If it had not rained on a certain May morning Valancy Stirling’s whole life would have been entirely1 different. She would have gone, with the rest of her clan2, to Aunt Wellington’s engagement picnic and Dr. Trent would have gone to Montreal. But it did rain and you shall hear what happened to her because of it.
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.
Deerwood and the Stirlings had long since relegated3 Valancy to hopeless old maidenhood4. But Valancy herself had never quite relinquished5 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.
Ay, there lay the sting. Valancy did not mind so much being an old maid. After all, she thought, being an old maid couldn’t possibly be as dreadful as being married to an Uncle Wellington or an Uncle Benjamin, or even an Uncle Herbert. What hurt her was that she had never had a chance to be anything but an old maid. No man had ever desired her.
The tears came into her eyes as she lay there alone in the faintly greying darkness. She dared not let herself cry as hard as she wanted to, for two reasons. She was afraid that crying might bring on another attack of that pain around the heart. She had had a spell of it after she had got into bed—rather worse than any she had had yet. And she was afraid her mother would notice her red eyes at breakfast and keep at her with minute, persistent6, mosquito-like questions regarding the cause thereof.
“Suppose,” thought Valancy with a ghastly grin, “I answered with the plain truth, ‘I am crying because I cannot get married.’ How horrified7 Mother would be—though she is ashamed every day of her life of her old maid daughter.”
But of course appearances should be kept up. “It is not,” Valancy could hear her mother’s prim8, dictatorial9 voice asserting, “it is not maidenly10 to think about men.”
The thought of her mother’s expression made Valancy laugh—for she had a sense of humour nobody in her clan suspected. For that matter, there were a good many things about Valancy that nobody suspected. But her laughter was very superficial and presently she lay there, a huddled11, futile12 little figure, listening to the rain pouring down outside and watching, with a sick distaste, the chill, merciless light creeping into her ugly, sordid13 room.
She knew the ugliness of that room by heart—knew it and hated it. The yellow-painted floor, with one hideous14, “hooked” rug by the bed, with a grotesque15, “hooked” dog on it, always grinning at her when she awoke; the faded, dark-red paper; the ceiling discoloured by old leaks and crossed by cracks; the narrow, pinched little washstand; the brown-paper lambrequin with purple roses on it; the spotted16 old looking-glass with the crack across it, propped17 up on the inadequate18 dressing19-table; the jar of ancient potpourri20 made by her mother in her mythical21 honeymoon22; the shell-covered box, with one burst corner, which Cousin Stickles had made in her equally mythical girlhood; the beaded pincushion with half its bead23 fringe gone; the one stiff, yellow chair; the faded old motto, “Gone but not forgotten,” worked in coloured yarns24 about Great-grand-mother Stirling’s grim old face; the old photographs of ancient relatives long banished25 from the rooms below. There were only two pictures that were not of relatives. One, an old chromo of a puppy sitting on a rainy doorstep. That picture always made Valancy unhappy. That forlorn little dog crouched26 on the doorstep in the driving rain! Why didn’t some one open the door and let him in? The other picture was a faded, passe-partouted engraving27 of Queen Louise coming down a stairway, which Aunt Wellington had lavishly28 given her on her tenth birthday. For nineteen years she had looked at it and hated it, beautiful, smug, self-satisfied Queen Louise. But she never dared destroy it or remove it. Mother and Cousin Stickles would have been aghast, or, as Valancy irreverently expressed it in her thoughts, would have had a fit.
Every room in the house was ugly, of course. But downstairs appearances were kept up somewhat. There was no money for rooms nobody ever saw. Valancy sometimes felt that she could have done something for her room herself, even without money, if she were permitted. But her mother had negatived every timid suggestion and Valancy did not persist. Valancy never persisted. She was afraid to. Her mother could not brook29 opposition30. Mrs. Stirling would sulk for days if offended, with the airs of an insulted duchess.
The only thing Valancy liked about her room was that she could be alone there at night to cry if she wanted to.
But, after all, what did it matter if a room, which you used for nothing except sleeping and dressing in, were ugly? Valancy was never permitted to stay alone in her room for any other purpose. People who wanted to be alone, so Mrs. Frederick Stirling and Cousin Stickles believed, could only want to be alone for some sinister31 purpose. But her room in the Blue Castle was everything a room should be.
Valancy, so cowed and subdued32 and overridden33 and snubbed in real life, was wont34 to let herself go rather splendidly in her day-dreams. Nobody in the Stirling clan, or its ramifications35, suspected this, least of all her mother and Cousin Stickles. They never knew that Valancy had two homes—the ugly red brick box of a home, on Elm Street, and the Blue Castle in Spain. Valancy had lived spiritually in the Blue Castle ever since she could remember. She had been a very tiny child when she found herself possessed36 of it. Always, when she shut her eyes, she could see it plainly, with its turrets37 and banners on the pine-clad mountain height, wrapped in its faint, blue loveliness, against the sunset skies of a fair and unknown land. Everything wonderful and beautiful was in that castle. Jewels that queens might have worn; robes of moonlight and fire; couches of roses and gold; long flights of shallow marble steps, with great, white urns38, and with slender, mist-clad maidens39 going up and down them; courts, marble-pillared, where shimmering40 fountains fell and nightingales sang among the myrtles; halls of mirrors that reflected only handsome knights41 and lovely women—herself the loveliest of all, for whose glance men died. All that supported her through the boredom42 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.
For one thing she had quite a few lovers in it. Oh, only one at a time. One who wooed her with all the romantic ardour of the age of chivalry43 and won her after long devotion and many deeds of derring-do, and was wedded44 to her with pomp and circumstance in the great, banner-hung chapel45 of the Blue Castle.
At twelve, this lover was a fair lad with golden curls and heavenly blue eyes. At fifteen, he was tall and dark and pale, but still necessarily handsome. At twenty, he was ascetic46, dreamy, spiritual. At twenty-five, he had a clean-cut jaw47, slightly grim, and a face strong and rugged48 rather than handsome. Valancy never grew older than twenty-five in her Blue Castle, but recently—very recently—her hero had had reddish, tawny49 hair, a twisted smile and a mysterious past.
I don’t say Valancy deliberately50 murdered these lovers as she outgrew51 them. One simply faded away as another came. Things are very convenient in this respect in Blue Castles.
But, on this morning of her day of fate, Valancy could not find the key of her Blue Castle. Reality pressed on her too hardly, barking at her heels like a maddening little dog. She was twenty-nine, lonely, undesired, ill-favoured—the only homely52 girl in a handsome clan, with no past and no future. As far as she could look back, life was drab and colourless, with not one single crimson53 or purple spot anywhere. As far as she could look forward it seemed certain to be just the same until she was nothing but a solitary54, little withered55 leaf clinging to a wintry bough56. 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.
“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 drearily57 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 celebrated58 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 aspiration59, “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 bellow60 of laughter with which he invariably concluded his dull remarks. Aunt Wellington, of whom Valancy stood in abject61 awe62, would tell her about Olive’s new chiffon dress and Cecil’s last devoted63 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 decided64 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 amiable65 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 condole66 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 plentiful67 in the Stirling connection—would probably remark with the owl-like sarcasm68 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 abominable69 conundrums70, between wheezy chuckles71, 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 riddle72 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 widower73 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 galling74 bitterness of it. So she endured his riddles75 and even smiled tortured little smiles over them.
Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would criticise76 her in some way—Valancy could not predict just how, for Aunt Isabel 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-grand-mother, who had been named after George the Fourth—would recount dolorously77 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 odious78 prodigies79 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 tabulated80 relationship—a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive disposition81, 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 flaunt82 her diamond insignia of love in Valancy’s dazzled, envious83 eyes.
There would be none of all this today. And there would be no packing up of teaspoons85. The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon84 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 bugs86 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 permissible87, 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 vaguely88 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 plume89. 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 rave90 over.”
“I think they’re wonderful,” said Valancy, timidly.
“Oh—well—” Miss Clarkson smiled in a patronising fashion that relegated Valancy’s opinions to limbo91, “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 enthralled92 her. She could hardly say what it was—some tantalising lure93 of a mystery never revealed—some hint of a great secret just a little further on—some faint, elusive94 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 occasional dizzy moment and a queer shortness of breath. But could she go to see 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 Marsh95 of Port Lawrence, who had married Second Cousin Adelaide Stirling.
But Valancy disliked Dr. Ambrose Marsh. And, besides, she could not get to Port Lawrence, fifteen miles away, without being taken there. She did not want any one to know about her heart. There would be such a fuss made and every member of the family would come down and talk it over and advise her and caution her and warn her and tell her horrible tales of great-aunts and cousins forty times removed who had been “just like that” and “dropped dead without a moment’s warning, my dear.”
Aunt Isabel would remember that she had always said Doss looked like a girl who would have heart trouble—“so pinched and peaked always”; and Uncle Wellington would take it as a personal insult, when “no Stirling ever had heart disease before”; and Georgiana would forebode in perfectly96 audible asides that “poor, dear little Doss isn’t long for this world, I’m afraid”; and Cousin Gladys would say, “Why, my heart has been like that for years,” in a tone that implied no one else had any business even to have a heart; and Olive—Olive would merely look beautiful and superior and disgustingly healthy, as if to say, “Why all this fuss over a faded superfluity like Doss when you have me?”
Valancy felt that she couldn’t tell anybody unless she had to. She felt quite sure there was nothing at all seriously wrong with her heart and no need of all the pother that would ensue if she mentioned it. She would just slip up quietly and see Dr. Trent that very day. As for his bill, she had the two hundred dollars that her father had put in the bank for her the day she was born. She was never allowed to use even the interest of this, but she would secretly take out enough to pay Dr. Trent.
Dr. Trent was a gruff, outspoken97, absent-minded old fellow, but he was a recognised authority on heart disease, even if he were only a general practitioner98 in out-of-the-world Deerwood. Dr. Trent was over seventy and there had been rumours99 that he meant to retire soon. None of the Stirling clan had ever gone to him since he had told Cousin Gladys, ten years before, that her neuritis was all imaginary and that she enjoyed it. You couldn’t patronise a doctor who insulted your first-cousin—once-removed like that—not to mention that he was a Presbyterian when all the Stirlings went to the Anglican church. But Valancy, between the devil of disloyalty to clan and the deep sea of fuss and clatter100 and advice, thought she would take a chance with the devil.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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potpourri
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| n.混合之事物；百花香 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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overridden
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| 越控( override的过去分词 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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outgrew
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去式 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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conundrums
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| n.谜，猜不透的难题，难答的问题( conundrum的名词复数 ) | |
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chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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tabulated
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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teaspoons
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| n.茶匙( teaspoon的名词复数 )；一茶匙的量 | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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