“No,” she said flatly.
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!
XXXVI
Finally Valancy went to bed. Before she went she reread 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.
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 someone 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 the train—that night. But I told you there was nothing serious—”
“Read your letter,” insisted Valancy.
Dr. Trent took it out—unfolded it—glanced over it. A dismayed look came into his face. He jumped to his feet and strode agitatedly about the room.
“Good heavens! This is the letter I meant for old Miss Jane Sterling. From Port Lawrence. She was here that day, too. I sent you the wrong letter. What unpardonable carelessness! But I was beside myself that night. My God, and you believed that—you believed—but you didn’t—you went to another doctor—”
Valancy stood up, turned round, looked foolishly about her and sat down again.
“I believed it,” she said faintly. “I didn’t go to any other doctor. I—I—it would take too long to explain. But I believed I was going to die soon.”
Dr. Trent halted before her.
“I can never forgive myself. What a year you must have had! But you don’t look—I can’t understand!”
“Never mind,” said Valancy dully. “And so there’s nothing the matter with my heart?”
“Well, nothing serious. You had what is called pseudo-angina. It’s never fatal—passes away completely with proper treatment. Or sometimes with a shock of joy. Have you been troubled much with it?”
“Not at all since March,” answered Valancy. She remembered the marvellous feeling of recreation she had had when she saw Barney coming home safe after the storm. Had that “shock of joy”
