Chapter 3

Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would criticise
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-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 occasional 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.

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
perfectly 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 implies 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, but she would secretly take out
enough to pay Dr. Trent. She was never allowed to use even the interest
of this.