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.
