And she was young, she thought, with a sigh, "so young, and so strong," she might live for—for years! Oh, the long, dreary vista of years that stretched before her, down which she would drag with tired feet as Jasper Adelstone's wife. No thought of appealing to him, to his mercy, ever occurred to her; she had learned to know him, during that short hour in London, so well as to know that any such appeal would be useless. The sphinx rearing its immovable head above the dreary desert could not be more steadfast, more unyielding than this man who held her in his grasp.
"No," she murmured, "I have taken up this burden; I must carry it to the end. Would to Heaven that end were nigh."
She turned with dragging step toward the house, scarcely hearing, utterly heedless of the sound of approaching wheels; even when they stopped outside the gate she did not notice; but suddenly a voice cried, in low and tremulous accents, "Stella!" and she turned, with her hand pressed to her bosom. She knew the voice, and it went to her heart like a knife. It was not his, but so like, so like.
She turned and started, for there, standing in the moonlight, leaning on the arm of her maid, was Lady Lilian.
The two stood for a moment regarding each other in silence, then Stella came nearer.
Lady Lilian held out her hand, and Stella came and took her by her arm.
"Wait for me in the lane, Jeanette," said Lady Lilian. "You will let me lean on you, Stella," she added, softly.
Stella took her and led her to a seat, and the two sat in silence. Stella with her eyes on the ground, Lilian with hers fixed on the pale, lovely face—more lovely even than when she had last seen it, flushed with happiness and love's anticipation. A pang shot through the tender heart of the sick girl as she noted the dark rings under the beautiful eyes, the tightly drawn lips, the wan, weary face.
"Stella," she murmured, and put her arm round her.
Stella turned her face; it was almost hard in her effort at self-control.