"I shall be very well to-morrow," he said. "There is nothing the matter with me."
Jasper, as usual, cut in with some remark to change the subject, and, as usual, did all the talking; Stella sat silent, her eyes fixed on the distant sun sinking slowly to rest. The word "to-morrow" rang in her ears; this was the last day she could call her own; to-morrow, and all after to-morrows would be Jasper's. All the past, full of its sweet hopes and its passionate love, had gone by and vanished, and to-morrow she would stand at the altar as Jasper Adelstone's bride. It seemed so great a mockery as to be unreal, and at times she found herself regarding herself as another person, in whom she took the merest interest as a spectator.
It could not be that she, whom Leycester Wyndward had loved, should be going to marry Jasper Adelstone! Then she would look at the boy, so thin, and wan, and fading, and love would give her strength to carry out her sacrifice.
To-night he was very dear to her, and she sat holding his hand under the table; the thin, frail hand that closed with a spasmodic gesture of aversion when Jasper's smirkish voice broke in on the conversation. It was wonderful how the boy hated him.
Presently she whispered—"You must go and lie down again, Frank."
"No, not here," he said. "Let me go outside."
And she drew his hand through her arm and went out with him.
Jasper looked after them with a smile.
"Quite touching to see Frank's devotion to Stella," he said.
The old man nodded.