CHAPTER XXXVII

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

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 re-creation she had had when she saw Barney

coming home safe after the storm. Had that “shock of joy” cured her?

“Then likely you’re all right. I told you what to do in the letter you

should have got. _And_ of course I supposed you’d go to another doctor.

Child, why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want anybody to know.”

“Idiot,” said Dr. Trent bluntly. “I can’t understand such folly. And

poor old Miss Sterling. She must have got your letter—telling her there

was nothing serious the matter. Well, well, it couldn’t have made any

difference. Her case was hopeless. Nothing that she could have done or

left undone could have made any difference. I was surprised she lived

as long as she did—two months. She was here that day—not long before

you. I hated to tell her the truth. You think I’m a blunt old

curmudgeon—and my letters _are_ blunt enough. I can’t soften things.

But I’m a snivelling coward when it comes to telling a woman face to

face that she’s got to die soon. I told her I’d look up some features

of the case I wasn’t quite sure of and let her know next day. But you

got her letter—look here, ‘Dear Miss S-t-_e_-r-l-i-n-g.’”

“Yes. I noticed that. But I thought it a mistake. I didn’t know there

were any Sterlings in Port Lawrence.”

“She was the only one. A lonely old soul. Lived by herself with only a

little home girl. She died two months after she was here—died in her

sleep. My mistake couldn’t have made any difference to her. But you! I

can’t forgive myself for inflicting a year’s misery on you. It’s time I

retired, all right, when I do things like that—even if my son was

supposed to be fatally injured. Can you ever forgive me?”

A year of misery! Valancy smiled a tortured smile as she thought of all

the happiness Dr. Trent’s mistake had bought her. But she was paying

for it now—oh, she was paying. If to feel was to live she was living

with a vengeance.

She let Dr. Trent examine her and answered all his questions. When he

told her she was fit as a fiddle and would probably live to be a

hundred, she got up and went away silently. She knew that there were a

great many horrible things outside waiting to be thought over. Dr.

Trent thought she was odd. Anybody would have thought, from her

hopeless eyes and woebegone face, that he had given her a sentence of

death instead of life. Snaith? Snaith? Who the devil had she married?

He had never heard of Snaiths in Deerwood. And she had been such a

sallow, faded, little old maid. Gad, but marriage _had_ made a

difference in her, anyhow, whoever Snaith was. Snaith? Dr. Trent

remembered. That rapscallion “up back!” Had Valancy Stirling married

_him_? And her clan had let her! Well, probably that solved the

mystery. She had married in haste and repented at leisure, and that was

why she wasn’t overjoyed at learning she was a good insurance prospect,

after all. Married! To God knew whom! Or what! Jail-bird? Defaulter?

Fugitive from justice? It must be pretty bad if she had looked to death

as a release, poor girl. But why were women such fools? Dr. Trent

dismissed Valancy from his mind, though to the day of his death he was

ashamed of putting those letters into the wrong envelopes.