The Lamp of Fate Part 54

Catherine, watching closely the changes on the pale, sensitive face, spoke again.

"Of course, if you feel you have not the strength of will to keep your vow, you must not take it."

The words acted like a spur. Instantly, Magda's decision was taken.

"If I take the vow, I shall have strength of mind to keep it," she said.

The following evening Magda composedly informed Gillian that she proposed to take a vow of expiation and retire into the community of the Sisters of Penitence for a year. Gillian was frankly aghast; she had never dreamed of any such upshot to the whole miserable business of Magda's broken engagement.

"But it is madness!" she protested. "You would hate it!"

Magda nodded.

"That's just it. I've done what I liked all my life. And you know what the result has been! Now I propose to do what I _don't_ like for a year."

Neither persuasion nor exhortation availed to shake her resolution, and in despair Gillian referred the matter to Lady Arabella, hoping she might induce Magda to change her mind.

Lady Arabella accepted the news with unexpected composure.

"It is just what one might expect from the child of Hugh Vallincourt,"

she said thoughtfully. "It's the swing of the pendulum. There's always been that tendency in the Vallincourts--the tendency towards atonement by some sort of violent self-immolation. They are invariably _excessive_--either excessively bad like the present man, Rupert, or excessively devout like Hugh and Catherine! By the way, the Sisters of Penitence is the community Catherine first joined. I wonder if she is there still? Probably she's dead by now, though. I remember hearing some years ago that she was seriously ill--somewhere about the time of Hugh's death. That's the last I ever heard of her. I've been out of touch with the whole Vallincourt family for so many years now that I don't know what has become of them."

"You don't mean to say that you're going to _let_ Magda do what she proposes?" exclaimed Gillian, in dismayed astonishment.

"There's never much question of 'letting' Magda do things, is there?" retorted Lady Arabella. "If she's made up her mind to be penitential--penitential she'll be! I dare say it won't do her any harm."

"I don't see how it can do her any good," protested Gillian. "Magda isn't cut out for a sisterhood."

"That's just why it may be good for her."

"I don't believe in mortification of the flesh and all that sort of thing, either," continued Gillian obstinately.

"My dear, we must all work out our own salvation--each in his own way.

Prayer and fasting would never be my method. But for some people it's the only way. I believe it is for the Vallincourts. In any case, it's only for a year. And a year is very little time out of life."

Nevertheless, at Gillian's urgent request, Lady Arabella made an effort to dissuade Magda from her intention.

"If you live long enough, my dear," she told her crispy, "providence will see to it that you get your deserts. You needn't be so anxious to make sure of them. Retribution is a very sure-footed traveller."

"It isn't only retribution, punishment, I'm looking for," returned Magda. "It is--I can't quite explain it, Marraine, but even though Michael never sees me or speaks to me again, I'd like to feel I'd made myself into the sort of woman he _would_ speak to."

From that standpoint she refused to move, declining even to discuss the matter further, but proceeded quietly and unswervingly with her arrangements. The failure to complete her contract at the Imperial Theatre involved her in a large sum of money by way of forfeit, but this she paid ungrudgingly, feeling as though it were the first step along the new road of renunciation she designed to tread.

To the manager she offered no further explanation than that she proposed to give up dancing, "at any rate for a year or so," and although he was nearly distracted over the idea, he found his arguments and persuasions were no more effective than those King Canute optimistically addressed to the encroaching waves. The utmost concession he could extract from Magda was her a.s.sent to giving a farewell appearance--for which occasion the astute manager privately decided to quadruple the price of the seats. He only wished it were possible to quadruple the seating capacity of the theatre as well!

Meanwhile Gillian, whose normal, healthy young mind recoiled from the idea of Magda's self-imposed year of discipline, had secretly resolved upon making a final desperate venture in the hope of straightening out the tangle of her friend's life. She would go herself and see Michael and plead with him. Surely, if he loved Magda as he had once seemed to do, he would not remain obdurate when he realised how bitterly she had repented--and how much she loved him!

It was not easy for Gillian to come to this decision. She held very strong opinions on the subject of the rights of the individual to manage his own affairs without interference, and as she pa.s.sed out of the busy main street into the quiet little old-world court where Michael had his rooms and studio she felt as guilty as a small boy caught trespa.s.sing in an orchard.

The landlady who opened the door in response to her somewhat timid ring regarded her with a curiously surprised expression when she inquired if Mr. Quarrington were in.

"I'll see, miss," she answered non-committally, "if you'll step inside."

The unusual appearance of the big double studio where she was left to wait puzzled Gillian. All the familiar tapestries and cushions and rare knick-knacks which wontedly converted the further end of it into a charming reception room were gone. The chairs were covered in plain holland, the piano sheeted. But the big easel, standing like a tall cross in the cold north light, was swathed in a dust-sheet. Gillian's heart misgave her. Was she too late? Had Michael--gone away?

A moment later a quick, resolute footstep rea.s.sured her. The door opened and Michael himself came in. He paused on the threshold as he perceived who his visitor was, then came forward and shook hands with his usual grave courtesy. After that, he seemed to wait as though for some explanation of her visit.

Gillian found herself nervously unready. All the little opening speeches she had prepared for the interview deserted her suddenly, driven away by her shocked realisation of the transformation which the few days since she had last seen him had wrought in the man beside her.

His face was lined and worn. The grey eyes were sunken and burned with a strange, bitter brilliance. Only the dogged, out-thrust jaw remained the same as ever--obstinate and unconquerable. Twice she essayed to speak and twice failed. The third time the words came stumblingly.

"Michael, what--what does it mean--all this?" She indicated the holland-sheeted studio with a gesture.

"It means that I'm going away," he replied. "I'm packing now. I leave England to-morrow."

"You mustn't go!"

The words broke from her imperatively, like a mandate.

He glanced at her quickly and into his eyes came a look of comprehension.

"You're a good friend," he said quietly. "But I must go."

"No, no, you mustn't! Listen--"

"Nothing can alter my decision," he interrupted in a tone of absolute finality. "Nothing you could say, Gillian--so don't say it."

"But I must!" she insisted. "Oh, Michael, I'm not going to pretend that Magda hasn't been to blame--that it isn't all terrible! But if you saw her--now--you'd _have_ to forgive her and love her again." She spoke with a simple sincerity that was infinitely appealing.

"I've never ceased to love her," he replied, still in that quiet voice of repressed determination.

"Then if you love, her, can't you forgive her? She's had everything against her from the beginning, both temperament and upbringing, and on top of that there's been the wild success she's had as a dancer. You can't judge her by ordinary standards of conduct. You _can't_! It isn't fair."

"I don't presume to judge her"--icily. "I simply say I can't marry her."

"If you could see her now, Michael----" Her voice shook a little. "It hurts me to see Magda--like that. She's broken----"

"And my sister, June, is dead," he said in level, unemotional tones.

Gillian wrung her hands.

"But even so----! Magda didn't kill her, Michael. She couldn't tell--she didn't know that June----" She halted, faltering into silence.

"That June was soon to have a child?" Michael finished her sentence for her. "No. But she knew she loved her husband. And she stole him from her. When I think of it all, of June . . . little June! . . . And Storran--gone under! Oh, what's the use of talking?"--savagely. "You know--and I know--that there's nothing left. Nothing!"

"If you loved her, Michael--"

"If I loved her!" he broke out stormily. "You're not a man, and you don't know what it means to want the woman you love night and day, to ache for her with every fibre of your body--and to know that you can't have her and keep your self-respect!"