, T B C
L M M
P : 1926
S :
T
. . .Y
, C 1
If it had not rained on a certain May morning Valancy Stirling's whole
life would have been entirely different. She would have gone, with
the rest of her clan, 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 relegated Valancy to
hopeless old maidenhood. But Valancy herself had never quite
relinquished 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, persistent, 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
horrified 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 prim, dictatorial voice asserting, "it is
not maidenly 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 huddled, futile little figure, listening to the rain pouring
down outside and watching, with a sick distaste, the chill, merciless
light creeping into her ugly, sordid room.
She knew the ugliness of that room by heart—knew it and hated it.
The yellow-painted floor, with one hideous, "hooked" rug by the bed,
with a grotesque, "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 spotted old
looking-glass with the crack across it, propped up on the inadequate
dressing-table; the jar of ancient potpourri made by her mother in her
mythical honeymoon; the shell-covered box, with one burst corner,
which Cousin Stickles had made in her equally mythical girlhood; the
beaded pincushion with half its bead fringe gone; the one stiff, yellow
chair; the faded old motto, "Gone but not forgotten," worked in
coloured yarns about Great-grandmother Stirling's grim old face; the
old photographs of ancient relatives long banished 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 crouched 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
L M M
P : 1926
S :
T
. . .Y
, C 1
If it had not rained on a certain May morning Valancy Stirling's whole
life would have been entirely different. She would have gone, with
the rest of her clan, 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 relegated Valancy to
hopeless old maidenhood. But Valancy herself had never quite
relinquished 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, persistent, 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
horrified 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 prim, dictatorial voice asserting, "it is
not maidenly 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 huddled, futile little figure, listening to the rain pouring
down outside and watching, with a sick distaste, the chill, merciless
light creeping into her ugly, sordid room.
She knew the ugliness of that room by heart—knew it and hated it.
The yellow-painted floor, with one hideous, "hooked" rug by the bed,
with a grotesque, "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 spotted old
looking-glass with the crack across it, propped up on the inadequate
dressing-table; the jar of ancient potpourri made by her mother in her
mythical honeymoon; the shell-covered box, with one burst corner,
which Cousin Stickles had made in her equally mythical girlhood; the
beaded pincushion with half its bead fringe gone; the one stiff, yellow
chair; the faded old motto, "Gone but not forgotten," worked in
coloured yarns about Great-grandmother Stirling's grim old face; the
old photographs of ancient relatives long banished 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 crouched 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
