he lives, or what he does there, THAT’S proof enough. Find a mystery and you find a crime.”
    “The very idea of a man named Snaith!” said Second Cousin Sarah. “Why, the name itself is enough to condemn him!”
    “I wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark lane,” shivered Cousin Georgiana.
    “What do you suppose he would do to you?” asked Valancy.
    “Murder me,” said Cousin Georgiana solemnly.
    “Just for the fun of it?” suggested Valancy.
    “Exactly,” said Cousin Georgiana unsuspiciously. “When there is so much smoke there must be some fire. I was afraid he was a criminal when he came here first. I FELT he had something to hide. I am not often mistaken in my intuitions.”
    “Criminal! Oh course he’s a criminal,” said Uncle Wellington. “Nobody doubts it”—glaring at Valancy. “Why, they say he served a term in the penitentiary for embezzlement. I don’t doubt it. And they say he’s in with that gang that are perpetrating all those bank robberies round the