A Woman Martyr

								

is ridiculous to suggest such a thing!" she said, disgustedly--then,
touching Nora’s flank lightly with her heel, she rode off; he followed,
springing down to assist her to alight.  But she frowned at him.
"You had better hold her, please," she suggested.  "Where is that groom
of mine? Oh, there he is!  I shall be quite half an hour. You might
inspect the neighbourhood."
"Thanks for the suggestion, perhaps I shall!" he good humouredly
returned, with a scrutinizing glance at a stern old face framed by the
cottage window panes, which disappeared as he looked; and as Joan
slipped nonchalantly off her panting steed and went within,
congratulating herself upon having furnished herself with a good chance
of losing or evading him and returning alone, he decided to remain well
out of sight of the cottage, but only where he could keep his eye on the
groom and the horses.
"Well, Nana, here I am, you see," said Joan, entering and embracing the
worn old crone who stood leaning on her stick in the middle of the
kitchen and parlour combined. It was a dark, low room, filled with some
old-fashioned furniture--remnants of Joan’s vicarage home.  A big old
arm-chair stood by the fireplace, where there was a bright little fire,
although in a few weeks it would be midsummer.  "Sit down at once!"  She
led her gently back to her chair.  "Poor old dear!  You have been bad
this time, haven’t you?  You mustn’t spare the doctor--send his bill to
me!  You got that chicken panada and jelly?  That’s right!  I’ve brought
some money for little things----"
"Never mind money, dearie! but tell me who’s the gentleman?" said the
old woman, whose large, shining eyes shone living in her emaciated,
deathly face--shading her eyes with her skinny, clawlike hand, and
gazing anxiously at Joan, who had drawn a low folding chair near and was
seated opposite the fire.  "I like his face, that I do!  I saw him as
you got down from your horse."
"It is Lord Vansittart," said Joan, frowning slightly.
The old woman bent forward, and scrutinized her nursling’s expressive
features.
"You like him?" she suddenly asked. "Oh, if you do, may the Lord be
praised!"
Joan gave a bitter, hopeless laugh.
"What good would it do me if I did?" she mournfully said.
"What good?"  The aged crone leant forward and clasped Joan’s gauntleted
wrists with her dark, clawlike hands.  "Oh, my blessed darlint!  If you
could only be married--to a real gentleman like him--and would forget
all about that business, and that wretched chap, I should die happy,
that I should!  You have forgot him, haven’t you, dearie?"
Mrs. Todd gazed anxiously at Joan’s gloomy, miserable, yet most
beautiful eyes. There was a far away look--a look of mingled dread and
aversion, as if beyond all, she could see some loathsome, terrible
object.
"Forget the curse of my life?" she bitterly exclaimed.  "For, while I do
not know where he is, if he is alive or dead, my life is accursed....