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The Blue Castle, installment 3
Oct. 29th, 2004 09:44 am"And I just have to go on living because I can't stop. I may have
to live eighty years," thought Valancy, in a kind of panic. "We're
all horribly long-lived. It sickens me to think of it."
She was glad it was raining--or rather, she was drearily satisfied
that it was raining. There would be no picnic that day. This
annual picnic, whereby Aunt and Uncle Wellington--one always
thought of them in that succession--inevitably celebrated their
engagement at a picnic thirty years before, had been, of late
years, a veritable nightmare to Valancy. By an impish coincidence
it was the same day as her birthday and, after she had passed
twenty-five, nobody let her forget it.
Much as she hated going to the picnic, it would never have occurred
to her to rebel against it. There seemed to be nothing of the
revolutionary in her nature. And she knew exactly what every one
would say to her at the picnic. Uncle Wellington, whom she
disliked and despised even though he had fulfilled the highest
Stirling aspiration, "marrying money," would say to her in a pig's
whisper, "Not thinking of getting married yet, my dear?" and then
go off into the bellow of laughter with which he invariably
concluded his dull remarks. Aunt Wellington, of whom Valancy stood
in abject awe, would tell her about Olive's new chiffon dress and
Cecil's last devoted letter. Valancy would have to look as pleased
and interested as if the dress and letter had been hers or else
Aunt Wellington would be offended. And Valancy had long ago
decided that she would rather offend God than Aunt Wellington,
because God might forgive her but Aunt Wellington never would.
Aunt Alberta, enormously fat, with an amiable habit of always
referring to her husband as "he," as if he were the only male
creature in the world, who could never forget that she had been a
great beauty in her youth, would condole with Valancy on her sallow
skin--
"I don't know why all the girls of today are so sunburned. When I
was a girl my skin was roses and cream. I was counted the
prettiest girl in Canada, my dear."
Perhaps Uncle Herbert wouldn't say anything--or perhaps he would
remark jocularly, "How fat you're getting, Doss!" And then
everybody would laugh over the excessively humorous idea of poor,
scrawny little Doss getting fat.
Handsome, solemn Uncle James, whom Valancy disliked but respected
because he was reputed to be very clever and was therefore the clan
oracle--brains being none too plentiful in the Stirling connection--
would probably remark with the owl-like sarcasm that had won him
his reputation, "I suppose you're busy with your hope-chest these
days?"
And Uncle Benjamin would ask some of his abominable conundrums,
between wheezy chuckles, and answer them himself.
"What is the difference between Doss and a mouse?
"The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the
he's."
Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time
she wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the
first place, the Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the
second place, Uncle Benjamin was a wealthy and childless old
widower and Valancy had been brought up in the fear and admonition
of his money. If she offended him he would cut her out of his
will--supposing she were in it. Valancy did not want to be cut out
of Uncle Benjamin's will. She had been poor all her life and knew
the galling bitterness of it. So she endured his riddles and even
smiled tortured little smiles over him.
Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would
criticise her in some way--Valancy could not predict just how, for
Aunt Isabell never repeated a criticism--she found something new
with which to jab you every time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on
saying what she thought, but didn't like it so well when other
people said what THEY thought to HER. Valancy never said what SHE
thought.
Cousin Georgiana--named after her great-great-grandmother, who had
been named after George the Fourth--would recount dolorously the
names of all relatives and friends who had died since the last
picnic and wonder "which of us will be the first to go next."
Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her
husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because
Valancy would be the only one she could find to put up with it.
For the same reason, Cousin Gladys--really First Cousin Gladys once
removed, according to the strict way in which the Stirlings
tabulated relationship--a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a
sensitive disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her
neuritis. And Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling clan,
who had everything Valancy had not--beauty, popularity, love--would
show off her beauty and presume on her popularity and flaunt her
diamond insignia of love in Valancy's dazzled, envious eyes.
There would be none of all this today. And there would be no
packing up of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for
Valancy and Cousin Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver
teaspoon from Aunt Wellington's wedding set had been lost. Valancy
never heard the last of that silver teaspoon. Its ghost appeared
Banquo-like at every subsequent family feast.
Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she
blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no
picnic this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the
sacred day itself she would have no celebration at all. Thank
whatever gods there were for that.
Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that, if
the rain held up in the afternoon, she would go up to the library
and get another of John Foster's books. Valancy was never allowed
to read novels, but John Foster's books were not novels. They were
"nature books"--so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling--"all
about the woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know."
So Valancy was allowed to read them--under protest, for it was only
too evident that she enjoyed them too much. It was permissible,
even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion, but
a book that was enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know
whether her mind was being improved or not; but she felt vaguely
that if she had come across John Foster's books years ago life
might have been a different thing for her. They seemed to her to
yield glimpses of a world into which she might once have entered,
though the door was forever barred to her now. It was only within
the last year that John Foster's books had been in the Deerwood
library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had been a well-
known writer for several years.
"Where does he live?" Valancy had asked.
"Nobody knows. From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more
information can be had. His publishers won't say a word. Quite
likely John Foster is a nom de plume. His books are so popular we
can't keep them in at all, though I really can't see what people
find in them to rave over."
"I think they're wonderful," said Valancy, timidly.
"Oh--well--" Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that
relegated Valancy's opinions to limbo, "I can't say I care much for
bugs myself. But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to
know about them."
Valancy didn't know whether she cared much for bugs either. It was
not John Foster's uncanny knowledge of wild creatures and insect
life that enthralled her. She could hardly say what it was--some
tantalising lure of a mystery never revealed--some hint of a great
secret just a little further on--some faint, elusive echo of
lovely, forgotten things--John Foster's magic was indefinable.
Yes, she would get a new Foster book. It was a month since she had
Thistle Harvest, so surely Mother could not object. Valancy had
read it four times--she knew whole passages off by heart.
And--she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that
queer pain around the heart. It had come rather often lately, and
the palpitations were becoming annoying, not to speak of an
occassional dizzy moment and a queer shortness of breath. But
could she go to him without telling any one? It was a most daring
thought. None of the Stirlings ever consulted a doctor without
holding a family council and getting Uncle James' approval. THEN,
they went to Dr. Ambrose Marsh of Port Lawrence, who had married
Second Cousin Adelaide Stirling.
to live eighty years," thought Valancy, in a kind of panic. "We're
all horribly long-lived. It sickens me to think of it."
She was glad it was raining--or rather, she was drearily satisfied
that it was raining. There would be no picnic that day. This
annual picnic, whereby Aunt and Uncle Wellington--one always
thought of them in that succession--inevitably celebrated their
engagement at a picnic thirty years before, had been, of late
years, a veritable nightmare to Valancy. By an impish coincidence
it was the same day as her birthday and, after she had passed
twenty-five, nobody let her forget it.
Much as she hated going to the picnic, it would never have occurred
to her to rebel against it. There seemed to be nothing of the
revolutionary in her nature. And she knew exactly what every one
would say to her at the picnic. Uncle Wellington, whom she
disliked and despised even though he had fulfilled the highest
Stirling aspiration, "marrying money," would say to her in a pig's
whisper, "Not thinking of getting married yet, my dear?" and then
go off into the bellow of laughter with which he invariably
concluded his dull remarks. Aunt Wellington, of whom Valancy stood
in abject awe, would tell her about Olive's new chiffon dress and
Cecil's last devoted letter. Valancy would have to look as pleased
and interested as if the dress and letter had been hers or else
Aunt Wellington would be offended. And Valancy had long ago
decided that she would rather offend God than Aunt Wellington,
because God might forgive her but Aunt Wellington never would.
Aunt Alberta, enormously fat, with an amiable habit of always
referring to her husband as "he," as if he were the only male
creature in the world, who could never forget that she had been a
great beauty in her youth, would condole with Valancy on her sallow
skin--
"I don't know why all the girls of today are so sunburned. When I
was a girl my skin was roses and cream. I was counted the
prettiest girl in Canada, my dear."
Perhaps Uncle Herbert wouldn't say anything--or perhaps he would
remark jocularly, "How fat you're getting, Doss!" And then
everybody would laugh over the excessively humorous idea of poor,
scrawny little Doss getting fat.
Handsome, solemn Uncle James, whom Valancy disliked but respected
because he was reputed to be very clever and was therefore the clan
oracle--brains being none too plentiful in the Stirling connection--
would probably remark with the owl-like sarcasm that had won him
his reputation, "I suppose you're busy with your hope-chest these
days?"
And Uncle Benjamin would ask some of his abominable conundrums,
between wheezy chuckles, and answer them himself.
"What is the difference between Doss and a mouse?
"The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the
he's."
Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time
she wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the
first place, the Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the
second place, Uncle Benjamin was a wealthy and childless old
widower and Valancy had been brought up in the fear and admonition
of his money. If she offended him he would cut her out of his
will--supposing she were in it. Valancy did not want to be cut out
of Uncle Benjamin's will. She had been poor all her life and knew
the galling bitterness of it. So she endured his riddles and even
smiled tortured little smiles over him.
Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would
criticise her in some way--Valancy could not predict just how, for
Aunt Isabell never repeated a criticism--she found something new
with which to jab you every time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on
saying what she thought, but didn't like it so well when other
people said what THEY thought to HER. Valancy never said what SHE
thought.
Cousin Georgiana--named after her great-great-grandmother, who had
been named after George the Fourth--would recount dolorously the
names of all relatives and friends who had died since the last
picnic and wonder "which of us will be the first to go next."
Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her
husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because
Valancy would be the only one she could find to put up with it.
For the same reason, Cousin Gladys--really First Cousin Gladys once
removed, according to the strict way in which the Stirlings
tabulated relationship--a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a
sensitive disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her
neuritis. And Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling clan,
who had everything Valancy had not--beauty, popularity, love--would
show off her beauty and presume on her popularity and flaunt her
diamond insignia of love in Valancy's dazzled, envious eyes.
There would be none of all this today. And there would be no
packing up of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for
Valancy and Cousin Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver
teaspoon from Aunt Wellington's wedding set had been lost. Valancy
never heard the last of that silver teaspoon. Its ghost appeared
Banquo-like at every subsequent family feast.
Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she
blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no
picnic this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the
sacred day itself she would have no celebration at all. Thank
whatever gods there were for that.
Since there would be no picnic, Valancy made up her mind that, if
the rain held up in the afternoon, she would go up to the library
and get another of John Foster's books. Valancy was never allowed
to read novels, but John Foster's books were not novels. They were
"nature books"--so the librarian told Mrs. Frederick Stirling--"all
about the woods and birds and bugs and things like that, you know."
So Valancy was allowed to read them--under protest, for it was only
too evident that she enjoyed them too much. It was permissible,
even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion, but
a book that was enjoyable was dangerous. Valancy did not know
whether her mind was being improved or not; but she felt vaguely
that if she had come across John Foster's books years ago life
might have been a different thing for her. They seemed to her to
yield glimpses of a world into which she might once have entered,
though the door was forever barred to her now. It was only within
the last year that John Foster's books had been in the Deerwood
library, though the librarian told Valancy that he had been a well-
known writer for several years.
"Where does he live?" Valancy had asked.
"Nobody knows. From his books he must be a Canadian, but no more
information can be had. His publishers won't say a word. Quite
likely John Foster is a nom de plume. His books are so popular we
can't keep them in at all, though I really can't see what people
find in them to rave over."
"I think they're wonderful," said Valancy, timidly.
"Oh--well--" Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that
relegated Valancy's opinions to limbo, "I can't say I care much for
bugs myself. But certainly Foster seems to know all there is to
know about them."
Valancy didn't know whether she cared much for bugs either. It was
not John Foster's uncanny knowledge of wild creatures and insect
life that enthralled her. She could hardly say what it was--some
tantalising lure of a mystery never revealed--some hint of a great
secret just a little further on--some faint, elusive echo of
lovely, forgotten things--John Foster's magic was indefinable.
Yes, she would get a new Foster book. It was a month since she had
Thistle Harvest, so surely Mother could not object. Valancy had
read it four times--she knew whole passages off by heart.
And--she almost thought she would go and see Dr. Trent about that
queer pain around the heart. It had come rather often lately, and
the palpitations were becoming annoying, not to speak of an
occassional dizzy moment and a queer shortness of breath. But
could she go to him without telling any one? It was a most daring
thought. None of the Stirlings ever consulted a doctor without
holding a family council and getting Uncle James' approval. THEN,
they went to Dr. Ambrose Marsh of Port Lawrence, who had married
Second Cousin Adelaide Stirling.
