A Woman Martyr

								

hall accompanied Lady Thorne through the vestibule and up the wide
staircase, even she felt transient admiration.  White and gold
everywhere was the rule to-night at Arran House, where the famous marble
staircase had been brought from an old Venetian palazzo.  This evening’s
decorations were carried out in gold-yellow; after the gardens and
houses had been denuded of gold and white flowers to the disgust of the
ducal gardeners, the London florists had been commissioned to supply the
banks and wreaths and festoons of gold and white blossoms which
everywhere met the eye, perfumed the atmosphere, and made a fitting
background for the large staff of tall, handsome powdered men-servants
in black velvet and satin liveries, which was augmented to-night into a
very regiment.
One sickening glance round the magnificent ballroom, full of
delicately-beautiful toilettes, bright with flowers, lights, and
laughter, gay with the music of a well-known band--told her Vansittart
was not there.  However, she maintained her composure--he might yet
come--and with her usual chilly indifference allowed her few privileged
friends to inscribe their initials on her tiny tablet.  New partners she
declined, with the plea of fatigue.  But it was weary work!  She was
just telling herself, fiercely, that she could bear no more; she was
seeking Lady Thorne to implore a retreat, when she came upon Vansittart
talking pleasantly to her aunt in a cool corner.
"I was waiting for you," he said, looking into her eyes and reading in
them that which fired his blood.  "You will give me this dance?"
"Yes," she said, and she accompanied him, meek, silent, subdued, and
allowing him to encircle her slight waist with a firm, proprietory
clasp, glided round and round to the dreamy melody of the "Bienaimée"
valse. Once before, when she had first longed for his love, and felt the
throes of this overwhelming life-passion, they had danced together to
that swaying, suggestive melody.  He remembered it--remembered how to
feel her slight form almost in his embrace had urged him into a reckless
avowal of a love which was promptly rejected.  He set his teeth.  He was
at a white heat again--and she--?  By some subtle sense he believed his
moment had come.
"I must speak to you," he hoarsely said, as they halted, Joan white and
breathless with emotion.  "May I?"
She looked up into his eyes, and at the intensity of the appealing,
passionate abandonment to his will in that gaze, he thrilled with
triumph.
"We will go into the Duchess’s boudoir, I know we may," he said, feeling
a little giddy as he escorted her along a corridor and through the
drawing-rooms.  The boudoir was empty--one or two couples only were
seated in the adjacent anteroom, he saw at a glance they were well
occupied with their own flirtations. He closed the door, drew the
embroidered satin portiére across--they were alone in the dimly-lighted