edwindvinas/testdataset · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 72

Barney went into Bluebeard’s Chamber and shut the door. She heard him
pacing up and down—up and down. He had never paced like that before.

And an hour ago—only an hour ago—she had been so happy!




CHAPTER XXXVI


Finally Valancy went to bed. Before she went she re-read Dr. Trent’s
letter. It comforted her a little. So positive. So assured. The writing
so black and steady. Not the writing of a man who didn’t know what he
was writing about. But she could not sleep. She pretended to be asleep
when Barney came in. Barney pretended to go to sleep. But Valancy knew
perfectly well he wasn’t sleeping any more than she was. She knew he
was lying there, staring through the darkness. Thinking of what? Trying
to face—what?

Valancy, who had spent so many happy wakeful hours of night lying by
that window, now paid the price of them all in this one night of
misery. A horrible, portentous fact was slowly looming out before her
from the nebula of surmise and fear. She could not shut her eyes to
it—push it away—ignore it.

There could be nothing seriously wrong with her heart, no matter what
Dr. Trent had said. If there had been, those thirty seconds would have
killed her. It was no use to recall Dr. Trent’s letter and reputation.
The greatest specialists made mistakes sometimes. Dr. Trent had made
one.

Towards morning Valancy fell into a fitful dose with ridiculous dreams.
One of them was of Barney taunting her with having tricked him. In her
dream she lost her temper and struck him violently on the head with her
rolling-pin. He proved to be made of glass and shivered into splinters
all over the floor. She woke with a cry of horror—a gasp of relief—a
short laugh over the absurdity of her dream—a miserable sickening
recollection of what had happened.

Barney was gone. Valancy knew, as people sometimes know
things—inescapably, without being told—that he was not in the house or
in Bluebeard’s Chamber either. There was a curious silence in the
living-room. A silence with something uncanny about it. The old clock
had stopped. Barney must have forgotten to wind it up, something he had
never done before. The room without it was dead, though the sunshine
streamed in through the oriel and dimples of light from the dancing
waves beyond quivered over the walls.

The canoe was gone but Lady Jane was under the mainland trees. So
Barney had betaken himself to the wilds. He would not return till
night—perhaps not even then. He must be angry with her. That furious
silence of his must mean anger—cold, deep, justifiable resentment.
Well, Valancy knew what she must do first. She was not suffering very
keenly now. Yet the curious numbness that pervaded her being was in a
way worse than pain. It was as if something in her had died. She forced
herself to cook and eat a little breakfast. Mechanically she put the
Blue Castle in perfect order. Then she put on her hat and coat, locked
the door and hid the key in the hollow of the old pine and crossed to
the mainland in the motor boat. She was going into Deerwood to see Dr.
Trent. She must _know_.




CHAPTER XXXVII


Dr. Trent looked at her blankly and fumbled among his recollections.

“Er—Miss—Miss—”

“Mrs. Snaith,” said Valancy quietly. “I was Miss Valancy Stirling when
I came to you last May—over a year ago. I wanted to consult you about
my heart.”

Dr. Trent’s face cleared.

“Oh, of course. I remember now. I’m really not to blame for not knowing
you. You’ve changed—splendidly. And married. Well, well, it has agreed
with you. You don’t look much like an invalid now, hey? I remember that
day. I was badly upset. Hearing about poor Ned bowled me over. But
Ned’s as good as new and you, too, evidently. I told you so, you
know—told you there was nothing to worry over.”

Valancy looked at him.

“You told me, in your letter,” she said slowly, with a curious feeling
that some one else was talking through her lips, “that I had angina
pectoris—in the last stages—complicated with an aneurism. That I might
die any minute—that I couldn’t live longer than a year.”

Dr. Trent stared at her.

“Impossible!” he said blankly. “I couldn’t have told you that!”

Valancy took his letter from her bag and handed it to him.

“Miss Valancy Stirling,” he read. “Yes—yes. Of course I wrote you—on

Barney went into Bluebeard’s Chamber and shut the door. She heard him

pacing up and down—up and down. He had never paced like that before.

And an hour ago—only an hour ago—she had been so happy!

CHAPTER XXXVI

Finally Valancy went to bed. Before she went she re-read Dr. Trent’s

letter. It comforted her a little. So positive. So assured. The writing

so black and steady. Not the writing of a man who didn’t know what he

was writing about. But she could not sleep. She pretended to be asleep

when Barney came in. Barney pretended to go to sleep. But Valancy knew

perfectly well he wasn’t sleeping any more than she was. She knew he

was lying there, staring through the darkness. Thinking of what? Trying

to face—what?

Valancy, who had spent so many happy wakeful hours of night lying by

that window, now paid the price of them all in this one night of

misery. A horrible, portentous fact was slowly looming out before her

from the nebula of surmise and fear. She could not shut her eyes to

it—push it away—ignore it.

There could be nothing seriously wrong with her heart, no matter what

Dr. Trent had said. If there had been, those thirty seconds would have

killed her. It was no use to recall Dr. Trent’s letter and reputation.

The greatest specialists made mistakes sometimes. Dr. Trent had made

one.

Towards morning Valancy fell into a fitful dose with ridiculous dreams.

One of them was of Barney taunting her with having tricked him. In her

dream she lost her temper and struck him violently on the head with her

rolling-pin. He proved to be made of glass and shivered into splinters

all over the floor. She woke with a cry of horror—a gasp of relief—a

short laugh over the absurdity of her dream—a miserable sickening

recollection of what had happened.

Barney was gone. Valancy knew, as people sometimes know

things—inescapably, without being told—that he was not in the house or

in Bluebeard’s Chamber either. There was a curious silence in the

living-room. A silence with something uncanny about it. The old clock

had stopped. Barney must have forgotten to wind it up, something he had

never done before. The room without it was dead, though the sunshine

streamed in through the oriel and dimples of light from the dancing

waves beyond quivered over the walls.

The canoe was gone but Lady Jane was under the mainland trees. So

Barney had betaken himself to the wilds. He would not return till

night—perhaps not even then. He must be angry with her. That furious

silence of his must mean anger—cold, deep, justifiable resentment.

Well, Valancy knew what she must do first. She was not suffering very

keenly now. Yet the curious numbness that pervaded her being was in a

way worse than pain. It was as if something in her had died. She forced

herself to cook and eat a little breakfast. Mechanically she put the

Blue Castle in perfect order. Then she put on her hat and coat, locked

the door and hid the key in the hollow of the old pine and crossed to

the mainland in the motor boat. She was going into Deerwood to see Dr.

Trent. She must _know_.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Dr. Trent looked at her blankly and fumbled among his recollections.

“Er—Miss—Miss—”

“Mrs. Snaith,” said Valancy quietly. “I was Miss Valancy Stirling when

I came to you last May—over a year ago. I wanted to consult you about

my heart.”

Dr. Trent’s face cleared.

“Oh, of course. I remember now. I’m really not to blame for not knowing

you. You’ve changed—splendidly. And married. Well, well, it has agreed

with you. You don’t look much like an invalid now, hey? I remember that

day. I was badly upset. Hearing about poor Ned bowled me over. But

Ned’s as good as new and you, too, evidently. I told you so, you

know—told you there was nothing to worry over.”

Valancy looked at him.

“You told me, in your letter,” she said slowly, with a curious feeling

that some one else was talking through her lips, “that I had angina

pectoris—in the last stages—complicated with an aneurism. That I might

die any minute—that I couldn’t live longer than a year.”

Dr. Trent stared at her.

“Impossible!” he said blankly. “I couldn’t have told you that!”

Valancy took his letter from her bag and handed it to him.

“Miss Valancy Stirling,” he read. “Yes—yes. Of course I wrote you—on