A Woman Martyr

								

room.
He turned to her as she stood gazing at him, pale, fascinated.  He took
her hands. "Joan!" he said--then, as he felt her passion, he simply drew
her into his arms, and stooping, kissed her lips--a long, passionate
kiss.
To feel his lips on hers was ecstacy to her--for a few moments she
forgot all--it was like heaven before its time.  Then she feebly pushed
him away, and gave a low moan.
"Oh! what have I done?" she wailed, and she glanced about like a hunted
creature. "How could you?"
"You love me!  What is to keep us asunder?" he hoarsely cried.  As she
sank shuddering, gasping, into a chair, he fell at her knees, and
embraced them.  "I am the happiest man on earth!  For your uncle will
approve, and you--you, Joan!  All that was wanted was your love to make
you my dear--wife!"
"Wife!"  She sank back and groaned. "I shall never be any man’s wife!"
she said. "Why?  Because I do not want to be! That is all!  Because I
never shall and will be!"
Was she crazy?  He rose, slowly, and contemplated her.  No!  There were
anguish and suffering in the lines about her mouth and eyes--in those
lustrous, strained brown orbs--but no insanity.
"We must talk it all over.  I must--I mean, I may see you to-morrow, may
I not?" he gently said, drawing a chair near, and seating himself
between her and the door, he besought at least one interview, so that
they should "understand each other."  He had but just obtained a
reluctant consent to a tête-à-tête on the morrow, when the door
suddenly opened, a gay young voice cried, "surely there can’t be any one
in here!" and a bright face peeped round the curtain and at once
disappeared.
"Lady Violet!" exclaimed Joan, starting up.  "She has seen us!"
"And if she has?" asked her lover, mystified by her terror at having
been discovered alone with him by the Duke’s eldest daughter. Still,
with the promise of an elucidatory interview, he obeyed her wishes, and
left her to return to the ballroom without his escort.
She did not linger: she almost fled, scared, from the boudoir through
the drawing-rooms, into the corridor.  Which way led to the ballroom?
Hesitating, glancing right and left, she saw one of the picturesque
black-clad servitors coming towards her.  She would ask him.
As he advanced, the man’s face riveted her attention.  Not because of
its wax mask-like regularity, and the intent, glittering stare of the
black eyes which fixed themselves boldly upon her own; but because the
countenance was singularly like one which haunted her memory--waking and
sleeping--the hideous ghost of her foolish past.
"Heavens--how terribly like him!" she murmured to herself,
unconsciously, involuntarily shrinking back against the wall as he came
near.
Like!  As the man came up, and halted, she gave a strangled cry like the
pitiful dying wail of a poor hare.
"I see, you recognize me," he said, in a low voice, with a bitter little
smile.  "Don’t be alarmed!  I am not going to claim you publicly, here,