edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72



CHAPTER VI


The ordeal was not so dreadful, after all. Dr. Trent was as gruff and
abrupt as usual, but he did not tell her ailment was imaginary. After
he had listened to her symptoms and asked a few questions and made a
quick examination, he sat for a moment looking at her quite intently.
Valancy thought he looked as if he were sorry for her. She caught her
breath for a moment. Was the trouble serious? Oh, it couldn’t be,
surely—it really hadn’t bothered her _much_—only lately it had got a
little worse.

Dr. Trent opened his mouth—but before he could speak the telephone at
his elbow rang sharply. He picked up the receiver. Valancy, watching
him, saw his face change suddenly as he listened,
“‘Lo—yes—yes—_what_?—yes—yes”—a brief interval—“My God!”

Dr. Trent dropped the receiver, dashed out of the room and upstairs
without even a glance at Valancy. She heard him rushing madly about
overhead, barking out a few remarks to somebody—presumably his
housekeeper. Then he came tearing downstairs with a club bag in his
hand, snatched his hat and coat from the rack, jerked open the street
door and rushed down the street in the direction of the station.

Valancy sat alone in the little office, feeling more absolutely foolish
than she had ever felt before in her life. Foolish—and humiliated. So
this was all that had come of her heroic determination to live up to
John Foster and cast fear aside. Not only was she a failure as a
relative and non-existent as a sweetheart or friend, but she was not
even of any importance as a patient. Dr. Trent had forgotten her very
presence in his excitement over whatever message had come by the
telephone. She had gained nothing by ignoring Uncle James and flying in
the face of family tradition.

For a moment she was afraid she was going to cry. It _was_ all
so—ridiculous. Then she heard Dr. Trent’s housekeeper coming down the
stairs. Valancy rose and went to the office door.

“The doctor forgot all about me,” she said with a twisted smile.

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Mrs. Patterson sympathetically. “But it
wasn’t much wonder, poor man. That was a telegram they ’phoned over
from the Port. His son has been terribly injured in an auto accident in
Montreal. The doctor had just ten minutes to catch the train. I don’t
know what he’ll do if anything happens to Ned—he’s just bound up in the
boy. You’ll have to come again, Miss Stirling. I hope it’s nothing
serious.”

“Oh, no, nothing serious,” agreed Valancy. She felt a little less
humiliated. It was no wonder poor Dr. Trent had forgotten her at such a
moment. Nevertheless, she felt very flat and discouraged as she went
down the street.

Valancy went home by the short-cut of Lover’s Lane. She did not often
go through Lover’s Lane—but it was getting near supper-time and it
would never do to be late. Lover’s Lane wound back of the village,
under great elms and maples, and deserved its name. It was hard to go
there at any time and not find some canoodling couple—or young girls in
pairs, arms intertwined, earnestly talking over their little secrets.
Valancy didn’t know which made her feel more self-conscious and
uncomfortable.

This evening she encountered both. She met Connie Hale and Kate Bayley,
in new pink organdy dresses with flowers stuck coquettishly in their
glossy, bare hair. Valancy had never had a pink dress or worn flowers
in her hair. Then she passed a young couple she didn’t know, dandering
along, oblivious to everything but themselves. The young man’s arm was
around the girl’s waist quite shamelessly. Valancy had never walked
with a man’s arm about her. She felt that she ought to be shocked—they
might leave that sort of thing for the screening twilight, at least—but
she wasn’t shocked. In another flash of desperate, stark honesty she
owned to herself that she was merely envious. When she passed them she
felt quite sure they were laughing at her—pitying her—“there’s that
queer little old maid, Valancy Stirling. They say she never had a beau
in her whole life”—Valancy fairly ran to get out of Lover’s Lane. Never
had she felt so utterly colourless and skinny and insignificant.

Just where Lover’s Lane debouched on the street, an old car was parked.
Valancy knew that car well—by sound, at least—and everybody in Deerwood
knew it. This was before the phrase “tin Lizzie” had come into
circulation—in Deerwood, at least; but if it had been known, this car
was the tinniest of Lizzies—though it was not a Ford but an old Grey
Slosson. Nothing more battered and disreputable could be imagined.

It was Barney Snaith’s car and Barney himself was just scrambling up
from under it, in overalls plastered with mud. Valancy gave him a
swift, furtive look as she hurried by. This was only the second time
she had ever seen the notorious Barney Snaith, though she had heard
enough about him in the five years that he had been living “up back” in
Muskoka. The first time had been nearly a year ago, on the Muskoka
road. He had been crawling out from under his car then, too, and he had
given her a cheerful grin as she went by—a little, whimsical grin that
gave him the look of an amused gnome. He didn’t look bad—she didn’t
believe he was bad, in spite of the wild yarns that were always being
told of him. Of course he went tearing in that terrible old Grey
Slosson through Deerwood at hours when all decent people were in
bed—often with old “Roaring Abel,” who made the night hideous with his

CHAPTER VI

The ordeal was not so dreadful, after all. Dr. Trent was as gruff and

abrupt as usual, but he did not tell her ailment was imaginary. After

he had listened to her symptoms and asked a few questions and made a

quick examination, he sat for a moment looking at her quite intently.

Valancy thought he looked as if he were sorry for her. She caught her

breath for a moment. Was the trouble serious? Oh, it couldn’t be,

surely—it really hadn’t bothered her _much_—only lately it had got a

little worse.

Dr. Trent opened his mouth—but before he could speak the telephone at

his elbow rang sharply. He picked up the receiver. Valancy, watching

him, saw his face change suddenly as he listened,

“‘Lo—yes—yes—_what_?—yes—yes”—a brief interval—“My God!”

Dr. Trent dropped the receiver, dashed out of the room and upstairs

without even a glance at Valancy. She heard him rushing madly about

overhead, barking out a few remarks to somebody—presumably his

housekeeper. Then he came tearing downstairs with a club bag in his

hand, snatched his hat and coat from the rack, jerked open the street

door and rushed down the street in the direction of the station.

Valancy sat alone in the little office, feeling more absolutely foolish

than she had ever felt before in her life. Foolish—and humiliated. So

this was all that had come of her heroic determination to live up to

John Foster and cast fear aside. Not only was she a failure as a

relative and non-existent as a sweetheart or friend, but she was not

even of any importance as a patient. Dr. Trent had forgotten her very

presence in his excitement over whatever message had come by the

telephone. She had gained nothing by ignoring Uncle James and flying in

the face of family tradition.

For a moment she was afraid she was going to cry. It _was_ all

so—ridiculous. Then she heard Dr. Trent’s housekeeper coming down the

stairs. Valancy rose and went to the office door.

“The doctor forgot all about me,” she said with a twisted smile.

“Well, that’s too bad,” said Mrs. Patterson sympathetically. “But it

wasn’t much wonder, poor man. That was a telegram they ’phoned over

from the Port. His son has been terribly injured in an auto accident in

Montreal. The doctor had just ten minutes to catch the train. I don’t

know what he’ll do if anything happens to Ned—he’s just bound up in the

boy. You’ll have to come again, Miss Stirling. I hope it’s nothing

serious.”

“Oh, no, nothing serious,” agreed Valancy. She felt a little less

humiliated. It was no wonder poor Dr. Trent had forgotten her at such a

moment. Nevertheless, she felt very flat and discouraged as she went

down the street.

Valancy went home by the short-cut of Lover’s Lane. She did not often

go through Lover’s Lane—but it was getting near supper-time and it

would never do to be late. Lover’s Lane wound back of the village,

under great elms and maples, and deserved its name. It was hard to go

there at any time and not find some canoodling couple—or young girls in

pairs, arms intertwined, earnestly talking over their little secrets.

Valancy didn’t know which made her feel more self-conscious and

uncomfortable.

This evening she encountered both. She met Connie Hale and Kate Bayley,

in new pink organdy dresses with flowers stuck coquettishly in their

glossy, bare hair. Valancy had never had a pink dress or worn flowers

in her hair. Then she passed a young couple she didn’t know, dandering

along, oblivious to everything but themselves. The young man’s arm was

around the girl’s waist quite shamelessly. Valancy had never walked

with a man’s arm about her. She felt that she ought to be shocked—they

might leave that sort of thing for the screening twilight, at least—but

she wasn’t shocked. In another flash of desperate, stark honesty she

owned to herself that she was merely envious. When she passed them she

felt quite sure they were laughing at her—pitying her—“there’s that

queer little old maid, Valancy Stirling. They say she never had a beau

in her whole life”—Valancy fairly ran to get out of Lover’s Lane. Never

had she felt so utterly colourless and skinny and insignificant.

Just where Lover’s Lane debouched on the street, an old car was parked.

Valancy knew that car well—by sound, at least—and everybody in Deerwood

knew it. This was before the phrase “tin Lizzie” had come into

circulation—in Deerwood, at least; but if it had been known, this car

was the tinniest of Lizzies—though it was not a Ford but an old Grey

Slosson. Nothing more battered and disreputable could be imagined.

It was Barney Snaith’s car and Barney himself was just scrambling up

from under it, in overalls plastered with mud. Valancy gave him a

swift, furtive look as she hurried by. This was only the second time

she had ever seen the notorious Barney Snaith, though she had heard

enough about him in the five years that he had been living “up back” in

Muskoka. The first time had been nearly a year ago, on the Muskoka

road. He had been crawling out from under his car then, too, and he had

given her a cheerful grin as she went by—a little, whimsical grin that

gave him the look of an amused gnome. He didn’t look bad—she didn’t

believe he was bad, in spite of the wild yarns that were always being

told of him. Of course he went tearing in that terrible old Grey

Slosson through Deerwood at hours when all decent people were in

bed—often with old “Roaring Abel,” who made the night hideous with his