A Woman Martyr

								

will not do."
No, she must endure her second martyrdom in secret, as she endured the
first. There was nothing else to be done.  And, she must become that
most subtle of all actresses--the actress in real life.
Morning came, and she declared herself too unwell with an attack of
neuralgia to rise. Her aunt came up and petted her, and she was left in
a darkened room until evening when she sat up for a little.
"You need not stay in to-night, Julie," she told her maid, a devoted, if
somewhat frivolous girl--her uncle and aunt, satisfied she was better,
had gone out to a dinner whither she should rightly have accompanied
them.  "Tell them not to disturb me unless I ring.  I shall go to bed
directly and get a long sleep."  Julie left her, half reluctant, half
eager, for her evening out--lying cosily on a soft sofa, the last new
novel from the library open in her hands.
As soon as she considered that those among the servants who indulged in
surreptitious outings were clear of the premises, and the supper bell
had summoned the others to the favourite meal of the day, she rose,
dressed herself in a short cycling costume and a long cloak, tied a veil
over her smallest, plainest hat, took a latchkey she had once laughingly
stolen from her uncle, but had never yet used, and after locking her
door and pocketing the key, crept quietly downstairs, crossed the
deserted hall, and shut herself out into the warm, cloudy night.

                               CHAPTER V

The big mansion of which she was the pampered, cherished darling, lay
solemn, pompous, solid, dark, behind her.  Before her, the pavement, wet
after a summer shower, shone in the lamplight.  Dark, waving shadows
against the driving clouds, with their fitful patches of moonlit sky,
were the trees in the enclosure, dangled by the wind.  She hurried
along--turning down the first by-street she came to--and emerging at its
end into one of the principal thoroughfares, she hailed a crawling
hansom.
"Regent’s Park, Clarence Gate," she said, in a muffled voice, as she
sprang lightly in.
To be dashing along the lighted streets to meet the absconded swindler
who had dared to take advantage of her girlish folly to make her his
wife by law, was delirious work. Cowering back in the corner of the
hansom, she gazed with sickened misery at the gay shop-windows, at the
crowded omnibuses, at the cheery passengers who carelessly stepped along
the pavement, looking as if all life were matter-of-fact, plain sailing,
"above-board."  A hundred shrill voices seemed clamouring in her
ears--"turn back--turn back!  Face the worst, but be honest!"  She had
almost flung up her arm and, opening the trap, bid the driver return,
when the memory of Vansittart--of his love--of his kiss--came surging
upon her with redoubled force.
"If I am a coward, I shall lose him!" cried her whole nature, fiercely.
No!  She must battle through: she must circumvent her enemy--the enemy