edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72
be discovered.

Her heart acted strangely on the way upstairs, and she sat down by her
window for a few minutes before opening her letter. She felt very
guilty and deceitful. She had never before kept a letter secret from
her mother. Every letter she had ever written or received had been read
by Mrs. Frederick. That had never mattered. Valancy had never had
anything to hide. But this _did_ matter. She could not have any one see
this letter. But her fingers trembled with a consciousness of
wickedness and unfilial conduct as she opened it—trembled a little,
too, perhaps, with apprehension. She felt quite sure there was nothing
seriously wrong with her heart but—one never knew.

Dr. Trent’s letter was like himself—blunt, abrupt, concise, wasting no
words. Dr. Trent never beat about the bush. “Dear Miss Sterling”—and
then a page of black, positive writing. Valancy seemed to read it at a
glance; she dropped it on her lap, her face ghost-white.

Dr. Trent told her that she had a very dangerous and fatal form of
heart disease—angina pectoris—evidently complicated with an
aneurism—whatever that was—and in the last stages. He said, without
mincing matters, that nothing could be done for her. If she took great
care of herself she might live a year—but she might also die at any
moment—Dr. Trent never troubled himself about euphemisms. She must be
careful to avoid all excitement and all severe muscular efforts. She
must eat and drink moderately, she must never run, she must go upstairs
and uphill with great care. Any sudden jolt or shock might be fatal.
She was to get the prescription he enclosed filled and carry it with
her always, taking a dose whenever her attacks came on. And he was hers
truly, H. B. Trent.

Valancy sat for a long while by her window. Outside was a world drowned
in the light of a spring afternoon—skies entrancingly blue, winds
perfumed and free, lovely, soft, blue hazes at the end of every street.
Over at the railway station a group of young girls was waiting for a
train; she heard their gay laughter as they chattered and joked. The
train roared in and roared out again. But none of these things had any
reality. Nothing had any reality except the fact that she had only
another year to live.

When she was tired of sitting at the window she went over and lay down
on her bed, staring at the cracked, discoloured ceiling. The curious
numbness that follows on a staggering blow possessed her. She did not
feel anything except a boundless surprise and incredulity—behind which
was the conviction that Dr. Trent knew his business and that she,
Valancy Stirling, who had never lived, was about to die.

When the gong rang for supper Valancy got up and went downstairs
mechanically, from force of habit. She wondered that she had been let
alone so long. But of course her mother would not pay any attention to
her just now. Valancy was thankful for this. She thought the quarrel
over the rosebush had been really, as Mrs. Frederick herself might have
said, Providential. She could not eat anything, but both Mrs. Frederick
and Cousin Stickles thought this was because she was deservedly unhappy
over her mother’s attitude, and her lack of appetite was not commented
on. Valancy forced herself to swallow a cup of tea and then sat and
watched the others eat, with an odd feeling that years had passed since
she had sat with them at the dinner-table. She found herself smiling
inwardly to think what a commotion she could make if she chose. Let her
merely tell them what was in Dr. Trent’s letter and there would be as
much fuss made as if—Valancy thought bitterly—they really cared two
straws about her.

“Dr. Trent’s housekeeper got word from him today,” said Cousin
Stickles, so suddenly that Valancy jumped guiltily. Was there anything
in thought waves? “Mrs. Judd was talking to her uptown. They think his
son will recover, but Dr. Trent wrote that if he did he was going to
take him abroad as soon as he was able to travel and wouldn’t be back
here for a year at least.”

“That will not matter much to _us_,” said Mrs. Frederick majestically.
“He is not _our_ doctor. I would not”—here she looked or seemed to look
accusingly right through Valancy—“have _him_ to doctor a sick cat.”

“May I go upstairs and lie down?” said Valancy faintly. “I—I have a
headache.”

“What has given you a headache?” asked Cousin Stickles, since Mrs.
Frederick would not. The question had to be asked. Valancy could not be
allowed to have headaches without interference.

“You ain’t in the habit of having headaches. I hope you’re not taking
the mumps. Here, try a spoonful of vinegar.”

“Piffle!” said Valancy rudely, getting up from the table. She did not
care just then if she were rude. She had had to be so polite all her
life.

If it had been possible for Cousin Stickles to turn pale she would
have. As it was not, she turned yellower.

“Are you sure you ain’t feverish, Doss? You sound like it. You go and
get right into bed,” said Cousin Stickles, thoroughly alarmed, “and
I’ll come up and rub your forehead and the back of your neck with
Redfern’s Liniment.”

Valancy had reached the door, but she turned. “I won’t be rubbed with
Redfern’s Liniment!” she said.

Cousin Stickles stared and gasped. “What—what do you mean?”

be discovered.

Her heart acted strangely on the way upstairs, and she sat down by her

window for a few minutes before opening her letter. She felt very

guilty and deceitful. She had never before kept a letter secret from

her mother. Every letter she had ever written or received had been read

by Mrs. Frederick. That had never mattered. Valancy had never had

anything to hide. But this _did_ matter. She could not have any one see

this letter. But her fingers trembled with a consciousness of

wickedness and unfilial conduct as she opened it—trembled a little,

too, perhaps, with apprehension. She felt quite sure there was nothing

seriously wrong with her heart but—one never knew.

Dr. Trent’s letter was like himself—blunt, abrupt, concise, wasting no

words. Dr. Trent never beat about the bush. “Dear Miss Sterling”—and

then a page of black, positive writing. Valancy seemed to read it at a

glance; she dropped it on her lap, her face ghost-white.

Dr. Trent told her that she had a very dangerous and fatal form of

heart disease—angina pectoris—evidently complicated with an

aneurism—whatever that was—and in the last stages. He said, without

mincing matters, that nothing could be done for her. If she took great

care of herself she might live a year—but she might also die at any

moment—Dr. Trent never troubled himself about euphemisms. She must be

careful to avoid all excitement and all severe muscular efforts. She

must eat and drink moderately, she must never run, she must go upstairs

and uphill with great care. Any sudden jolt or shock might be fatal.

She was to get the prescription he enclosed filled and carry it with

her always, taking a dose whenever her attacks came on. And he was hers

truly, H. B. Trent.

Valancy sat for a long while by her window. Outside was a world drowned

in the light of a spring afternoon—skies entrancingly blue, winds

perfumed and free, lovely, soft, blue hazes at the end of every street.

Over at the railway station a group of young girls was waiting for a

train; she heard their gay laughter as they chattered and joked. The

train roared in and roared out again. But none of these things had any

reality. Nothing had any reality except the fact that she had only

another year to live.

When she was tired of sitting at the window she went over and lay down

on her bed, staring at the cracked, discoloured ceiling. The curious

numbness that follows on a staggering blow possessed her. She did not

feel anything except a boundless surprise and incredulity—behind which

was the conviction that Dr. Trent knew his business and that she,

Valancy Stirling, who had never lived, was about to die.

When the gong rang for supper Valancy got up and went downstairs

mechanically, from force of habit. She wondered that she had been let

alone so long. But of course her mother would not pay any attention to

her just now. Valancy was thankful for this. She thought the quarrel

over the rosebush had been really, as Mrs. Frederick herself might have

said, Providential. She could not eat anything, but both Mrs. Frederick

and Cousin Stickles thought this was because she was deservedly unhappy

over her mother’s attitude, and her lack of appetite was not commented

on. Valancy forced herself to swallow a cup of tea and then sat and

watched the others eat, with an odd feeling that years had passed since

she had sat with them at the dinner-table. She found herself smiling

inwardly to think what a commotion she could make if she chose. Let her

merely tell them what was in Dr. Trent’s letter and there would be as

much fuss made as if—Valancy thought bitterly—they really cared two

straws about her.

“Dr. Trent’s housekeeper got word from him today,” said Cousin

Stickles, so suddenly that Valancy jumped guiltily. Was there anything

in thought waves? “Mrs. Judd was talking to her uptown. They think his

son will recover, but Dr. Trent wrote that if he did he was going to

take him abroad as soon as he was able to travel and wouldn’t be back

here for a year at least.”

“That will not matter much to _us_,” said Mrs. Frederick majestically.

“He is not _our_ doctor. I would not”—here she looked or seemed to look

accusingly right through Valancy—“have _him_ to doctor a sick cat.”

“May I go upstairs and lie down?” said Valancy faintly. “I—I have a

headache.”

“What has given you a headache?” asked Cousin Stickles, since Mrs.

Frederick would not. The question had to be asked. Valancy could not be

allowed to have headaches without interference.

“You ain’t in the habit of having headaches. I hope you’re not taking

the mumps. Here, try a spoonful of vinegar.”

“Piffle!” said Valancy rudely, getting up from the table. She did not

care just then if she were rude. She had had to be so polite all her

life.

If it had been possible for Cousin Stickles to turn pale she would

have. As it was not, she turned yellower.

“Are you sure you ain’t feverish, Doss? You sound like it. You go and

get right into bed,” said Cousin Stickles, thoroughly alarmed, “and

I’ll come up and rub your forehead and the back of your neck with

Redfern’s Liniment.”

Valancy had reached the door, but she turned. “I won’t be rubbed with

Redfern’s Liniment!” she said.

Cousin Stickles stared and gasped. “What—what do you mean?”