Moonlight At Mistawis - Chapter 22: The Second Click

Welcome to Chapter Twenty-Two of 'Moonlight at Mistawis', my independent, unofficial sequel to L. M. Montgomery's beloved 1926 novel 'The Blue Castle'.
The long-awaited answer from Toronto finally arrives and Olive is forced to decide whether hope can become action. With Deerwood still to face and an unknown future ahead, she discovers that choosing a life for yourself can be both exhilarating and terrifying...
You do not need to have read or listened to 'The Blue Castle' first. 'Moonlight at Mistawis' can also be enjoyed as a standalone story.
Settle in, get comfortable, and enjoy this gentle literary sleep story, read aloud by the author.

Transcript

Hello there. Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Moonlight at Mastawis. This is my unofficial, Independent, Fan-written sequel to celebrate 100 years since the publishing of the wonderful novel The Blue Castle back in 1926 by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery. If you've already been listening along, You'll know that this book, Moonlight at My Star Wars, Picks up the story. From several years after the Blue Castle finishes. If you haven't previously heard either the Blue Castle or the preceding parts of this book, You can certainly look for the playlists for both the Blue Castle and Moonlight at Mastawis and you'll find all the parts of both books in order in those playlists. Moonlight at Mastawis is also available as a paperback and e-book if you want to have one of those and read along with me. So for now, Before we get further into the story here. . . Let's just take a moment to have a nice, Deep breath. Exhale. Letting go of the day. Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment. For right now, There's nowhere else we have to go and nothing else we have to be doing. So we can just relax, Get ourselves comfortable, And enjoy the next installment of Moonlight at Miss Star Wars. Chapter 22. The second click. The letter came the following morning. Olive noticed the Toronto postmark before she recognized anything else. And stood for several seconds with the envelope unopened in her hand. Barney said at last. Opening it You've been opening it for nearly a minute. Olive gave him a look. And tore the envelope open. She read the first lines, Standing up, Then She sat down rather suddenly. Valancy came nearer. Olive? They've accepted me. Nobody spoke. Olive looked again as though the words might have rearranged themselves. Formerly. She said, For the autumn term. Then Valancy was hugging her and Barney was saying something jubilant that Olive did not even properly hear. Her hand was shaking. Acceptance. Tuition confirmed, A date on which she was expected in Toronto. Nothing vague, Nothing dreamy. She had asked, She had applied, And she. . . Olive Sterling. Had been chosen. For one dizzy instant, She wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Then came the fear. Toronto. Her mother. Deerwood. Strange rooms and strange people. Easels and examinations and other students who might be Twenty. And brilliant and. . . Quite certain of themselves. Olive pressed the letter flat against the table. Frightened. She said. I know. Said Valancy. Olive looked at her with eyes wide, Swallowing hard. She read the letter once more. She drew a long breath. Going. Balancy smiled. Yes. Olive said again, And this time the words somehow seemed steadier as she spoke them. I'm going. To Toronto. Later, Olive sat at the tiny table in her cabin. Pen hovering above a sheet of paper. As if it were a weapon she had not yet learned to wield. The lamp hissed faintly. And through the open window came the night sounds of Miss Starwess, An owl calling, The sigh of the pines, The rhythmic lapping of the lake. It was late, But she could not sleep without at least attempting this. She had to write. To her mother. She had to put words down that Might as well have been flints, Sharp and sparking. Dear Mother. She paused. Staring at the two words as if they mocked her. Her hand trembled. She tried again. I am thinking. . . I have decided. . . The nib scratched. Hesitated. Blotted. All who've pressed her lips together. Heart racing. She felt as if she were announcing her own funeral. When at last the letter was written, She read it through. The words looked stiff, But they were clear. She was going. To Toronto. She was hoping to stay with Barney's aunt Josephine if the arrangements could be made. Dr. Redfern's esteemed sister. She was going to study again. This time she had written to tell her mother what she meant to do, Not to ask whether she might do it. The reply from Dearwood came two days later in her mother's thin, Spidery hand. Olive, I am astonished. By your utter folly. Toronto! At your age? Planning to live with some Curious old spinster we've never heard of. Paul will laugh. What will Dearwood think? You cannot carry on as though you were a schoolgirl running after whims, Olive. Nothing good will come of this, And I wash my hands of it. Your mother. Olive read it twice. Then she sighed. Folded the letter neatly. And set it aside. A second envelope, Pale blue, Came tucked into the same delivery. Georgiana's script slanted across the page, Gentle and steady. My dear Olive. I have just heard your news. And I must say, I find myself smiling. Smiling in a way I have not for years. You look more alive now than i have ever seen you dear if Dr Redfern's sister welcomes you. May you go with all my blessings. Gladly. I will be glad, So glad, Olive, To know that you are doing what you have long wished to do. With all my love. Georgiana. Olive gripped this letter with both hands. Pressing it to her forehead. For the first time she could remember, She felt not reproached but blessed and understood. Two days later, Olive went back to her parents' house to collect what she required for winter in Toronto. I'll come with you, " Valancy said at once. I'll live. Hesitated. Part of her wanted desperately to say yes, To have Valancy beside her when she walked through that door. Barney, Too, With his uncanny ability to make even the most formidable sterling seem faintly ridiculous but something in her. Resisted. No, She said at last. I think I ought to do this myself. Balancy looked at her for a moment. Then nodded. Barney raised his eyebrows and wisely said nothing. Her mother was at home. Olive had hoped she might be out making calls. But Aunt Wellington was in the upstairs sitting room, Splendidly arranged as ever, Sorting correspondence at her little rosewood desk. She looked up when Olive appeared. You have come back. Yes, Mother. Olive had rehearsed several versions of what she might say next. All of them now deserted her. I've come for my things. A small pause. For Toronto. Olive added. I see. That was all. Somehow Olive would almost have preferred a scene. She swallowed, Backed out of the doorway, And went along the passage to her bedroom. Nothing. Had changed. The silver-backed brushes lay precisely upon the dressing table. Three hat pins rested in their china tray. The embroidered cushion on the chair had been plumped into its usual fat complacency. For years, Olive had thought the room beautiful. Now it seemed curiously airless. She dragged her trunk from the box room and began to pack. Stockings, Chemises, Two sensible woolen dresses, Her grey coat, The brown walking shoes she had once considered unbecoming and now regarded with affection because they could survive almost anything. Her hands were steady until she opened the wardrobe. There hung the dresses of perfect Olive. A blue silk, Chosen because it brought out her eyes. A dove grey afternoon dress her mother had declared quite distinguished. A cream frock she had worn to one of the first dinners at which Cecil had sat beside her. Olive touched its sleeve. For one instant. She could almost smell that evening again. Beeswax. Roses. Coffee. And hear Cecil saying something complimentary that had pleased her boundlessly. Because she had wanted so. . . Desperately. To be. Dood. Admired. Chosen. She let the sleeve fall. The cream dress stayed. The blue silk stayed, Too. She packed the grey wool. Behind her came the rustle of skirts. Her mother stood in the doorway. You cannot. Possibly mean to take that? Olive looked down at the dress. Why not? It is three seasons old. I know. And the hem has been let down. Yes. People will notice. Olive folded it neatly in the trunk. Then they will. Aunt Wellington's mouth tightened. If you insist upon pursuing this extraordinary scheme. There is no reason to make yourself look impoverished while doing it. I don't think art students are likely to inspect my hems. You know nothing whatever about art students. No, Said Olive. That's rather the point. Her mother glared at her Olive felt the old instinct rise instantly. To explain. To soften, To. . . Make mother understand. Instead. She exhaled. Looked back down at her trunk, And packed another pair of stockings. I cannot understand what has come over you this summer, Olive. Olive said nothing. You were always such a sensible girl. Another stocking. You understood what was expected. Olive smoothed the stocking flat. Yes, I think I understood that very well her mother's face changed slightly Valancy has encouraged this. Don't be absurd. You spend half the summer. Wretched! Dirty little island! And come back here talking of Toronto. I was thinking of Toronto before I went to Miss Darwin's. Aunt Wellington's already steely gaze became positively glacial. Olive crossed to the little desk beneath the window and opened its bottom drawer. Her old sketchbooks were there. Beneath some sheet music. She took them out. You cannot intend to take those. I do. They're schoolgirl scribblings! Olive held them against her breast. Yep. Mine! Of course they're yours! I merely cannot imagine why you would burden yourself. With them. I want them. Olive put them in the trunk, Followed by her old paint box. The cakes of colour inside were cracked and dusty, But still there, Ultramarine ochre, Crimson, Sap green, Small squares of a life she had once almost permitted herself. Her mother moved to the window, Frowning. I suppose you imagine this will be very Romantic. No. Living in some. Key room. Smelling of paint. Associating with goodness knows whom. Probably. And when you tire of it. Olives stopped. Not if. For a moment, She wanted desperately to explain more about Miss Harrington, The scholarship, The academy. To lay every fact before her mother until the whole mad undertaking became respectable enough to be put to rest. Permitted. But Toronto did not need to be. Permitted. If. . . I tire of it, " she said. I shall decide what to do then. Her mother turned. You are 30 years old, Olive. Peace. Is the sort of foolishness one expects from a girl of 18. Perhaps I should have done it at 18. The words were out before Olive could stop them. Silence fell. Olive's heart began beating painfully fast. But she kept packing. Weeeeee! Gave you. Every advantage! Her mother's pent-up indignation, Held so rigidly in check until now, Broke suddenly through. I know. Olive Managed. She found that she couldn't even raise her eyes to her mother now. You never wanted for anything! Music lessons, Dancing, Good clothes, Travel. Every opportunity. And now you speak! As though we prevented you from living. Olive paused for a moment. She said quietly. I think perhaps. I. . . Prevented myself. She turned back to the wardrobe. On the upper shelf set a hat box. Inside wrapped in tissue. Lay the pearl trimmed veil. Intended for her wedding. Olive rested her fingers upon the paper. Beyond this bedroom was the hope chest. Embroidered linen, Towels, Tablecloths, Pillowcases, The careful furnishings of a future that had never happened. Once. They had comforted her. Then they had humiliated her. Now they seemed merely to belong to somebody she used to know. Olive replaced the hatbox lid. She left the veil where it was. And Cecil, Her mother said pointedly. Olive's hands stopped. It was the first time his name had been spoken between them in months. What about him? Have you considered what people will think? The engagement ends and now you go running off to Toronto to become. . . An artist. It looks. . . Her mother stopped. Like what? Unsettled. Olive blinked hard and looked down into the trunk. Grey wool, Stockings, Sketchbooks, Paints. Yes. It did. How wonderful. I suppose it does, She said, As she closed the trunk and fastened one clasp, Then the other. The second click. Sounded extraordinarily Final. Olive thought of all the parlours and church steps and bridge tables of Dearwood. Where her name had passed from mouth to mouth. For years. It had seldom seemed to come back to her. Any kinder for the journey. You will regret this, Aunt Wellington said. Perhaps she would. A few months ago, The possibility would have been enough to stop her. Perhaps. Her mother blinked. You admit it? I might. Hate Toronto. I might discover I'm not nearly as talented as Miss Harrington thinks I am. I might be lonely. I might make a fool of myself. If I stay. I know! I shall always wonder. What might have happened. Her mother said nothing. Her eyes narrowed, Though, And her lips compressed, As though Olive's reasoning were not merely foolish. But entirely. Indecent. Olive lifted the smaller case from beside the bed and looked around the room. The blue silk still hung in the wardrobe. The wedding veil remained in its hatbox. The embroidered cushion sat plump and correct upon the chair. Perfect olive. Could stay here if she liked. Olive Sterling was going to Toronto. Goodbye, Mother. Aunt Wellington's fingers tightened around the back of the chair. You know your father and I cannot approve. Another pause. Then her mother said, Very stiffly, You will write when you arrive? Olive looked at her then. It was not. Approval. It was not apology. But. . . It was something. Yes, She said. I will. Then she took her smaller case and went downstairs. She arranged for the trunk to be sent on to the landing. Olive returned to Mystawis feeling strangely light and utterly exhausted at the same time. She had not known until it was over how much courage the afternoon had cost her. Valancy was waiting at the landing. Well, She asked, As they walked up through the pines. While behind them, Barney wrestled the trunk from the propeller boat. How did it go? Olive considered. Quite well. Balancy glanced sideways at her. That bad, Was it? Olive gave a startled laugh. Not bad, Exactly. Mother and I merely discovered that we have rather different opinions about how I ought to spend the remainder of my life. Ah, Said Valancy, One of those little differences. They carried Olive's things to Windward, And the two cousins began unpacking them together. It was rather like excavating a museum of Olive's former selves. There were sensible things enough. Woolen dresses, Stockings, Gloves, Books. But among them also appeared several objects which seemed to demand explanation. Lancey held up a remarkably elaborate hat. Oh dear. I know. It was a confection of velvet, Ribbon and feathers, With an enormous plume sweeping dramatically from one side. Why did you bring this? I don't know. Olive admitted. I think I wanted evidence. Of what? Olive took the hat from her and regarded it ruefully. Perfect olive, I suppose? She put it on. The plume drooped magnificently over one eye. Valancy stared at her, Brows knitting together, Head askew. Perfect olive. Was a fright. Olive tried to look offended. She managed it for perhaps two seconds. Then they both collapsed into helpless laughter. The laughter rolled out of Olive in great, Breathless waves. Until she had to sit down on the edge of the bed, Clutching that absurd hat to her chest, While Nancy was laughing just as helplessly beside her, Wiping tears from her cheeks. Goodbye, Perfect olive, She said at last, When she could speak again. Valancy took the hat solemnly from her. May she rest in peace. That set them off again. They continued their excavation. A pair of kid gloves too delicate to be useful for anything. A signed book presented by a family friend which Olive confessed she had never read. A beaded evening bag, Chosen because another rival cousin had possessed one rather like it. There were other things she had deliberately left behind too. But Lancey grew quieter when Olive told her about those. And what did you say to your mother? Not nearly as much as I meant to. Balancy waited. I had all sorts of things prepared. I'll live admitted. Very brave things. Very final things. I said hardly any of them. Did you pack your trunk? Olive looked at her. Yes? Did you leave? Yes. Then perhaps you said enough, Said Valancy. Olive was silent for a moment. Then she reached into the case for another bundle. Barney appeared in the doorway, Just as she was shaking out an elderly shawl. He surveyed the room. The open cases, Scattered clothes, Books piled on the floor. And the magnificent plumed hat now perched crookedly on the bedpost. Well, He said. It looks to me, Olive, As though you're preparing to turn into a bohemian. Olive groaned. Oh, Spare me Barney. Bohemian olive, He continued thoughtfully. Barefoot. Painting on bridges. Scandalising Deerwood. I have never. . . Painted on a bridge in my life. Not yet. Go away. Barney obligingly disappeared. Olive shook her head, But the smile remained. Bohemian olive. Once, The very idea would have horrified her. Now. . . She thought. She might rather like to meet her. Later, Olive and Valancy sat together at the table in the main cabin. Still. Can't quite believe this is happening. Olive said softly, Almost to herself. It all seems so real. Unreal. And yet Ha. Things do seem to be falling into place, Don't they? In ways I never dared hope. Balancy reached across the table. And handed her a neat envelope. The handwriting precise and cheerful. Well. . . I think you're going to like this, She said. Olive unfolded the letter. Aunt Josephine's words poured across the page, Warm and welcoming. She had made arrangements for Olive to stay. Described a small, Comfortable room. Books and sketching supplies ready. Everything had been set up so Olive could arrive and begin without worry. I'll have read it twice, Then leaned back in her chair. Eyes wide. It's. . . Really happening? She whispered. It's. . . Real. Then she reached into her bag for her notebook. I must write to her at once. She opened her notebook and began flicking through the pages, Looking for a blank leaf. Thinking of how much she wanted to say in her reply. As she turned the pages, One caught beneath her thumb. Olive stopped. The writing sprawled across it. In her hand, She's scarcely recognised as her own. Jagged. Blotted. Furious in places. She had written it to Cecil months ago. On one of those terrible nights after everything had ended. But she had never sent it. Balancy glanced over. What's that? Olive turned the page. Then she paused. No she said. Not nothing. She turned back and looked at it again. There were accusations there, Questions, Things she had wanted Cecil to understand. Things she had wanted him to be sorry for. At the time. It had seemed desperately important that he should know them. Now she found herself wondering what difference it would make if he did Something for Cecil, For Lancey Ventured. Olive nodded. Are you going to send it? Olive looked down at the old page. Then she smiled a little ruefully. She turned it over. And began her letter to Aunt Josephine on a clean page beyond it. That night, The light softened over Miss Darwis as Olive and Valancy settled in the main cabin after supper. Barney emerged a few minutes later from Bluebeard's chamber, Notebook in hand, Cheeks flushed. I thought you ladies might like to hear a passage from John Foster's latest musings, He said, Settling into his chair. Olive closed her sketchbook quickly, Sensing something unusual in his expression. Barney cleared his throat and began reading, His voice quiet. A lake keeps two skies. By day, It takes whatever is given it, Blue, Grey, Rain, The white disorder of clouds, And scatters it over the shifting water. But after dark, On a still night, Another sky gathers beneath the boat. Stars burn under your hands. The moon hangs somewhere below your feet. And the black pines grow downward. Into a country no traveller can enter. There are nights when one scarcely knows which world is the reflection. Then a loon calls beyond the point and glides out across the dark water. Its wake trembles through the reflected sky. The stars shiver. The moon breaks into a thousand silver pieces. The drowned forest wavers and is gone. A moment later, The water is still again. Keeping whatever it knows to itself. Barney closed the notebook. For a moment, Nobody spoke. Olive's eyes went to the dark window. Beyond it, Moonlight lay quietly across the lake. She glanced down at her sketchbook, Thinking of the many times she had tried to catch that exact same light in charcoal and pencil. Beside her, Valancy had gone very still. She was looking at Barney, Not the lake. Olive gave a small laugh. Well, You make it sound rather better than I draw it. Nonsense, Said Valancy. You only show it differently. Her eyes dropped to the sketchbook in Olive's lap. And I do hope you'll take some of your finest lake drawings with you to Toronto, Olive. To remember us here by. Olive rested her hand on the closed sketchbook. She thought she would. Only 10. Days remained. Until she was to leave. 10 days. To gather what she needed. Say what she had to say and somehow prepare herself for the train to Romto? And the vast new life that waited beyond them. Later that night, After Olive had returned to Windward, Valancy lingered by the window in the main cabin bedroom. The lake silvered by moonlight. Barney joined her. Notebook finally closed. Still feeling odd? He asked softly. Valancy nodded, Resting a hand lightly against her middle. More certain than I was. His expression softened at once. Are you? I think so. It's still early yet. Bani covered her hand with his. N. We'll wait. She looked up at him. You don't look very patient. I'm not. Valancy laughed softly and leaned against him. For a while they simply stood there together. Looking out over the moonlit lake, Holding between them the possibility that was beginning, Little by little, To feel Real. Elsewhere, Olive slept peacefully at Windward, Dreaming of Toronto, Of brushes and canvases, Of red brick streets bathed in late summer light, And the bright, Beckoning promise of a lie. She. Had chosen.