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Updated: June 14, 2025
Since, if these two were on the verge of becoming engaged, the mere fact would clear away the indefinable shadows which seemed to have been menacing her own happiness from the time Miss Vallincourt had come to Stockleigh. "Tea is just ready," she announced, approaching. "Will you come in? And perhaps your friend will have tea with us?" she added shyly.
Then as was the case with any correspondence addressed to one of the Sisters of Penitence the letter would be read by the Mother Superior and passed on to its destined recipient if she thought good. If not Gillian had learned a great deal about Catherine Vallincourt by now, both from Lady Arabella and from Magda herself, who, before leaving the community, had discovered the identity of its head.
A fresh difficulty had occurred to her; Davilof might chance to give away to the Storrans the secret of her identity. "Oh, by the way," she said hurriedly. "They don't know me here as Magda Wielitzska. I'm plain Miss Vallincourt to them enjoying the privileges of being a nobody! You'll be sure to remember, won't you?"
"Is it Miss Vallincourt?" Magda nodded and proceeded to introduce Gillian. But Storran's glance only rested cursorily on Gillian's soft, pretty face, returning at once to Magda's as though drawn thither by a magnet. "I'm sorry I couldn't meet your train myself to-day," he said, a note of eager apology in his voice. Magda smiled at him. "So am I," she answered.
Gillian's absolute honesty of soul could not acquiesce, though it would have been infinitely the easier course. "No," she said, flushing a little and speaking very low. "We heard that she might have lived if if she had only been happier." He nodded silently, rather as though this was the answer he had anticipated. Presently he spoke abruptly: "Does Miss Vallincourt know that?" Gillian hesitated.
June Storran had no possibility of knowing that this dark, slender woman to whom she had let her rooms was the famous dancer, Magda Wielitzska, since the rooms had been engaged in the name of Miss Vallincourt, but she responded to Magda's unfailing charm as a flower to the sun. "It will be lovely for us, too," she replied.
Hugh Vallincourt, therefore, was conscious at this critical moment of no questionings on that particular score. He was merely a prey to the normal tremors and agitations of a husband and prospective father. For an ageless period, it seemed to him, his thoughts had clung about that upstairs room where his wife lay battling for her own life and another's.
Michael Quarrington's got too much good red blood in his veins to live the life of a hermit. He's a man, thank goodness, not a mystical dreamer like Hugh Vallincourt. And he'll come back to his mate as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow." "I wish I felt as confident as you do." "I wish I could make sure of putting my hand on Magda when he comes," grumbled Lady Arabella.
Afterwards she had given herself up to despair, and gradually almost imperceptibly at first her health had declined until finally, at the urgent representations of Virginie, Hugh had called in Dr. Lancaster. "There is no specific disease," he had said. "But none the less" looking very directly at Hugh "your wife is dying, Vallincourt."
The house was very silent. An odour of disinfectants pervaded the atmosphere. Upstairs hushed, swift steps moved to and fro. Hugh Vallincourt stood at the window of his study, staring out with unseeing eyes at the smooth, shaven lawns and well-kept paths with their background of leafless trees.
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