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Her very beauty seemed to grow more brilliant and bewitching. She moved about the place "like a poem," as Lord Charles declared. Her voice, always soft and musical, with unexpected harmonies, that charmed by their very surprises, was like music; and, more important still, it was seldom heard. She exacted none of the privileges of an engaged woman; she did not expect Leycester to sit with her by the hour, or walk about with her all day, or to whisper tender speeches, and lavish secret caresses. Indeed, she almost seemed to avoid being alone with him; in fact she humored him to the top of his bent, so that he did not even feel the chain with which he had bound himself.

And he was grateful to her; gradually the charm of her presence, the music of her voice, the feeling that she belonged to him told upon him, and he found himself at times sitting, watching, and listening to her with a strange feeling of pleasure. He was only mortal and she was not only supremely beautiful, but supremely clever. She had set herself to charm him, and he would have been less, or more than man, if he had been able to resist her.

So it happened that he was left much to himself, for Charlie, thinking himself rather _de trop_ and in the way, had taken himself off to join his shooting party, and Leycester spent most of his time wandering about the coast or riding over the hills, generally returning at dinner-time tired and thoughtful, and very often expecting some word or look of complaint from his beautiful betrothed.

But they never came. Exquisitely dressed, she always met him with the same serene smile, in which there was just a suggestion of tenderness she could not express, and never a question as to where he had been.

After dinner he would come and sit beside her, leaning back and watching her, too often absently, and listening to her as she talked to the others. To him she very seldom said much, but if he chanced to ask her for anything--to play or to sing--she obeyed instantly, as if he were already her lord and master. It touched him, her simple-minded devotion and thorough comprehension of him--touched him as no display of affection on her part would have done.

"Heaven help her, she loves me!" he thought, often and often. "And I!"

One evening they chanced to be alone together--he had come in after dinner, having eaten some sort of meal at a shooting lodge on the adjoining estate--and found her seated by the window, her white hands in her lap, a rapt look on her face.

She looked so supremely lovely, so rapt and solitary that his heart smote him, and he went up to her, his step making no sound on the thick carpet, and kissed her.

She started and looked up with a burning blush which transfigured her for a moment, then she said, quietly:

"Is that you, Leycester? Have you dined?"

"Yes," he said, with a pang of self-reproach. "Why should you think of that? I do not deserve that you should care whether I dine or not."

She smiled up at him; her eyebrows arched themselves.

"Should it not? But I do care, very much. Have you?"

He nodded impatiently.

"Yes. You do not even ask me where I have been?"

"No," she murmured, softly. "I can wait until you tell me; it is for you to tell me, and for me to wait."

Such submission, such meekness from her who was pride and hauteur personified to others, amazed him.

"By Heaven, Lenore!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, "there never was a woman like you."

"No?" she said. "I am glad you will have something that is unique then."

"Yes," he said, "I shall." Then he said, suddenly, "When am I to possess my gem, Lenore?"

She started, and turned her face from him.

He looked down at her, and put his hand on her shoulder, white and warm and responsive to his touch.

"Lenore, let it be soon. We will not wait. Why should we? Let us make ourselves and all the rest of them happy."

"Will it make you happy?" she asked.

It was a dangerous question, but the impulse was too strong.

"Yes," he said, and indeed he thought so. "Can you say the same, Lenore?"

She did not answer, but she took his hand and laid it against her cheek. It was the action of a slave--a beautiful and exquisitely-graceful woman, but a slave.

He drew his hand away and winced with remorse.

"Come," he said, bending over her, "let me tell them that it shall be next month."

"So soon?" she murmured.

"Yes," he said, almost impatiently. "Why should we wait? They are all impatient. I am impatient, naturally, but they all wish it. Let it be next month, Lenore."

She looked up at him.

"Very well," she said, in a low voice.

He bent over her, and put his arm round her, and there was something almost desperate in his face as he looked up at her.

"Lenore," he said, in a low voice, "I wish, to Heaven I wish I were worthy of you!"

"Hush!" she whispered, "you are too good to me. I am quite content, Leycester--quite content."

Then, as her head rested on his shoulder, she whispered, "There is only one thing, Leycester, I should like----"

She paused.

"What is it, Lenore?"

"It is about the place," she said. "You will not mind where it takes place, will you? I do not want to be married at Wyndward."

This was so exactly in accordance with his own wishes that he started.

"Not at Wyndward!" he said, hesitating. "Why?"

She was silent a moment.

"Fancy," she said, with a little rippling laugh. "Fancies are permitted one at such times, you know."

"Yes, yes," he said. "I know my mother and father would wish it to be there--or in London."

"Nor in London," she said, almost quickly. "Leycester, why should it not be here?"

He was silent. This again would be in accordance with his own desire.

"I should like a quiet wedding," she said. "Oh! very quiet."

"You!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "You, whose marriage would at any time have so much interest for the world in which you have moved--reigned, rather!"

She laughed again.

"It has always been one of my day-dreams to steal away to church with the man I loved, and be married without the usual fuss and formality."

He looked at her with a gleam of pleasure and relief in his eyes, little dreaming that it was for his sake she had made the proposal.

"How strange!" he muttered. "It--well, it is unlike what one fancies of you, Lenore."

"Perhaps," she said, with a smile, "but it is true, nevertheless. If I may choose, I would like to go down to the little church there, and be married like a farmer's daughter, or, if not that exactly, as quietly as possible."

He rose and stood looking out of the window, thoughtfully.

"I shall never understand you, Lenore." he said; "but this pleases me very much indeed. It has always been my day-dream, as you call it,"--he smothered a sigh. "Certainly it shall be as you wish! Why should it not be?"

"Very well," she said; "then that is agreed. No announcements, no fuss, no St. George's, Hanover Square, and no bishop!" and she rose and laughed softly.

He looked at her, and smiled.

"You appear in a new light every day, Lenore," he said. "If you had expressed my own thoughts and desires, you could not have hit them off more exactly; what will the mother say?"

The countess had a great deal to say about the matter. She declared that it was absurd, that it was worse than absurd; it was preposterous.

"It is all very well to talk of a farmer's daughter, my dear, but you are not a farmer's daughter; you are Lady Lenore Beauchamp, and he is the next earl. The world will say you have both taken leave of your senses."

Lenore looked at her with a sudden gleam in her violet eyes.

"Do you think I care?" she said, in a low voice--Leycester was not present. "I would not care whether we were married in Westminster Abbey, by the archbishop himself, with all the Court in attendance, or in a village chapel. It is not I, though I say so. It is for him. Say no more about it, dear Lady Wyndward; his lightest wish is law to me."

And the countess obeyed. The passionate devotion of the haughty beauty astonished even her, who knew something of what a woman's love can be capable of.

"My dear," she murmured, "do not give way too much."

The beauty smiled a strange smile.

"It is not a question of giving way," she retorted, with suppressed emotion. "It is simply that his wish is my law; I have but to obey--it will always be so, always." Then she slipped down beside the countess, and looked up with a sudden pallor.

"Do you not understand yet how I love him?" she said, with a smile. "No, I do not think anyone can understand but myself--but myself!"

The earl offered no remonstrance or objection.

"What does it matter!" he said. "The place is of no consequence. The marriage is the thing. The day Leycester is married, a heavy load of care and apprehension and I shall be divorced. Let them be married where they like, in Heaven's name."

So Harbor and Harbor were set to work, and the principal of that old-established and aristocratic firm came all the way down to Devonshire, and was closeted with the earl for a couple of hours, and the settlement deeds were put in hand.

Lady Lenore's fortune, which was a large one, was to be settled upon herself, supplemented by another large fortune from the hand of the earl. So large, that the lawyer ventured on a word of remonstrance, but the earl put it aside with a wave of the hand.

"It is the same amount as that which was settled upon the countess," he said. "Why should my son's wife have less?"

Quiet as the betrothal had been, and quietly as the nuptials were to be, rumors had spread, and presents were arriving daily. If Lenore could have found any particular pleasure in precious gems, and gold-fitted dressing-bags, and ivory prayer-books, there they were in endless variety for her delight, but they afforded her none beyond the fact of their being evidence of her coming happiness.

One present alone brought her joy, and that was Leycester's, and that not because the diamonds of which the necklet was composed were large and almost priceless, but for the fact that he fastened the jewels round her neck with his own hands.

"These are my necklets," she murmured, taking his hands as they touched her neck and pressing them.

How could he resist her?

And yet as the time moved on with that dogged obstinacy which it assumes for us while we would rather have it pause awhile, something of the old moodiness seemed to take possession of him. The long walks and rides grew longer, and often he would not return until late in the night, and then weary and listless. At such times it was Lenore who made excuses for him, if by chance the countess uttered a word of comment or complaint.

"Why should he not do as he likes?" she said, with a smile. "It is I who am the slave, not he."

But alone in her chamber, where already the signs of the approaching wedding were showing themselves in the shape of new dresses and wedding _trousseau_, the anguish of unrequited love overmastered her. Pacing to and fro, with clasped hands and pale face, she would utter the old moan, the old prayer, which the gods have heard since the world was young:

"Give me his love--give me his love! Take all else but let his heart turn to me, and to me only!"

If Stella could have known it, she was justly avenged already. Not even the anguish she had endured surpassed that of the proud beauty who had helped to rob her, and who had given her own heart to the man who had none to give her in return.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

"It certainly must have been made a hundred years after the rest of the world," said Mr. Etheridge. "Where on earth did you hear of it, Jasper?"

They were standing, the painter, Jasper, and Stella, on the little stretch of beach that fronted the tiny village of Carlyon, with its cluster of rough-stone cottages and weather-beaten church, the whole nestling under the shadow of the Cornish cliffs that kept the east winds at bay and offered a stern face to the wild seas which so often roared and raged at its base.

Jasper smiled.

"I can't exactly say, sir," he answered. "I met with it by chance, and it seemed to me just the place for our young invalid. You like it, Stella, I hope?" and he turned to Stella with a softened smile.

Stella was leaning on the old man's arm, looking out to sea, with a far-away expression in her dark eyes.

"Yes," she said, quietly; "I like it."

"Stella likes any place that is far from the madding crowd," remarked Mr. Etheridge, gazing at her affectionately. "You don't appear to have got back your roses yet, my child, however."

"I am quite well," she said, not so wearily as indifferently. "I am always well. It is Frank who is ill, you know, uncle."

"Ay, ay," he said, with the expression of gravity which always came upon him when the boy was mentioned. "He looks very pale and thin, poor boy."

Stella sighed, but Jasper broke in cheerfully--

"Better than when he first came," he said. "I noticed the difference directly I saw him. He will pick up his strength famously, you will see."

Stella sighed again.

"You must make sketches of this coast," said Jasper, as if anxious to get away from the subject. "It is particularly picturesque, especially about the cliffs. There is one view in particular which you should not fail to take; you get it from the top of the cliff there."

"Rather a dangerous perch," said Mr. Etheridge, shading his eyes and looking up.

"Yes, it is," assented Jasper. "I have been trying to impress the fact upon Stella. It is her favorite haunt, she tells me, and I am always in fear and trembling when I see her mounting up to it."

The old man smiled.

"You will soon have the right to protect her," he said, glancing at the church. "Have you made all the arrangements?"

Jasper's face flushed as he answered, but Stella's remained pale and set.

"Yes, everything is ready. The clergyman is a charming old gentleman, and the church is a picture inside. I tell Stella that one could not have chosen a more picturesque spot."

And he glanced toward her with the watchful smile.

Stella turned her face away.

"It is very pretty," she said, simply. "Shall we go in now? Frank will be expecting us."

"You must know," said Jasper, "that we are leading the most rustic of lives--dinner in the middle of the day, tea at five o'clock."

"I see," said Mr. Etheridge. "Quite a foretaste of Arcadia! But, after all," he added, perhaps remembering the long journey which he had been compelled to take, and which he disliked, "I can't see why you should not have been married at Wyndward."

Jasper smiled.

"And risk the chance of Lord Leycester turning up at the last moment and making a scene," he might have answered, if he had replied candidly; but instead, he said, lightly:

"Oh, that would have been too commonplace for such a romantic man as your humble servant, sir."

Mr. Etheridge eyed him in his usual grave, abstracted way.

"You are the last person I should have accused of a love of the romantic," he said.

"Then there was Frank," added Jasper, in a lower voice, but not too low to reach Stella, for whom the addition was intended; "he wanted a change, and he would not have come without Stella."

They entered the cottage, in the tiny sitting-room of which Mrs. Penfold had already set the tea.

Frank was lying on a sofa whose metallic hardness had been mitigated by cushions and pillows; and certainly if he was pulling up his strength, as Jasper asserted, it was at a very slow rate.

He looked thinner than ever, and there was a dark ring under his eyes which made the hectic flush still more beautiful by contrast than when we saw him last. He greeted their entrance with a smile at Stella, and a cold evasive glance at Jasper. She went and smoothed the pillow at his head; but, as if ashamed that the other should see his weakness, he rose and walked to the door.

The old man eyed him sadly, but smiled with affected cheerfulness.

"Well, Frank, how do you feel to-night? You must be well to the front to-morrow, you know, or you will not be the best man!"

Frank looked up with a sudden flush, then set down without a word.

"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.

"Poor boy!" he said--"poor boy!"

Jasper cleared his throat.

"I think he had better come with us on our wedding trip," he said. "It will give Stella pleasure, I know, and be a comfort to Frank."

The old man nodded.

"You are very kind and considerate," he said.

"Not at all," responded Jasper. "I would do anything to insure Stella's happiness. By-the-way, speaking of arrangements, I have executed a little deed of settlement----"

"Was that necessary?" asked Mr. Etheridge. "She comes to you penniless."

"I am not a rich man," said Jasper, meekly, "but I have secured a sufficient sum upon her to render her independent."

The old man nodded, gratefully.

"You have behaved admirably," he said; "I have no doubt Stella will be happy. You will bear with her, I hope, Jasper, and not forget that she is but a girl--but a girl."

Jasper inclined his head for a moment in silence. Bear! Little did the old man know how much he, Jasper, had to bear.

They sat talking for some little time, Jasper listening, as he talked, to the two voices outside--the clear, low, musical tones of Stella, the thin weak voice of the boy. Presently the voices ceased, and after a time he went out. Frank was sitting in the sunset light, his head on his hands.

"Where is Stella?" asked Jasper, almost sharply.

Frank looked up at him.

"She has escaped," he said, sardonically.

Jasper started.

"What do you mean?"

"She has gone on the cliffs for a stroll," said Frank, with a little smile at the alarm he had created and intended to create.

Jasper turned upon him with a suppressed snarl. He was battling with suppressed excitement to-night.

"What do you mean by escaped?" he demanded.

The hollow sunken eyes glared up at him.

"What did you think I meant?" he retorted. "You need not be frightened, she will come back," and he laughed bitterly.

Jasper glanced at him again, and after a moment of hesitation turned and went into the house.

Meanwhile Stella was climbing the steep ascent to the bit of table-land on the cliff. She felt suffocated and overwhelmed. "To-morrow! to-morrow!" seemed to ring in her ears. Was there no escape? As she looked down at the waves rolling in beneath her, and beating their crested heads against the rocks, she almost felt as if she could drop down to them and so find escape and rest. So strong was the feeling, the temptation, that she shrank back against the cliff, and sank down on dry and chalky turf, trembling and confused. Suddenly, as she thus sat, she heard a man's step coming up the cliff, and thinking it was Jasper, rose and pushed the hair from her face with an effort at self-command.

But it was not Jasper, it was a straighter, more stalwart figure, and in a moment, as he stood to look at the sea, she knew him. It was Leycester, and with a low, inarticulate cry, she shrank back against the cliff and watched him. He stood for a while motionless, leaning on his stick, his back turned from her, then he took up a pebble and dropped it down into the depths beneath, sighed, and to her intense relief, went down again.

But though he had not spoken, the sight of him, his dearly-loved presence so near her, shook her to her center. White and breathless she leaned against the hard rock, her eyes strained to catch the last glimpse of him; then she sank on to the ground and hiding her face in her hands burst into tears.

They were the first tears that she had shed since that awful day, and every drop seemed of molten fire that scorched her heart as it flowed from it.

If ever she had persuaded herself that the time might come when she would cease to love him, she knew, now that she had seen him again, that she could not so hope again. Never while life was left to her should she cease to love him. And to-morrow, to-morrow.

"Oh, my love, my love!" she murmured, stretching out her hands as she had done that night in the garden, "come back to me! I cannot let you go! I cannot do it! I cannot!"

Nerved by the intensity of her grief she sprang to her feet, and swiftly descended the cliff. Near the bottom there were two paths, one leading to the village, the other to the open country beyond. Instinctively she took the one leading to the village, and so missed Leycester, for he had gone down the other.

Had she but made a different choice, had she turned to the right instead of the left, how much would have been averted; but she sped, almost breathlessly to the left, and instead of Leycester found Jasper waiting for her.

With a low cry she stopped short.

"Where is he?" she asked, almost unconsciously. "Let me go to him!"

Jasper stared at her, then he grasped her arm.

"You have seen him!" he said, not roughly, not fiercely, but with a suppressed fury.

There was a rough seat cut out of the stone beside her, and she sank into it, shrinking away from his eager watching in quest of that other.

"You have seen him!" he repeated, hoarsely. "Do not deny it!"

The insult conveyed in the words recalled her to herself.

"Yes!" she said, meeting his gaze steadily; "I have seen him. Why should I deny it?"

"No," he said; "and you will not deny that you were running after him when I--I stopped you. You will admit that, I suppose?"

"Yes," she answered, with a deadly calm, "I was following him."

He dropped her arm which he had held, and pressed his hand to his heart to still the pang of its throbbing.

"You--you are shameless!" he said at last, hoarsely.

She did not speak.

"Do you realize what to-night is?" he said, glaring down at her. "This is our marriage eve; do you hear--our marriage eve?"

She shuddered, and put up her hands to her face.

"Did you plan this meeting?" he demanded, with a fierce sneer. "You will admit that, I suppose? It is only a mere chance that I did not find you in his arms; is that so? Curse him! I wish I had killed him when I met him just now!"

Then the old spirit roused itself in her bosom, and she looked up at him with a scornful smile on her beautiful, wasting face.

"You!" she said.

That was all, but it seemed to drive him mad. For a moment he stood breathless and panting.

The sight of his fury and suffering--for the suffering was palpable--smote her.

Her mood changed suddenly; with a cry she caught his arm.

"Oh, Jasper, Jasper! Have pity on me!" she cried; "have pity. You wrong me, you wrong him. He did not come to see me; he did not know I was here! We have not spoken--not a word, not a word!" and she moaned; "but as I stood and watched him, and saw how changed he was, and heard him sigh, I knew that he had not forgotten, and--and my heart went out to him. I--I did not mean to speak, to follow him, but I could not help it. Jasper, you see--you see, it is impossible--our marriage, I mean. Have pity on me and let me go! For your own sake let me go! Think, think! What satisfaction, what joy can you hope for? I--I have tried to love you, Jasper, but--but I cannot! All my life is his! Let me go!"

He almost flung her from him, then caught her again with an oath.

"By Heaven, I will not!" he cried, fiercely. "Once for all, I will not! Take care, you have made me desperate! It is your fault if I were to take you at your word."

He paused for breath; then his rage broke out again, more deadly for its sudden, unnatural quietude.

"Do you think I am blind and bereft of my senses not to see and understand what this means? Do you think you are dealing with a child? You have waited your time, and bided your chance, and you think it has come. Would you have dared to do this a month ago? No, there was no certainty of the boy's death then; but now--now that you see he will die, you think my power is at an end----"

With a cry she sprang to her feet and confronted him, terror in her face, an awful fear and sorrow in her eyes. As the cry left her lips, it seemed to be echoed by another close behind them, but neither of them noticed it.

"Frank--die!" she gasped. "No, no; not that! Tell me that you did not mean it, that you said it only to frighten me."

He put her imploring hand away with a bitter sneer.

"You would make a good actress," he said, "do you mean to tell me that you were not counting on his death? Do you mean to tell me that you would not have wound up the scene by begging for more time--time to allow you to escape, as you would call it! You think that once the boy is dead you can slip from your bargain and laugh at me! You are mistaken; since the bargain was struck, I have strove, as no man ever strove, to make it easy for you, to win your love, because I loved you. I love you no longer, but I will not let you go. Love you! As there is a Heaven above us, I hate you to-night, but you shall not go."

She shrank from him cowering, as he towered above her, like some beautiful maiden in the old myths shrinking from some devouring monster.

"Listen to me," he said, hoarsely, "to-morrow I either give this paper"--and he snatched the forged bill from his breast pocket and struck it viciously with his quivering hand--"I either give it into your hands as my wife, or I give it to the nearest magistrate. The boy will die! It rests with you whether he dies at peace or in a jail."

White and trembling she sat and looked at him.

"This is my answer to your pretty prayer," he said, with a bitterness incredible. "It is for you to decide--I use no further argument. Soft speeches and loving words are thrown away upon you; besides, the time has passed for them. There is no love, no particle of love, in my heart for you to-night--I simply stand by my bond."

She did not answer him, she scarcely heard him; she was thinking of that sad face that had appeared to her for a moment as if in reproach, and vanished ghost-like; and it was to it that she murmured:

"Oh, my love--my love!"

He heard her; and his face quivered with speechless rage; then he laughed.

"You made a great mistake," he said, with a sneer--"a very great mistake, if you are invoking Lord Leycester Wyndward. He may be your love, but you are not his! It is a matter of small moment--it does not weigh a feather in the balance between us--but the truth is, 'your love' is now Lady Lenore Beauchamp's!"

Stella looked up at him, and smiled wearily.

"A lie? No," he said, shaking his head tauntingly. "I have known it for weeks past. It is in every London paper. But that is nothing as between you and me--I stand by my bond. To-morrow the boy's fate lies in your hands or in that of the police. I have no more to say--I await your answer. I do not even demand it to-night--no doubt you would be----"

She arose, white and calm, her eyes fixed on him.

"--I say I await your answer till to-morrow. Acts, not words, I require. Fulfill your part of the bargain, and I will fulfill mine."

As he spoke he folded the forged bill which, in his excitement, had blown open, and put it slowly into his pocket again; then he wiped his brow and looked at her, biting his lip moodily.

"Will you come with me now," he said, "or will you wait and consider your course of action?"

His question seemed to rouse her; she raised her head, and disregarding his proffered arm, went slowly past him to the house.

He followed her for a few steps, then stopped, and with his head on his breast, went toward the cliffs. His fury had expended itself, and left a confused, bewildering sensation behind. For the time it really seemed, as he said, that his baffled love had turned to hate. But as he thought of her, recalling her beauty, his hate shrank back and returned to its old object.

"Curse him!" he hissed, "it is he who has done this! If he had not come to-night this would not have happened. Curse him! From the first he has stood in my path. Let her go! To him! Never! No, to-morrow she shall be mine in spite of him, she cannot draw back, she will not!"

Then his brain cleared; he began to upbraid himself for his violence. "Fool, fool!" he muttered, hoarsely, as he climbed the path, scarcely heeding where he went. "I have lost her love forever! Why did I not bear with her a few hours longer? I have borne with her so long that I should have borne with her to the end! It was that cry of hers that maddened me! Heaven! to think that she should love him so; that she should have clung to him so persistently, him whom she had not seen for months, and keep her heart steeled against me who have hung about her like a slave! But I will be her slave no longer, to-morrow makes me her master."