CHAPTER I

IfithadnotrainedonacertainMaymorningValancyStirling’swholelifewouldhavebeenentirelydifferent.Shewouldhavegone,withtherestofherclan,toAuntWellington’sengagementpicnicandDr.TrentwouldhavegonetoMontreal.Butitdidrainandyoushallhearwhathappenedtoherbecauseofit. Valancywakenedearly,inthelifeless,hopelesshourjustprecedingdawn.Shehadnotsleptverywell.Onedoesnotsleepwell,sometimes,whenoneistwenty-nineonthemorrow,andunmarried,inacommunityandconnectionwheretheunmarriedaresimplythosewhohavefailedtogetaman. DeerwoodandtheStirlingshadlongsincerelegatedValancytohopelessoldmaidenhood.ButValancyherselfhadneverquiterelinquishedacertainpitiful,shamed,littlehopethatRomancewouldcomeherwayyet—never,untilthiswet,horriblemorning,whenshewakenedtothefactthatshewastwenty-nineandunsoughtbyanyman. Ay,therelaythesting.Valancydidnotmindsomuchbeinganoldmaid.Afterall,shethought,beinganoldmaidcouldn’tpossiblybeasdreadfulasbeingmarriedtoanUncleWellingtonoranUncleBenjamin,orevenanUncleHerbert.Whathurtherwasthatshehadneverhadachancetobeanythingbutanoldmaid.Nomanhadeverdesiredher. Thetearscameintohereyesasshelaytherealoneinthefaintlygreyingdarkness.Shedarednotletherselfcryashardasshewantedto,fortworeasons.Shewasafraidthatcryingmightbringonanotherattackofthatpainaroundtheheart.Shehadhadaspellofitaftershehadgotintobed—ratherworsethananyshehadhadyet.Andshewasafraidhermotherwouldnoticeherredeyesatbreakfastandkeepatherwithminute,persistent,mosquito-likequestionsregardingthecausethereof. “Suppose,”thoughtValancywithaghastlygrin,“Iansweredwiththeplaintruth,‘IamcryingbecauseIcannotgetmarried.’HowhorrifiedMotherwouldbe—thoughsheisashamedeverydayofherlifeofheroldmaiddaughter.” Butofcourseappearancesshouldbekeptup.“Itisnot,”Valancycouldhearhermother’sprim,dictatorialvoiceasserting,“itisnotmaidenlytothinkaboutmen.” Thethoughtofhermother’sexpressionmadeValancylaugh—forshehadasenseofhumournobodyinherclansuspected.Forthatmatter,therewereagoodmanythingsaboutValancythatnobodysuspected.Butherlaughterwasverysuperficialandpresentlyshelaythere,ahuddled,futilelittlefigure,listeningtotherainpouringdownoutsideandwatching,withasickdistaste,thechill,mercilesslightcreepingintoherugly,sordidroom. Sheknewtheuglinessofthatroombyheart—knewitandhatedit.Theyellow-paintedfloor,withonehideous,“hooked”rugbythebed,withagrotesque,“hooked”dogonit,alwaysgrinningatherwhensheawokethefaded,dark-redpapertheceilingdiscolouredbyoldleaksandcrossedbycracksthenarrow,pinchedlittlewashstandthebrown-paperlambrequinwithpurplerosesonitthespottedoldlooking-glasswiththecrackacrossit,proppedupontheinadequatedressing-tablethejarofancientpotpourrimadebyhermotherinhermythicalhoneymoontheshell-coveredbox,withoneburstcorner,whichCousinStickleshadmadeinherequallymythicalgirlhoodthebeadedpincushionwithhalfitsbeadfringegonetheonestiff,yellowchairthefadedoldmotto,“Gonebutnotforgotten,”workedincolouredyarnsaboutGreat-grand-motherStirling’sgrimoldfacetheoldphotographsofancientrelativeslongbanishedfromtheroomsbelow.Therewereonlytwopicturesthatwerenotofrelatives.One,anoldchromoofapuppysittingonarainydoorstep.ThatpicturealwaysmadeValancyunhappy.Thatforlornlittledogcrouchedonthedoorstepinthedrivingrain!Whydidn’tsomeoneopenth