The Blue Castle

r. 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.