CHAPTER I

dwidowerandValancyhadbeenbroughtupinthefearandadmonitionofhismoney.Ifsheoffendedhimhewouldcutheroutofhiswill—supposingshewereinit.ValancydidnotwanttobecutoutofUncleBenjamin’swill.Shehadbeenpoorallherlifeandknewthegallingbitternessofit.Sosheenduredhisriddlesandevensmiledtorturedlittlesmilesoverthem. AuntIsabel,downrightanddisagreeableasaneastwind,wouldcriticiseherinsomeway—Valancycouldnotpredictjusthow,forAuntIsabelneverrepeatedacriticism—shefoundsomethingnewwithwhichtojabyoueverytime.AuntIsabelpridedherselfonsayingwhatshethought,butdidn’tlikeitsowellwhenotherpeoplesaidwhattheythoughttoher.Valancyneversaidwhatshethought. CousinGeorgiana—namedafterhergreat-great-grand-mother,whohadbeennamedafterGeorgetheFourth—wouldrecountdolorouslythenamesofallrelativesandfriendswhohaddiedsincethelastpicnicandwonder“whichofuswillbethefirsttogonext.” Oppressivelycompetent,AuntMildredwouldtalkendlesslyofherhusbandandherodiousprodigiesofbabiestoValancy,becauseValancywouldbetheonlyoneshecouldfindtoputupwithit.Forthesamereason,CousinGladys—reallyFirstCousinGladysonceremoved,accordingtothestrictwayinwhichtheStirlingstabulatedrelationship—atall,thinladywhoadmittedshehadasensitivedisposition,woulddescribeminutelythetorturesofherneuritis.AndOlive,thewondergirlofthewholeStirlingclan,whohadeverythingValancyhadnot—beauty,popularity,love,—wouldshowoffherbeautyandpresumeonherpopularityandflauntherdiamondinsigniaofloveinValancy’sdazzled,enviouseyes. Therewouldbenoneofallthistoday.Andtherewouldbenopackingupofteaspoons.ThepackingupwasalwaysleftforValancyandCousinStickles.Andonce,sixyearsago,asilverteaspoonfromAuntWellington’sweddingsethadbeenlost.Valancyneverheardthelastofthatsilverteaspoon.ItsghostappearedBanquo-likeateverysubsequentfamilyfeast. Oh,yes,Valancyknewexactlywhatthepicnicwouldbelikeandsheblessedtherainthathadsavedherfromit.Therewouldbenopicnicthisyear.IfAuntWellingtoncouldnotcelebrateonthesacreddayitselfshewouldhavenocelebrationatall.Thankwhatevergodstherewereforthat. Sincetherewouldbenopicnic,Valancymadeuphermindthat,iftherainheldupintheafternoon,shewouldgouptothelibraryandgetanotherofJohnFoster’sbooks.Valancywasneverallowedtoreadnovels,butJohnFoster’sbookswerenotnovels.Theywere“naturebooks”—sothelibrariantoldMrs.FrederickStirling—“allaboutthewoodsandbirdsandbugsandthingslikethat,youknow.”SoValancywasallowedtoreadthem—underprotest,foritwasonlytooevidentthatsheenjoyedthemtoomuch.Itwaspermissible,evenlaudable,toreadtoimproveyourmindandyourreligion,butabookthatwasenjoyablewasdangerous.ValancydidnotknowwhetherhermindwasbeingimprovedornotbutshefeltvaguelythatifshehadcomeacrossJohnFoster’sbooksyearsagolifemighthavebeenadifferentthingforher.Theyseemedtohertoyieldglimpsesofaworldintowhichshemightoncehaveentered,thoughthedoorwasforeverbarredtohernow.ItwasonlywithinthelastyearthatJohnFoster’sbookshadbeenintheDeerwoodlibrary,thoughthelibrariantoldValancythathehadbeenawell-knownwriterforseveralyears. “Wheredoeshelive?”Valancyhadasked. “Nobodyknows.FromhisbookshemustbeaCanadian,butnomoreinformationcanbehad.Hispublisherswon’tsayaword.QuitelikelyJohnFosterisanomdeplume.Hisbooksaresopopularwecan’tkeeptheminatall,thoughIreallycan’tseewhatpeoplefindinthemtorave