Her Dark Inheritance

CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE COMMAND. Life had seemed strange to Beatrix in that gloomy mansion in the Crescent City. From the night of her arrival she had scarcely seen old Bernard Dane—a circumstance which she could not regret; for, try as she might to shut her eyes to the truth, there was nothing pleasant or lovable about the old man. He was, indeed, everything repulsive; and his strange, wild outbursts of rage and malice against some evil which he could not prevent or forget—something hidden away in his own past—made Beatrix tremble with terror. She shrank from the gaze of his shifting dark eyes, preternaturally bright with some hidden fire which made them appear like fierce flames ready to burst forth and devour her. Since the evening of her arrival she had never again attempted any familiar or affectionate demonstrations. She had kept at a respectful distance, and comprehended fully that there was no possibility of any friendliness between them. Why had he sent for her to come to his home, only to treat her with chilling coldness or outbursts of ungovernable rage? When she thought of the oath that he had extorted from her—her solemn promise to wed the man whom he had selected as her husband—Beatrix's heart grew faint and chill with horror. How did she know but that she had pledged herself to a fearful fate—a dark, an awful future, bound to a man whom she might hate at first sight? And then she thought of Keith Kenyon, and her heart grew warm and tender. Could she ever forget him, even though she might never see him again? Was it possible for her to shut her heart against the sweet thoughts which would intrude—the few tender words that he had spoken, and, above all, the light in his beautiful dark eyes, which had thrilled her to the heart? "I can not forget him," she would say over and over, when the unpleasant recollection of the oath that she had so blindly taken would come back to her memory—"I can not forget him, and there will be no use in trying. Uncle Bernard may force me into a dreadful marriage if he sees fit—I suppose I shall have to obey him, the old tyrant!—but I shall never forget Keith Kenyon as long as I live—never!" The great, gloomy old mansion was well worth exploring, for it was like the houses of which one reads in romances, where some dark mystery seems to be hidden away secure from the light of day and prying, curious eyes. There was one room called the tower-room. Beatrix went there every day, impelled by a strange and unaccountable fascination, to sit alone and wonder over and over again for what use the room had been originally intended. It was reached by a long spiral staircase, and was built in a circular shape, and known as the "round room." There was only one window, and that was merely a small square hole in the wall, and was covered with a strong iron grating. For what purpose had this room been intended? In vain did Beatrix puzzle her brain over the vexed question. Mrs. Graves, the old housekeeper, looked cold and non-committal when Beatrix at last ventured to propound the question. "I really can not tell you, Miss Dane," she said, shaking her gray head slowly and solemnly. "It has never been used for anything since I have been in the Dane family, and that is nearly thirty years now—just once!" The thin lips closed down tightly together, and she turned resolutely away, as though to give Beatrix to understand that the tortures of the Inquisition could draw forth no more information from her. Left to herself, Beatrix speculated continually upon the romance which she felt certain must be connected with the round room in the western wing. She reflected so much upon the subject, and it grew to be so all-absorbing a source of wonder to her lonely girlish heart, that one day she made up her mind quite bravely to seek for information at headquarters. That very day, accidentally encountering old Bernard Dane in the great entrance hall, she ventured to put the question to him. "Uncle Bernard," she began in a rather shaky voice—for, to tell the truth, she was horribly afraid of the old man—"you gave me permission to go all over the house when I first came here, and I have done so. I have so little to occupy my time," she added, half apologetically. "It has interested me very much to go into all those beautiful rooms. But I would like to ask you a question. Why was that round room built in the tower? For what purpose was it intended? I am greatly interested, and would like to know." She stopped short, awed by the awful look in his eyes and the strange gray shadow which had settled down upon his face. Not a word was spoken for some minutes; he stood as still as a statue, one hand clutching at the carved back of a Gothic hall chair with such force that one of the elaborate ornaments snapped off in his grasp. "The round room, eh?" he cried in a harsh, croaking voice—"the round room in the tower? Ha! ha! you have been there, then? I ought to have known that you would have found your way there before you had been under this roof four-and-twenty hours! So you wish to know for what purpose the round room was designed? Ah, Miss Beatrix Dane, you may find that out sooner than you wish, and the knowledge of the truth will drive you mad! In the long black nights and the dreary darksome days, when you will pray for death and find it not, then you will learn the secret which is mercifully hidden from you now. Mercifully—ay, but why should I show mercy to you or yours? Mercy! Who has ever been merciful to me? Do I not owe it to your accursed race that I am what I am? Ah, Miss Beatrix Dane, ask no idle questions. You are fated to know for what purpose that room was built, to know in good time. Don't touch me, girl!"—for she had ventured to lay her hand upon his trembling arm—"don't dare to touch me, or I will strike you down at my feet! The very touch of your hands is pollution!" She drew back, faint and shivering, as though he had indeed dealt her a blow; her face was as white as marble, her dark eyes dilated with unutterable horror—horror too deep for expression. What was this fearful secret which Bernard Dane held over her head, continually like a two-edged sword? What effect was it destined to have upon her future life? She turned away, faint and trembling. It crept into her mind then—dawning upon her with a strange feeling of uneasiness—that ever since her arrival at the old mansion she had been treated in a strangely formal way, a sort of stand-off-and-don't-touch-me way, which was remarkable, to say the least. Her room was in a remote wing of the building. Everything there was solely for her own use, set apart for her. She remembered now, with a faint sickness creeping over her heart, how strangely Mrs. Graves had watched her every movement. Did they suspect that she was going mad? No; it could not be that; for madness is not contagious, and the precautions with which she was surrounded looked greatly as though some contagion was feared and must be guarded against. The very dishes upon which she ate were used by no one else. She had seen Mrs. Graves actually strike the little maid-servant who one day was about to raise to her lips the half-empty goblet of milk from which Beatrix had been drinking. It was strange and mysterious. The girl turned away from the sight of the wild, distorted face of the old man before her with a hopeless feeling tearing at her heart-strings. She went slowly back to her own room and sat down at the window. "There must be some awful curse hanging over me!" she murmured, brokenly. "I can not imagine what this strange mystery means. I wish I could find out. I wish I might know. Anything is better than suspense!" Alas! poor Beatrix! ignorance was certainly bliss in her case, if only she could have known it. The day would come when she would look back upon this blissful ignorance and curse the hour when first she had heard the mystery explained. That very night old Bernard Dane sent for Beatrix to come to his room. She obeyed the summons, and found him crouching over the fire, looking like some weird priest of old performing an incantation. "Come here!" he commanded, harshly, lifting his head and transfixing her with wild eyes as the girl entered the room—"come here, Beatrix Dane! Put your hand into that fire—right into the flame, I say. Yes; you must do it. You swore to be obedient to me, and it is for a good reason that I wish to put you to a test. I wish to prove the truth. Of course you think me mad for desiring this, but I am as sane as you are. This is a test, I tell you. The day may come when you will see the wisdom of my words. Come; you must obey me. Don't stand staring at me in that helpless way. I mean what I say, and I will be obeyed. Put your hand in the fire, and hold it there quietly for a moment!" CHAPTER IX. JUST IN TIME. Beatrix stood staring blankly into the old man's excited face, with a strange feeling of sickening terror creeping over her heart. Was he mad? In Heaven's name, what did he mean? Was she shut up alone in this dreary old house with a raving madman? She stood there, trembling like a leaf, quailing before the steady stare of his wild, dark eyes burning into hers with a look of awful meaning. "Oh, Uncle Bernard!" she faltered at length, striving hard to steady her tremulous voice, "surely you do not mean that? You are only jesting, of course. You surely could not mean for me to do such a thing—such an unheard-of thing? Why, think of the suffering I would endure—the pain and torture, and don't ask me to do such a mad thing, Uncle Bernard! And—for what purpose?" His bloodshot eyes gleamed with a curious light. "For what purpose? That is for me to know, Miss Beatrix Dane. I have already told you that this is a test. A test of what , you will ask, with all a woman's curiosity. But that question I shall not now answer. Should the test fail , then I shall be at liberty to tell you all, and you will have cause to be grateful, Beatrix. But there is no other way to prove the truth only by this, which seems so absurd to you. You must try and be brave, and obey me, Beatrix. You must thrust your right hand into the flames; that was the advice of the physician whom I consulted. 'If you can induce the young lady to put her hand in the fire,' so Doctor De Trobriand informed me, 'you will soon know the worst. If the thing you suspect should prove to be true, then—' But there, Beatrix, I must not reveal to you the rest of the doctor's opinion. That is a professional secret. Do you still refuse?" "I do." Beatrix's voice was stern, and her eyes full of a resolute light. Surely the man before her was a lunatic, and she must not allow him to intimidate her. "I do refuse—absolutely!" she repeated, bravely. "Your command is not reasonable, and I shall not obey it. You must be mad, Uncle Bernard, to expect obedience to such a command!" "You refuse, eh?" He started to his feet, white with anger. "Remember that I know best, and this is best for you, a necessary test, I say. But since you refuse, I shall be compelled to use force." He seized her hands and dragged her forcibly to the fireside, the poor girl writhing and struggling in his grasp. "Uncle Bernard—for the love of Heaven, stop!" she pleaded; "stop and think what you are doing! You are about to inflict the most terrible torture upon me; you will doubtless maim me for life. Uncle Bernard—Uncle Bernard, for the love of Heaven—I beg of you to stop—to spare me! Please—please— please !" The sweet voice grew weaker and fainter as the old man forced her nearer the burning coals within the grate; in his eyes the fire of a fiendish purpose, his face as white as marble. "I am obliged to do it, Beatrix," he said in a low, ominous voice. "If the result proves satisfactory, I shall be at liberty to explain the mystery to you, and then you will know the unutterable horror that you have escaped. If the fire burns you— pray that the fire will burn you, Beatrix," he broke off, wildly—"pray that your little hand may be scarred for all time, rather than have that awful curse to fall upon you. Oh, yes, I know you think me a madman! but listen to me, child"—his voice softening a little: "You think me a madman—a brute—a fiend; but when you have heard the truth you will think differently. I have sought vengeance all my life, but somehow your piteous eyes and helpless loneliness have made me feel a little kinder, and if it were not for Keith Kenyon, and the debt of vengeance that I owe—" He stopped short, checking himself with a strange, half-angry gesture, as though he regretted having spoken so freely. "This much I can tell you, Beatrix"—his voice had fallen almost to a whisper. There was no sound to break the awful silence of the room, save old Bernard Dane's heavy breathing and the dropping of a coal in the grate. Beatrix stood there, her hands crushed in his iron grasp—one would never have dreamed that the old man was so strong—and listened eagerly, breathlessly, to his next words. "This much I will tell you," he went on, slowly; "and after you have heard it, I think you will agree with me. Yours is a fearful heritage, Beatrix—an heritage of woe. I will not put it into words, for if you were to know it—to know the secret of your own dark inheritance—it would kill you as you stand there before me. Beatrix, there is poison in your very life-blood—an awful taint suspected, which can only be proved by this crucial test. Beatrix, obey me; place your hand in yonder fire, as I bid you. If it comes forth burned and disfigured—a mass of horrible burns and unsightly scars, your body racked with suffering, then thank your God upon bended knee that you have escaped the doom of your race. If, on the other hand, contact with the fire should have no effect upon you, I advise you, young and fair though you are, to take your own life ! Will you place your hand in the flame?" She shrank back, paling and shivering. "I—can not!" she faltered. "I—" "Hush! You shall—you must !" With a swift movement he dragged her close to the fire, and bending her slight form forward, was about to lay the little white hand upon the bed of live coals, when all at once there was a loud peal at the gate-bell. A moment later, before old Dane could carry out his horrible intention, the door of the room was thrown open, and a tall form bounded over the threshold. One swift glance, and the newcomer sprang to the fireside, and seizing the old man by the shoulder, forced him into the nearest seat; then, before Bernard Dane could recover from the shock of the surprise, the intruder turned and faced the half-fainting girl. "Beatrix!" "Keith!" Keith Kenyon's face was pale and stern, and his dark eyes flashed fire. "So!" he cried, indignantly. "I come home in answer to a telegram which declares you to be at the point of death, Bernard Dane, and I find you in usual health, and in the very midst of an act of inhuman torture. Simons told me what was going on as soon as he opened the door to me. I rushed up here at once—just in time, it seems. Bernard Dane, I demand to know what you mean by such inhuman conduct? Understand me: if ever I find you attempting a repetition of this torture, I shall leave you forever, and I shall take Beatrix with me. She shall not remain here to be murdered. Keep your money, Bernard Dane; I do not want it. I will have nothing to do with a wicked wretch like you!" "But—Keith"—the old man quavered the name forth in a broken voice—"you do not know. It is for her good—for your good. If she escapes the awful doom of her race, she—No, no, Keith; I must not tell you." The old man broke down and buried his face in his shaking hands—a pitiable sight. "Keith!" starting up suddenly and gazing into the handsome face with horror-dilated eyes, "I had planned a marriage between you two; but—but it must never be. It would be sacrilege—a crime!" Keith Kenyon turned, and his dark eyes met the frightened gaze of Beatrix. What was that which he read in those timid, trusting eyes lifted to his face with a shy look? Was it love? With a low cry of rapture, he sprang to her side and caught the girl's slight form in his arms. "Beatrix! Beatrix!" he whispered, passionately, "we have not long known each other, but I love you! I think I have loved you ever since our first meeting, when you risked your precious life to save mine—long before I suspected the truth—that you were the young girl whom I was sent to escort to this place—this cursed place where I wish you had never come. I love you, darling—love you with all my heart. Be my wife at once, Beatrix, and we will leave this place. Let Bernard Dane keep his money; we do not want it. I am strong, and can work for us both. Say yes, Beatrix, darling—say yes! For surely no man ever loved a woman as I love you." And then he stopped short, and his heart grew faint and cold within his breast. He had forgotten that he was Serena Lynne's promised husband, that he was bound in honor to make Serena Lynne his wife. CHAPTER X. AN OLD MAN'S SECRET. Yes, he was Serena Lynne's betrothed husband, and bound in honor to make her his wife. The sharp remembrance cut him to the heart like a sword. He fell back with a cry of anguish, and the love-words died upon his lips. "May Heaven have pity!" he groaned. "I had forgotten—forgotten. Don't look at me with such piteous eyes. Beatrix! oh, Beatrix, my love, I have done wrong! I have made a mistake, and my happiness is wrecked. All my life is ruined and darkened forever!" Old Bernard Dane hobbled over to Keith's side and laid a trembling hand upon his arm. "Keith, my boy, I—I can't explain this to you," he mumbled, brokenly. He had not observed the scene which had just taken place between Keith and the shrinking, trembling girl who stood there, pale as a lily, before them. He had not listened to Keith's impassioned avowal; he had been deaf and unseeing to all that had taken place. Keith's dark eyes flashed with an angry light. "I wish no explanation," he returned, harshly; "there is no excuse, no palliation of your conduct possible. You have acted the part of an inhuman monster—a madman! Yes, let us hope that temporary aberration is responsible for your strange conduct. Uncle Bernard, I warn you that if your attempt to torture this poor girl should be repeated, I will appeal to the authorities. You shall be confined in a retreat for the insane. You are a dangerous person to go at large." The old man seemed strangely weakened and unmanned. He uttered no word; no sound escaped his dry, parched lips; but upon his wrinkled face there was a look of abject terror. Trembling like a leaf, he turned, and leaning heavily upon his cane, passed from the room and closed the door behind him. He went straight to the library—a great solemn-looking apartment filled with well-laden book-shelves, and with a huge escritoire standing beside a window. The old man hobbled over to the desk, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the desk and turned to a small drawer at the right. From this drawer he removed a small package of old letters tied with a narrow black ribbon. Removing the ribbon, he began to examine the letters, reading them over hastily, one by one, the frown upon his brow growing deeper, his dark, deep-set eyes flashing with an angry light. When he had read the last of the letters he replaced the somber ribbon and returned the package to the drawer. Then bowing his head upon his hand, Bernard Dane sat buried in profound thought. Whatever the subject that engrossed his thoughts, it was not a pleasant one. That could be easily seen by the lines of care upon his brow, the furrows of anxiety—the evidence of a great trouble—that were plainly written upon his face. A look of intense anger settled down upon it. He clinched his white hands fiercely, and the deep, dark eyes gleamed like fire. "To think of it all!" he muttered, harshly—"all that I have borne for long years! The horror—the agony of it! To think of her —the woman I loved, who duped me, deceived me, made a mock of me! But I canceled the account between us and wiped out the score!" he went on, with a fiendish chuckle, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. "I paid her back, word for word, blow for blow! When I remember all —when I think of that death-scene—I—I feel amply satisfied. For all the suffering she caused me, she suffered fourfold. And was it not almost miraculous that the man who won her away from me—the man who had been my best friend, who had deceived me and fooled me to the top of my bent—in short, Guy Kenyon himself—should have been placed in my hands—at my mercy! He never realized the bliss that would have been his. His cup of happiness was snatched from his grasp before he could raise it to his lips, for she—she died —ha! ha!— died ! and no one knows—no one but old Bernard Dane will ever know—how and where she died. Poor child! After all these long years, can it be that pity has come to life within this hardened old heart of mine? But I can not help it, when I remember how they forced her into an unholy marriage with that old man. But still there were compensations, for when her babe was six months old he departed this life, leaving all his worldly possessions to his beautiful young widow and her infant child. Then Guy Kenyon, a widower with one son, came to the fore with his handsome face and winning ways. She had known him and cared for him previous to her ill-starred marriage with old Godfrey Dane, and it did not take long to revive old feeling, to warm over the ashes of the old love, from which the new arose like a phenix. "Married or single, bound or free, it was all the same, she never cared for me. And Guy Kenyon would have wedded her if fate had not interfered—fate in the person of old Bernard Dane. Ha! ha! Bernard Dane—but not so old and ugly then as he is now. He appeared, and in his possession proof positive of the awful curse which rested upon her—upon Mildred Dane. He loved her—there was no doubt upon that score—he loved her, and the knowledge of this fearful curse which rested upon the woman he loved killed him. He did not long survive the fearful knowledge of her secret. Then came the grand finale . I placed his child Keith, then a boy of ten or eleven, in the care of respectable people, after which I turned my attention to her —to Mildred. I had sworn that she should be my wife or nobody's. But even I, with all my great love for her, could not, dared not, make her my wife with the knowledge of that fearful, that hideous curse hanging over her like a pall. I do not like to recall that time," the old man went on, wearily, pushing back the scanty locks from his wrinkled brow. "She was like a mad creature when she learned the truth, when I told her all. Poor, heartbroken Mildred! She swore that she would take her own life, and—she kept her oath. Ah, well!"—a fearful shudder convulsing his frame—"it is an awful thing to reflect upon. But I could not blame any living creature, and, above all, a young and beautiful woman, for committing suicide under those circumstances. I risked my own life in keeping near her as I did; but my heart was heavy for her sake, and I could not leave her to meet her awful doom alone. And in return for my self-sacrifices, she hated me, defied me, died without one word of kindness to me. His name—Guy Kenyon's—was the last upon her lips. Was it not enough to harden a man's heart against a woman to whom he had given all, to whom he had dedicated his whole life? Her cruelty to me hardened my heart against her, living and dead. Ay, I even grew to hate her memory. I fell upon my knees and swore by every thing holy that I would be avenged. "After that, as the years rolled by, and I hated Mildred Dane's very memory—even as I had long hated Guy Kenyon; hated him living, hated him dead—I finally planned this marriage between the two descendants of the man and the woman whom I hated. It is a fiendish plot. I look upon him in his noble, manly beauty, his true, warm heart and honorable nature; I look upon her with her beautiful face, so like that other face once loved, but now in death hated , and something in the girl's piteous eyes makes my heart quail. I am not altogether a demon, and I am sick—sick of the whole plot. That girl's eyes! They are Mildred's own—just as she used to look when she was a sweet young girl, before they sold her to Godfrey Dane for money. I can not shut out the look of appeal in Beatrix's eyes; it makes my heart ache, hard, and cruel, and bitter though it is. I pity her, I pity him! I see my own error now, when, oh, God! it is too late; for they love each other. I would do anything in my power to prevent the marriage between them now; but they are young, headstrong, and I shall fail in my attempt. Then, oh, heavens above! the very thought of what must come, of what looms up before them in the dark future, makes me sick and faint. I have sought the best medical advice in the country. Doctor De Trobriand, whose specialty is this particular horror that threatens poor Beatrix's life, has told me that the fire test is the only possible test of which he knows. He advised me to attempt it, but the girl refused. I could not explain to her and tell her why I made so seemingly absurd and cruel a request of her. I dared not tell her my suspicions—my reasons for making this request; the knowledge would drive her mad. And I have failed in the attempt, as I have failed in everything else all my life long. Curses upon it!" He rose slowly to his feet and relocked the escritoire, and then, with slow, unsteady steps, he returned to his own room. Beatrix had gone, but Keith was sitting alone before the fire, his face pale and stern, his eyes full of sadness. The old man crept to his side like a penitent. "Keith, my boy, you will forgive me?" he quavered. "What I did was for your good—and hers. Listen to me, Keith. You will give up this marriage—this mad marriage? I—I had always intended you two to wed each other. For that purpose I have brought you together; but since—since I have lived under the same roof with that child, my heart is melted somehow, and I can not consent to the awful sacrifice. You don't know—Keith, you don't know—what a fearful fate is in store for you if you persist in this mad marriage. Forget that I had ever planned it—forget Beatrix Dane!" "I can not—I will not! I love her. Your warning comes too late, Uncle Bernard." The old man bowed his head upon his clasped hands, and a fearful shudder crept over his gaunt frame. It was all his own fault—all the result of his own mad folly. His own hands would now overthrow the fabric which he had patiently reared; but it was too late, and only desolation remained. Surely Bernard Dane was undergoing a strange transformation—the result of contact with a pure young being like Beatrix Dane; the great, sad, dark eyes which gazed so pleadingly into his face had made the old sinner ashamed of himself. He saw for the first time in the clear light of reason his own wickedness, and his soul shrank back ashamed. How could he ever have formed so vile a plot—such a diabolical scheme to entrap two innocent people—to wreck and destroy two young lives? Keith Kenyon felt no pity for him. He never dreamed the full iniquity of that which Bernard Dane had plotted to do; but the fact that he had plotted in some way—that he had thrown Keith himself and Beatrix together only to sever the ties between them now, seemingly to gratify a foolish whim of his own, made the young man's heart grow hard as steel within his breast, and a cold chill of horror crept over him. He felt disgusted with the whole world, and with old Bernard Dane in particular. Had he known the worst—the full extent of Bernard Dane's crime—he would have fled from the house that very night in horror, and would never willingly have looked upon the old man's face again. He rose and stood leaning against the carved marble mantel. "I am very sorry, Uncle Bernard," he said in a low, resolute tone; "but I love Beatrix, and I intend to make her my wife. I will surmount every obstacle in the way; but she shall be my wife! Good-night, sir." He turned swiftly and left the room in haste, as though determined to prevent any further remonstrance. Up in his own chamber, he walked straight over to his writing-desk. He had made up his mind what to do, and the sooner the disagreeable task was performed—was over and done with—the better. "I will do it at once," he muttered, resolutely. "Delays are dangerous; and, besides, I shall be in a fever of impatience for the answer. How terrible it will be to wait for it! Two whole weeks—fourteen endless days—before I can hope to hear from her in reply! I will write to her at once—write to Serena Lynne—and confess all, and beg her to release me. It was an absurd engagement at best—a wrong—a wicked engagement, for I do not love her; I have never cared for her! I shall never care for her, though I live to be one hundred. Love ! Good heavens! the very idea in connection with her is ridiculous, grotesque! Once broken off, the engagement will soon fade from her memory, and she will turn her attention to some more suitable and worthy object than your humble servant. She will not—dare not—refuse to release me!" he cried, softly, an awful thought crossing his heart like a cold, slimy serpent. "She would not be a woman, with a woman's heart, if she refuses to grant it." Alas, poor Keith! He did not know—he did not realize—that when a woman like Serena Lynne loves, her heart hardens against all other women—the very love in her heart crystallizes. She will fight for that love, sin for it, die for it, but she will never give it up—never—while she lives. CHAPTER XI. SERENA'S FIRST LOVE LETTER. For the first time in her life Serena Lynne was triumphant with the knowledge of a victory won. She had begun to despair; the prospect of ever winning Keith Kenyon had been growing "small by degrees and beautifully less," now flickering up in a wild spasmodic hope of success, then sinking down below zero once more. When she had discovered his evident—too evident—interest in Beatrix, the woman's heart had swelled with bitter indignation and resentment, and for a time it had seemed to Serena Lynne that there was no alternative but to die and escape it all. The anguish was unendurable; for with all the strength of her selfish nature she loved Keith Kenyon, and the very thought of giving up all hope of winning him was more bitter than death. But at last she had succeeded—not in winning his love—but himself. There was a vast difference; but Serena did not pause to reflect upon that point. She had made up her mind to marry Keith Kenyon; the sooner the marriage was over with, and he was hers until death should part them, the better for her. She sought her mother after the momentous interview with Keith, a look of excitement and delight upon her face, her pale eyes flashing with rapture. Mrs. Lynne glanced up from the work upon which she was engaged, and a look of inquiry flashed into her eyes. "Well, Serena, has anything remarkable occurred?" she asked tersely. Serena threw herself down upon the faded sofa and clasped her thin hands in an affected attitude. "Mamma"—in a low, awe-stricken tone, as though she feared that some one would overhear the wonderful news which she was just dying to tell—"Keith Kenyon has asked me—has—has promised to—marry me!" A look of incredulous surprise flashed into Mrs. Lynne's pale blue eyes; the swift blood dyed her cheek a sullen crimson for a moment, then faded slowly away, leaving her as sallow and uninteresting as before. "Serena!" she exclaimed in a tremulous voice, "don't be a goose! Don't allow yourself to be misled by your own wishes, or to overestimate trifles, polite fibs or foolish nothings, in which some men indulge, and which mean less than nothing. What foolishness can Keith have been saying to you that you should imagine that he wants to marry you, Serena? Why, it is as plain as anything that he is in love with Beatrix. He will never propose to you, Serena—never in the world—while Beatrix Dane lives, and if he finds out that she is still single." Serena tossed her head. "All the same, he has done so!" she cried; "at least, he—I—led him on, you know, mamma; it was the only way. And so he said at last, 'Well, Serena, if you are willing to accept me without any question of love, I ask you to be my wife!' And you had better believe that I did not wait long before I clinched the matter with a yes ," she added, coarsely. "So, mamma, you need not trouble your head any more in regard to my future; I shall be all right when I am Mrs. Keith Kenyon and in my handsome home in New Orleans. I will just shine in Southern society, and make these New Orleans women turn green with envy. To think that he should pass by all the young ladies of the South, to find a wife in old Massachusetts, will seem a strange thing to the Southern people. I shall put on a great deal of style, and just overawe them. I am as good as the best of them. Am I not Miss Lynne, only daughter of the late illustrious and eminent physician, Doctor Frederick Lynne, of Chester, Massachusetts? And as Mrs. Keith Kenyon, I imagine my position in the fashionable world will be assured. Oh, mamma, I am perfectly happy!" Poor Serena! her happiness was very much like the house of which the New Testament tells us, which was founded upon the sand. And when "the rains descended and the floods came, it fell, and great was the fall thereof." Mrs. Lynne said very little upon the subject; there seemed a sort of insecurity in this projected marriage, which rendered her uncertain in regard to it. She shut her thin lips tightly together and went on with her work, and no more was said for the present. Then came the telegram for Keith which old Bernard Dane had sent himself. He had come to the conclusion that Keith was not half as ill as he had believed himself, and that if something was not done to rouse him to a sense of his duty he might linger on in that northern clime indefinitely. But perhaps the strangest point in this game of cross-purposes was this: Mrs. Lynne and Serena never once dreamed or suspected that Beatrix was under the same roof where Keith was going—that the same house sheltered her which was home to him. They had paid no heed to the address in the letter which had been found in Doctor Lynne's dead hand; and the remittances for Beatrix had always been forwarded from New Orleans by Mr. Dane's lawyer. And, owing to Keith's illness ever since he had been under the roof of the Lynnes, they had never known or inquired in regard to the old man who had adopted him—not even his name or address. Even the telegrams which reported Keith's condition were sent to the housekeeper, Mrs. Graves. It was a strange complication, and out of this misunderstanding all the future evil was fated to come. Old Bernard Dane had begun to feel strangely uneasy in regard to Keith's long absence; so at last the sham telegram was sent, and brought about the desired result in Keith's sudden return. But the long journey following so close upon his severe illness proved almost too much for his strength, and the selfish old man was compelled to acknowledge that he had made an imprudent move. For the day after his arrival home Keith was unable to leave his bed, and for a week was quite an invalid. But at the expiration of that time he was able to come down-stairs, and began at once to look for an answer to his letter to Serena, which he had written the night of his arrival home. In the meantime, in the old brown house in the Massachusetts wilderness, Serena Lynne had been publishing far and near the news of her engagement—the great and glorious news of her engagement to the rich young Southerner. All the neighbors for miles around were regaled with accounts of his splendid home in New Orleans; of his vast wealth, and high social position; the rich old uncle—she forgot to explain that Keith was an adopted heir—who would bequeath his immense fortune to Keith when he died; and, in short, Serena painted her own future prospects in glowing colors, until the country girls with whom Serena affiliated were half wild with envious jealousy, and wondered openly among themselves what any man in his sober senses could see in that ugly Serena Lynne to admire, and, more than all, to marry. And the verdict was rendered unanimously that Keith Kenyon's lady acquaintances must be few in number. "I shall have a grand wedding, mamma," Serena announced confidently at breakfast one morning—a breakfast served in slovenly fashion, and partaken of by the two ladies attired in slatternly morning costumes. "Of course, so soon after papa's death," went on the irrepressible Serena, "I can not make a very grand display; but I mean to be married in April, and I shall go as far with my wedding festivities as I dare venture to, under the circumstances. I mean to have a wedding that will eclipse any other that has ever been heard of here. All our old acquaintances—in fact, everybody in the whole country of any importance—shall be invited. We will have the church decorated with flowers and ferns and spare no expense. I shall send to Boston for my wedding-gown. Really, I could not wear anything from this little place, you know, mamma; and besides, we owe old Grey such a fearful bill. I will have white brocade, silk embroidered, with silver flowers; and I must secure a wreath of real orange-flowers, out of compliment to Keith. You know he comes from the land of orange-blossoms. We will order a wedding-breakfast from Boston—and—and—" "When do you expect to hear from Keith?" interposed Mrs. Lynne, dryly. She had had a few hurried words with the young man before his departure—just enough to rivet the chains securely. Serena's sallow face flushed. "I—I don't know; soon, though, I suppose. And by the way, mamma, there is Mr. Rogers now—at the gate. I believe—actually believe—that he has mail for us. Perhaps it is a letter from Keith!" She pushed back her chair, and without waiting for a wrap, rushed eagerly out into the cold, wintry air—out to the gate outside of which kindly old Mr. Rogers had halted. "Letters, Miss Serena? Yes, to be sure. One for your ma, and one for you. That's from your sweetheart down in New Orleans, I see." Serena tried her very best to call up a blush, but the sallow skin did not warm, and only the frost-laden air bit the end of the long, sharp nose until it was purple. She seized the letters, and with a shower of voluble thanks hastened back to the house like a mad creature—back to her seat at the breakfast-table. "One for you, ma," she announced, tossing a large yellow envelope into her mother's lap, "and a letter for me—from Keith, of course." Her chilly fingers hurriedly tore open the envelope. The letter was not very long, but it seemed to Mrs. Lynne, watching her daughter with ferret-like eyes, that it took Serena an endless time to decipher its contents. All at once, with a low groan, crumpling the letter fiercely in her hand, Serena slipped from her chair and lay upon the floor in a dead faint. CHAPTER XII. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE. Keith Kenyon was able to leave his room once more and rejoin the small household. During his illness Beatrix had kept to her own room as much as possible, never voluntarily entering the presence of the old man, whom she feared as a madman. His wild dark eyes would follow her with furtive glances. He seemed secretly watching her, and more than once she surprised a gleam of wild intensity, as he seemed to devour her with his eyes. She grew pale and thin and nervous, and all the time her heart longed for Keith—Keith with his tender dark eyes, and sweet, low voice, and caressing ways—Keith who would stand between her and all ill. She kept herself as much as possible in the vicinity of the sick-room, and waylaid Mrs. Graves upon any and every available occasion with eager, anxious inquiries as to his condition, to all of which Mrs. Graves made reluctant replies. It was evident that she did not at all approve of any ties of interest between her handsome young master and this girl with the sad, unfortunate history—her unguessed secret—the dark inheritance which hung over her like a deadly curse. But the day came at last when Keith was able to make his way slowly and wearily down-stairs and into the drawing-room, where he sank upon a comfortable sofa before the fire and uttered a sigh of relief. Then his eyes wandered swiftly around the room, as though seeking some one. "Where is Miss Dane?" he asked. Mrs. Graves frowned. "Up in her own room, to be sure!" she made answer; "and if you please, Mr. Keith, I rather think that Mr. Dane prefers that she should remain there." "Remain there, indeed!" indignantly. "And pray what right has Mr. Dane or anybody else to attempt to imprison Miss Beatrix Dane, I should like to know?" "Imprison? Oh, no, Mr. Keith!" The housekeeper's voice was full of eager protest. "But then, you see, there is something unusual about Miss Beatrix; there is something in her history—something, I do not really know what, but I can guess—and Mr. Dane thinks that she ought to be kept to herself somewhat, you see—not to make too free with the rest of the family." "Bah! Nonsense! You are talking like an idiot, Graves. I—I beg your pardon, but I can't help it. A woman of your good, sound common sense ought to know better than to repeat such rubbish as that. Go tell Miss Dane that I am here, in the drawing-room, and ask her to please come to me, since I am not able to call upon her. I wish to speak with her as soon as possible. Do, that's a good soul. I know that you will not find it in your heart to refuse my request, Graves. You were young yourself once—not so very long ago." Mrs. Graves turned away, shaking her gray head dubiously. "Very well. The consequences be upon your own head, Mr. Keith," she said, solemnly. Then she left the room, and he was alone with his own thoughts—half angry, half amused. "The idea!" he exclaimed, his anger getting the upper hand. "To attempt to keep Beatrix and me apart! What does old Graves mean, anyway? I shall ask Uncle Bernard. But then, he, too, certainly appears to be off his base, as well as the housekeeper. What a curious old house this is, to be sure! But, come what may, I mean to know the truth; I mean to know what Mrs. Lynne and Serena meant when they said that Beatrix left them to be married. Ah! she's coming—my own, my sweet! I hear her light footsteps. Heaven bless her!" A pause at the door, then a faint, timid rap upon it. "Come in!" cried Keith, eagerly. The door opened slowly, and Beatrix Dane stood before him. She looked very fair and sweet in her plain black gown with white crape at throat and wrists, her golden hair in a loose coil fastened with a jet arrow. "You sent for me, Mr. Kenyon?" she began slowly, hesitatingly. "I did. I wish to speak with you on a matter of the greatest importance. Come here, Beatrix. You will pardon me, for I am still something of an invalid." She came swiftly to his side and extended her hand. "Oh, I am so glad to see you again and to know that you are better!" she cried, gladly. "Beatrix, sit down here by me; I want to ask you a question. Mrs. Lynne and her daughter both declared that you had left them to be married." "Married! I?" Beatrix opened her dark eyes. "Why, it is simply ridiculous! Mr. Kenyon, you are the only single gentleman of my acquaintance. The story is absurd and utterly false." Keith breathed freely. "So I thought. Beatrix, listen to me. I want you for my wife—my very own—and"—he thinks of Serena Lynne, and a desperate impulse prompts him to add—"the sooner the better." Keith Kenyon is not a dishonorable man; but he does not love the woman who has forced him into a distasteful engagement, and he firmly believes that, when once she learns the truth, she will free him from the irksome bonds. Clang! clang! goes the gate-bell. Beatrix starts to her feet. "Who in the world can that be?" cried Keith, impatiently. "Don't go, darling—do not leave me alone. It is no one coming in here. Come back, Beatrix, and tell me when you are going to make me the happiest of men?" Tramp! tramp!—the sound of footsteps coming down the hall to the drawing-room door. Beatrix makes a hasty exit from the room by means of another door just as the voice of Simons, loud and pompous, announces: "A lady to see Mr. Keith. She would come in here, Mr. Keith." The last in a low tone. And before the astonished Keith can collect his scattered senses—before he has time to recover from the effects of this crushing blow—there is the rustle of a black silk skirt, and a tall, angular, ungraceful figure bounds over the threshold and flings herself into his arms. He catches his breath with a cry of astonishment not unmingled with horror. It is Serena Lynne! CHAPTER XIII. SERENA'S GAME. For a moment Keith Kenyon was so astonished, so utterly overwhelmed with amazement, that he could not find words to utter. Could it be true? Was it not an optical delusion? Surely it was a hideous nightmare—an ugly dream—it could not be real. Yet the tall, angular figure clad in stiff black silk was only too painfully real to his unwilling eyes; and the voice which called his name in gushing tones was really and truly the voice of Serena Lynne, his betrothed wife. A shiver crept over him; he half rose, then sank back into the easy-chair, and then at last he found voice. "Serena! Good heavens! It is really you! What has happened? Is your mother dead, or—" "Dead? No, thank Heaven—we are both living and well. The fact is, Keith, we—mamma and I—closed up the house the very day after you left us, and decided upon a little trip. We have been for some two weeks traveling about now—and that explains our unexpected appearance here, our trip being partly on business, partly for pleasure. Mamma received news from some of her relatives which made it advisable for us to come South—news which may prove of pecuniary benefit to us. So we placed our house in charge of Mrs. Rogers and started at once." She told her falsehood glibly, her sallow cheek flushing, her pale eyes scintillating. It sounded very reasonable; and how could Keith Kenyon know that it was false, or detect the ring of untruth in her story? One of the most unsuspicious of natures, it was hard to believe that this woman had deliberately followed him, ignoring the letter that he had written her—that letter in which he had begged her to release him from a galling bond—because he loved another woman, and had never loved Serena Lynne, but had been led into an engagement while he was too sick and feeble to realize his own actions. It was a bold stroke, but Serena Lynne was capable of this, and much more. At first she had found it somewhat difficult to induce her mother to co-operate with her in the scheme which she had concocted; but one part of her story to Keith was true—Mrs. Lynne had received a letter from her sister, the woman who had once been Keith's nurse when he was a child. She lived in an obscure town in Louisiana, and had not met Mrs. Lynne for years. She had to send for her sister, and Mrs. Lynne could not well refuse to aid her daughter in her scheme when her own private affairs called her into the vicinity of Keith Kenyon's home. And Serena was in dead earnest. She had sworn to marry this man—sworn upon bended knee that she would never give him up—this man whom she so madly, insanely loved. She had made this bold move—risked her all upon one cast of the die—and it would go hard with her before she would willingly resign all hope and give up the man who was bound to her in honor, though his chains were of iron, and galled and clanked so fearfully. His eyes sought her face; the sallow, unlovely features looked more repulsive to him than ever before. "But, Serena"—his voice trembling a little with sudden fear—"did you not receive my letter?" "Your letter?" arching her pale brows with assumed surprise. "Why, how could I, when we left home the very day after you did? And so you did write to me, Keith? Thank you. I shall have my mail forwarded here, and will be pleased to read your first love letter to me, even though it is a little behind time." She laughed, but the laugh had a disagreeable tone, and was a failure. "'Better late than never,'" she added. She had seated herself at his side, in the very chair that Beatrix had vacated. Keith felt a strange feeling of aversion creep over his heart at sight of her in Beatrix's place. It was the sort of feeling that one would experience to see a net closing slowly around one's head, and know that in a short time one will be securely imprisoned, with no way of making an escape. "The servant informed me that you had been ill ever since your arrival," Serena observed, breaking the silence between them. "I am so glad to be here. I shall remain and nurse you." Keith's face grew paler than before. "Of course you are only jesting?" he returned. "I have the best of care, and, in fact, am all right now, except that I need rest and freedom from excitement. But first I must ease my mind. Serena, listen to me. Circumstances have rendered it absolutely imperative that I—that you—My letter contained the information—" He stopped short, frozen into silence by the curious look in her gleaming eyes. She knew perfectly well what information that letter contained, but she would have bitten her tongue off before she would help him in the matter. And he, poor fellow, was so confused and embarrassed under the freezing gaze of her pale blue eyes, that he found himself unable to frame an intelligible sentence. But as this was just what Serena wished, she did not offer a helping hand, but allowed him to flounder among a sea of words only to come to grief. He must not make an explanation. He must not refer to that fatal letter, and acquaint her with its contents. Her role was ignorance of the contents of the letter which he had written to her, asking her to release him from the undesired marriage engagement. And if he found opportunity to enlighten her in regard to what that letter contained, Serena knew that her game would be up. "Don't speak of anything that may be annoying to you, Keith," she suggested. "I insist upon your having perfect rest and quiet. Mamma is at the St. Charles Hotel," she added, swiftly, as though to change the subject. "I suppose you will send for her to come here?" "Serena, do not think me inhospitable, but you must remember that—" "Oh, yes!—your uncle—the old gentleman. I will see him and explain my intrusion. By the way, what is his name? It is the funniest thing, Keith, but I do not know the name of your adopted uncle." "His name is Dane—Bernard Dane," returned Keith. The name acted like magic upon Serena. She started with a suppressed exclamation, and her eyes dilated with wild surprise which was almost terror. Why, that was the name—the very same name—of the old man who had sent for Beatrix; and was she not Beatrix Dane? A slow horror, an unspoken, scarcely tangible suspicion began to creep through her heart. Good heavens! was not fate leading her through devious ways? She shut her thin lips closely together in a straight, narrow line, and her pale eyes gleamed with an unpleasant light. "I fancy that I am just in time," she muttered, fiercely. "Not a minute too soon, if my suspicions are correct." Then turning to Keith, she said, imploringly: "You will surely allow me to stay here for a time, Keith? If Mr. Dane will permit me, you will not object?" He shook his head slowly. Under the peculiar circumstances what could he say? He could not turn her away, and the great old house was amply provided with accommodations. "You will be welcome, I am sure," he returned; "and of course your mother will join you here at once. I think you need not ask Mr. Dane's permission to remain, for this is my home, and I am at liberty to invite my friends here. Only, of course, you will understand, Serena, that this is a very quiet old house. No company, no going out to places of amusement. You will have to be satisfied with an exceedingly quiet life." "I shall be with you," she made answer, as though that argument covered all defects. Keith sighed. "I will send the carriage for your mother at once," he said. Even as he spoke, something—a strange foreboding of some nameless evil—something which he could neither define nor understand, crept over his heart and made it cold and heavy as a stone. Had he dreamed the truth, and accepted the warning, and shaped his future conduct accordingly, Keith Kenyon might have been spared much suffering, and my story would be minus a plot. But he could not read the future or understand Serena Lynne's motives, and he was like a puppet in her hands. And an honorable, upright man, wholly in the power of an artful, designing woman, has a very poor chance of escape from her toils. Keith rang the bell and dispatched Simons for his master. Old Bernard Dane soon put in an appearance. As he entered the drawing-room leaning on his cane, Keith rose. "I beg your pardon, Uncle Bernard," he began, "for sending for you; but I knew you would not mind it, and I wish to present a lady friend—a lady from Massachusetts, Miss Serena Lynne—who with her mother will be our guest for a few days." At sound of those last words Serena frowned and bit her lip. Low under her breath, she muttered firmly: "A few days, indeed! I have made up my mind to stay here. I will give up my grand wedding festivities, and I will be Keith Kenyon's wife before many days." Old Bernard Dane received Serena with old-fashioned courtesy, politely concealing his surprise at the unexpected addition to his family. The carriage was sent at once for Mrs. Lynne, and Serena was conducted to a room where she could arrange her dress. "What a grand old house!" she murmured, covetously, as she followed Mrs. Graves upstairs to a luxurious sleeping apartment. "How I shall queen it here! It will not be long now." As the thought flitted through her brain, there was the sound of light footsteps coming down the hall. Serena raised her eyes and paused aghast with wordless horror. Coming down the long corridor, straight toward her, she saw Beatrix Dane!

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