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!
CHAPTER XIV.
COMPLICATIONS.
For a moment Serena Lynne stood glaring down upon Beatrix with eyes full of blank astonishment, which Beatrix returned with interest. It was so strange, so sudden, so unexpected, that for the time they could only stand and stare into each other's faces. At last:
"Serena Lynne!"
The name fell from Beatrix's astonished lips like a groan. Serena's pale eyes flashed with the light of a wicked triumph.
"You!" she hissed vengefully. "So you are destined to cross my path wherever I go. How came you here?"
Beatrix's eyes met her wrathful gaze with a glance of cool disdain.
"I might ask you the same question!" she retorted. "I am here, Miss Serena Lynne, because this is my home now. Old Bernard Dane is my uncle, and I have a right beneath his roof. May I ask—what brought you here?"
Serena's eyes snapped.
"Yes; you may ask, if you like," she said, acidly. "I came here because my mother and I were taking a trip through the South, and I had a right to see my betrothed husband."
"Your—betrothed husband?" faltered Beatrix, too overcome with emotion to realize what she was saying. "What do you mean, Serena? You must be out of your senses!"
"Not at all!" returned Serena, curtly. "I should think you would understand the situation by this time, without any further explanation from me. I am engaged to be married to Keith Kenyon. Surely I have a right to come here with my mother when he is ill and anxious to see me. At all events, we are here, and I do not intend to leave. This is my room, Miss Beatrix Dane"—as Beatrix paused upon the threshold of the room which Mrs. Graves had assigned to Serena—"and I would thank you to leave it!"
Without a word, Beatrix turned and left Miss Lynne alone.
She flew like a wounded creature back to her own apartment, and closed and locked its door behind her.
For a time she stood in the center of the room, staring vacantly before her, not knowing what to think, her senses were in such a whirl.
What did this mean? Was Serena telling the truth? If so, then Keith had deceived her—Beatrix—in the most heartless manner; and there was nothing for her to hope for upon earth. She fell upon her knees beside the bed and burying her face in the pillows, wept bitterly. She realized that there was trouble—more trouble—great, black clouds of trouble, growing dark around her pathway. The very sight of Serena Lynne was enough to warn Beatrix of fresh cause for grief.
She arose from her knees at last and bathed her face and arranged her hair.
"I will go to Keith at once," she said, "and ask him frankly and openly why Serena is here, and what is she to him?"
But when Beatrix entered the drawing-room a little later for an interview with Keith, she found Bernard Dane there, and, of course, private conversation was impossible. The old man glanced up with a scowl as Beatrix entered the room.
"Who sent for you?" he demanded, brusquely.
The color arose to the girl's pale cheeks.
"No one, sir," she returned with spirit. "I was not aware that you intend to cut me off from communication with the rest of the household."
"That will come soon enough," chuckled the old man, half audibly; but Beatrix overheard the muttered words, and her heart sank with a bitter pang. What did he mean?
"I will ask him when I see him alone," she decided. "He shall tell me what this strange treatment of me signifies."
Aloud she said:
"Uncle Bernard, may I ask you what brings Serena Lynne to this house? She is my bitter enemy, my persecutor. I prefer to go to some other place while that woman is here!"
Old Bernard Dane's sunken eyes flashed.
"You've got the Dane grit and the Dane temper, my dear," he snarled. "But I advise you to keep it well in hand when you are with me. The ladies who are here—yes"—as he marked the sudden start with which Beatrix heard his words—"Mrs. Lynne is with her daughter, of course. Eminently proper, to be sure; you surely did not think that Miss Serena Lynne would come clear from the North all alone to visit Keith?"
"I don't know, I am sure. She is capable of a great deal," intervened Beatrix. Then she added softly: "Oh, forgive me, Uncle Bernard. I do not mean to be harsh, and ill-tempered, and spiteful; but the sight of that woman just stirs up every uncomfortable attribute of my nature. Uncle Bernard, did you ever know any one who affected you in that way—the very sight of whom would stir up all the worst dregs of your nature and tempt you to do deeds for which you were afterward sorry?"
A dull crimson dyed the old man's wrinkled cheeks for an instant.
"Did I? Humph! Yes; 'in my salad days, when I was green in judgment'—when I had good reason to shrink from the sight of my evil genius, Guy Kenyon."
"Guy Kenyon—my father!" interrupted Keith, excitedly. "Now, Uncle Bernard, you must tell me something about him; for you have never told me anything and I know so little of him."
"You will never learn any more from me," returned the old man, harshly, arising to his feet. "And now I must go and interview Simons. That rascally nigger is getting unmanageable. One would think that he was the master here from the way that he conducts himself lately."
He left the room and closed the door behind him. Out in the hall he came to a pause, clinching his shaking hands upon the head of his cane, his face pale and agitated, a look in the depths of his sunken dark eyes which was not pleasant to see.
"Guy Kenyon," he muttered, harshly, his bent form shaking visibly; "I would sooner cut off my right hand than tell Guy Kenyon's son what he once was to me. I had never thought of such a thing as learning to care for Guy Kenyon's boy. But somehow my heart is melting. I must be in my dotage, for I find my long-cherished hatred growing less bitter, and revenge does not seem one half so sweet and desirable as it once did. The time was when revenge was the only object for which I existed. Can that time be passing now? Am I growing weak and foolish as I grow old? There! Some one is ringing the door-bell. I wonder who it is?"
Simons made haste to admit the visitor, while Bernard Dane went slowly into the library. A woman closely veiled entered, and was shown into the reception-room—a woman dressed in black, and who spoke in a low, hurried tone to the servant. She inquired for Mrs. Lynne.
"Tell her that her sister, Mrs. Ray, wishes to see her," she said.
The words reached old Bernard Dane's ears, and a frown knit his brows.
"It is Celia!" he muttered, his face growing deathly pale; and he grasped the arm of a chair which stood near. "Celia Ray! After all those years she ventures to come here! I wish I could unravel the mystery which lies hidden in the past, for that there is something hidden—something wrong—I am certain."
He left the library and made his way straight to the reception-room. The woman was standing at a window, gazing out upon the green lawn, starred with gorgeous flower-beds even at this season of the year.
At sound of the closing of the door, she turned swiftly, but as her eyes fell upon Bernard Dane's face she uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Bernard!" she cried, and her voice trembled perceptibly. "I did not expect to see you."
He bowed low, extending his hand.
"No? Well, I am here, you see. I have not met you in a long time, Celia, and I thought possibly you might be glad to see me once more."
"Glad?"
A swift light flashed into her pale eyes and illumined her features, and made her almost pretty. A younger edition of her sister, Mrs. Lynne; but her face was more refined, and she had a winning way, which contrasted strongly with Mrs. Lynne's awkward abruptness.
"Glad?" she repeated once more, softly. "You do not know how glad, Bernard!"
And in those few words one could read a whole volume of affection—affection for this cross-grained, unpleasant old man—that was truly wonderful. Celia Ray was the only woman who had ever loved Bernard Dane. And her love for him had been the bane of her life, the ruin of her happiness. For his sake she had lost everything on earth—all that the human heart prizes; all ties of home and friends; and all for naught. For Bernard Dane had not returned her affection; he had never loved any woman in all his long, hard life but Mildred Dane, who had not loved him.
Celia Ray stood gazing into the old man's face with an eager, rapt expression. To her he was young and handsome.
"You do not look well," she exclaimed. "I can see that you have been ill. And you would not let me know it! Oh, Bernard! why do you treat me with such hardness? Why have you doomed me to a lonely life? And yet you, too, are alone."
She sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands, while under her breath she murmured brokenly:
"Dare I tell him all at this late day? Would he not kill me if he knew what I have done?"
But at that moment Mrs. Lynne made her appearance, and then Bernard Dane withdrew. There was a perplexed expression upon his face, and as he went slowly back to the library he muttered to himself:
"I wonder if she played me false in that affair? Poor little fool! She did not dream that I could hear her whispered words just now. What idiots people are who indulge in soliloquy! I never was guilty of it in my life"—forgetting that at that very moment he was soliloquizing. "Oh, woman, lovely woman," with a satirical smile, "how exceedingly transparent you are after all!"
In the meantime, Beatrix was left alone with Keith; but once alone with him, she found, as is very often the case, that she could not introduce the subject upon which she wished to speak.
Keith broke the silence himself.
"Beatrix,"—in a wistful tone—"no doubt you are surprised that Serena has come here. You are no more surprised and annoyed than I am."
"Yes,"—her face full of wonder—"I thought that you were delighted."
Keith colored.
"Beatrix, darling, I ask you to trust me, and ask no questions for the present. I will explain all as soon as possible. Will you try to trust me, darling?"
His eyes were upon her face with a look of entreaty. What could she say but—yes?
CHAPTER XV.
BETROTHED.
The promise was readily given, for with Keith's dark eyes gazing into her own with that eager, earnest gaze, Beatrix could not have refused, even if she had so desired. And she longed to trust this handsome young lover, who had won her girlish heart completely. What one earnestly wishes to do is usually accomplished, when there is no reason why the obstacles should not be vanquished; and Beatrix was only too glad to place confidence in Keith. She sank into the seat at his side and laid her hand upon his arm.
"Keith,"—her voice low and eager—"you would not deceive me, would you? Remember, I am at your mercy, and I am compelled to believe in you. I must trust you, Keith; I could not live without you now—I could not!"
His eyes lighted up with a rapturous light; he stooped and kissed her white brow.
"Beatrix, darling," he was beginning; but just then the door opened and Serena sailed into the room.
"Well, I must say, Miss Beatrix Dane," she began, taking possession of Keith with an air of proprietorship, "you are a bold creature! I intend to speak to Mr. Dane in regard to your shameless conduct, here all alone with Mr. Kenyon. Go up to your own room and stay there, or I will go to Mr. Dane at once, and he will see that you keep in future your proper place in this house."
Beatrix's eyes blazed; her slight form trembled; she stood trembling, hesitating. But Keith whispered softly:
"Go, dear; I have something to say to this woman. I will explain all when I see you again. Beatrix, you will trust me? You have promised to do so."
"I will."
She left the room with hasty steps. As soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind her, Keith turned to Serena.
"I am glad that you have come back to this room," he began, slowly. "I have something to say to you. Serena, I wrote you a letter which I am very sorry to find you did not receive. In that letter I told you—"
"Oh, Keith! Keith! do not break my heart with unkindness and cruelty now!" she cried, clasping his hand in both her bony ones. "I suppose in your letter you scolded me for some deficiency. I ask you to forgive me for whatever I may have done that has offended or in any way annoyed you. I beg your pardon—I beg your pardon, and I ask you to have pity and say no more. I acknowledge that I was rude to that girl Beatrix Dane; but, oh, Keith! remember that I have had a hard time with her, and much to bear on her account. She left our humble home after my mother had cared for her and acted a mother's part to her for nearly seventeen long years. She left us with the intention of marrying—"
"Hush! That is false—false, Serena, and you know it!" stormed Keith, angrily, losing command of his temper at last. "This poor girl has been wronged. I wonder you dare tell me such tales in regard to her, Serena!"
Serena shook her head slowly, mournfully.
"Truly, you are 'in the snare of the fowler'," she quoted, sagely. "That wicked girl has woven her net about you, and 'you are forever lost'."
"Nonsense!" he cried, angrily. "Serena, I thought you possessed more common sense. Forgive me—I am very rude; but you are driving me wild with your insinuations in regard to Beatrix. However, I wish to speak of something else; I wish to say, Serena, that I have written you in regard to our engagement—the foolish, ill-advised engagement existing between you and me. It has been a mistake from the start, Serena, a great and unwise mistake; we must rectify it now."
"How? Oh, Keith! Keith! don't you care for me at all?"
"I told you, when I asked you to be my wife, that I had no love for you, and yet you were willing to accept me without love. Pardon me, Serena, but when a woman accepts an offer of marriage from a man who openly acknowledges that he does not love her, she must be prepared to accept all the consequences of her own rash and ill-advised act—all the shame, the grief, and humiliation. Serena, I have never loved you—I never shall; and I love another woman with all my heart, and soul, and strength! It is my desire that this foolish engagement be broken off at once—at once. You will thank me some day that I had the courage to put an end to it before it was too late."
Silence, awful silence, settled down upon the room. You could hear distinctly the beating of Serena Lynne's heart, as she sat staring straight before her into space with a numbed, awful look upon her face which might have touched a heart of stone. Keith felt his own heart grow sore with sorrow for her suffering, but he felt that he was doing right, like the surgeon who pities and sympathizes inwardly with the sufferer before him, yet must not hesitate to plunge the sharp, keen knife into the wound, or the sufferer will die. He felt that he must end all this unpleasant complication with Serena before another day had passed, or he could not tell into what trouble his own mad act might lead him.
"I have done wrong," he muttered to himself, "in asking her to marry me. I must have been mad—mad! But it is not too late to rectify the mistake, and I must end this affair at once and forever."
But still Serena sat like a statue and did not speak or move. Keith began to feel uneasy.
"Serena," he said, gently, "I do not wish to wound you, but there must be a final understanding between us now."
"There shall be," she cried, angrily, starting up. "I consider the engagement at an end. I release you! Now, go and marry Beatrix Dane; but my opinion is, that you will rue the day that you were guilty of such mad folly! Good-bye, Keith Kenyon, may you be as happy as you deserve!"
But as she left the room, her face working convulsively, her breath coming in broken gasps, she was whispering softly to herself:
"He shall never marry her—never! I swear that, come what may, Keith Kenyon shall be mine! It is the one object of my life. I shall not give it up without a struggle!"
But slowly and surely the hour was coming when Serena Lynne would be forced to say that all hope was vain.
That very day Keith made up his mind to take a decisive step. He would make Beatrix his wife at once—privately—and then no matter what might happen, she would have him to defend and protect her. And nothing should ever part them, nothing could ever come between them save death. The more he thought of it the more determined did he grow. At last he rose and made his way slowly out into the grounds, lying fair and green in the wintry sunshine as though it were spring. Still weak, Keith felt the balmy air revive him and strengthen him, and found that after a little he was able to walk quite well.
Down in a pretty honeysuckle bower he found Beatrix sitting on a rustic seat, pale and silent. She looked as if she had been crying.
"Beatrix!"
The sound of his voice made an electric thrill run over her. She started to her feet.
"Is it really you—out at last?" she cried. "Oh, Keith! I am so glad!"
He took her hands in his and drew her head down so that he could look into her eyes.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, tenderly, "I want you to be my wife at once—without any delay. Listen. There is nothing between Serena Lynne and me—absolutely nothing—believe me, darling. Now this is my plan: I will send today and procure the license; tomorrow we will drive in the carriage to a clergyman's house—the drive will do me good—and you shall come back my little wife. Then no one can part us—never, while we live. Will you consent, Beatrix?"
The beautiful dark eyes wavered from before his eager, passionate gaze; she trembled like a leaf.
"Say yes, Beatrix. There is no one to object. We have no one to consult. Remember, Uncle Bernard wished us to marry. Say yes, dear, and make me perfectly happy. No one ever loved a woman as I love you, my beautiful brown-eyed darling!"
And so the answer was given—that one little word of three letters which was large enough to cover a whole life-time of future woe. The secret marriage was arranged to take place on the following day. Keith felt a strange dislike to revealing the truth to old Bernard Dane, after what the old man had said concerning a marriage with Beatrix—the very marriage which he had himself first planned. Keith felt certain that Bernard Dane would now bitterly oppose the marriage, and Keith determined that he would not give the old man a chance to do so. So the fatal plot was formed, the secret marriage arranged, and they parted that night with the understanding that on the morrow Beatrix would become Keith Kenyon's wife.
At that very moment, up in her own room, Serena Lynne was hurriedly turning over the contents of her trunk, her face pale as death, her eyes full of hatred. All at once she snatched up from the depths of the trunk a small tin box.
"Ah, Miss Beatrix Dane!" she hissed, revengefully, "if I am not mistaken, I have you in my power at last!"
CHAPTER XVI.
A MIDNIGHT INTERVIEW.
Alone in her room that night, Beatrix sat down at the open window to think over the new life so soon to be unfolded to her. Keith Kenyon's wife! No position in the world could be so desirable; no girl was ever so happy as she.
"He is so noble, so good, so grand!" she thought to herself, her fair cheek flushing with rapture at thought of her lover's perfections. How noble he appeared in her eyes! How handsome, how manly! To her there was but one man worth looking at in the world—handsome Keith Kenyon.
The moments glided by, still the girl sat there wrapped up in her own thoughts. Only think, tomorrow at this time she would be his wife—his wife! Surely there could be nothing more to be desired on earth.
"How hard I will try to please him and to make him happy!" she whispered softly to herself, her eyes fixed upon the calm, starlit sky above her head, her heart beating fast with rapture. "Oh, Keith!" she murmured half aloud, "I pray the good God to make me worthy of your great love. I will be a true and faithful wife, and all the rest of my life shall be dedicated to making you happy—my Keith! my king!"
As the words passed her lips some subtle instinct warned her that she was no longer alone. She turned her head, and her face grew pale as death as her eyes fell upon the form of Serena—Serena Lynne watching her with intense hatred in the depths of her evil eyes. With a stifled cry Beatrix started to her feet. Serena glided swiftly, softly to her side.
"What are you doing in my room at this hour?" demanded Beatrix, sternly. "How dare you intrude upon my privacy without an invitation? What evil errand brings you here?"
Serena's eyes snapped; she set her teeth down hard upon her thin under lip, and clenched her hands as though she would like to clasp them around the girl's white throat.
"Upon what errand do I intrude here at this late hour?" she repeated, hissing the words sibilantly forth from between her clenched teeth. "I will very soon enlighten you, Miss Beatrix Dane. I have come here to ask you a question. Is it your intention to marry Keith Kenyon? Ah, yes! I know—I suspect—a great deal. I have released him from the engagement between us; but I have only done so for a purpose. I wished to bring him to his senses in regard to you, and I think that I shall be able to do so. I have laid a plan, and the first step was to sever all ties between Keith Kenyon and myself, and then—then I come to you as an auxiliary in the next move in the game—a game played for the welfare of Keith Kenyon—his future happiness! Beatrix Dane, I demand of you, is it your intention to marry this man—this man who belongs to me in the sight of God? Answer me! I demand it! I will have the truth!"
But Beatrix did not reply. She sat gazing out into the misty night, her eyes full of bitter sorrow.
She was conscious of nothing—she heard nothing, saw nothing—only over and over in her ears those words hard and cruel repeated themselves: "This man who belongs to me in the sight of God!"
"Will you answer me?"
Serena's voice cut across the silence like a knife.
Beatrix started, and a shudder ran over her slender frame.
"Yes; I will answer you," she returned, bravely. "I am going to do as I think best in this matter, Serena; and I certainly shall not consult your wishes. Keith Kenyon is nothing to you—nothing—less than nothing!"
Serena's face was pale to ghastliness; her form shook perceptibly, her eyes scintillated. She was a very unlovely picture of anger—impotent, restrained rage—as she stood there.
"Be careful!" she hissed; "be careful, Beatrix Dane! I give you fair warning; you are treading upon dangerous ground; you are making a grave mistake. It would be better for you if you had died when you were born rather than to cross my wishes. Now, answer me one question. You think that you love Keith Kenyon—would your love change or alter if you were to learn that he is no longer wealthy; that old Bernard Dane has altered his will, and intends leaving his fortune elsewhere? How would you like to be Mrs. Keith Kenyon and live in a cot, and do your own housework, and be compelled to see him toil like a slave from day to day, because he had taken upon him the burden of a wife? Answer me that, Beatrix Dane! Is your love unselfish enough to give him up rather than see him reduced to that?"
"My love is great enough and unselfish enough to make any sacrifice for his welfare," returned Beatrix, her sweet voice trembling audibly; "but it would not make him happy to give me up. I am willing to share poverty with him. Does not the marriage service bind us 'for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer'? Oh, Serena! you must have a strange opinion of my love if you think that I would turn away from him because he had lost his inheritance."
"His inheritance!" cried Serena, scornfully; "and, pray, what is yours? Do you suspect? Ah! my young friend, if you knew, if you held in your possession the fatal truth which I have good reason to believe is connected with your life, you would commit suicide rather than marry Keith Kenyon."
"Serena, I have heard enough of this," retorted Beatrix, her temper getting beyond her control. "Be good enough to retire; for it is very late, and I am tired and sleepy."
"Ah, yes, to be sure!" sneered Serena. "You long to be asleep that you may dream of your handsome, dark-eyed lover! But wait a moment, Beatrix Dane. This is the last time that I shall trouble you. Will you heed me when I say that I have reason to believe that you are destined to wreck and ruin Keith Kenyon's life? There is something that you have yet to learn concerning yourself; and when you do learn it, you will curse the hour that you promised to become his wife—something which will ruin and curse his whole existence as well as your own, and make life a scene of horror to you both! Will you believe me when I say—"
But Beatrix could bear no more. She moved swiftly to Serena's side, and laying her hand upon her arm, led her to the door and opened it.
"Now, go!" she commanded.
And Serena was so overwhelmed with astonishment that she silently obeyed.
Beatrix closed the door sharply and turned the key in the lock, and, left alone at last, she prepared to retire.
She was soon asleep, and her last thoughts were of Keith Kenyon and how dear he was to her. She thought, too, of Serena's strange words and hidden threats; but she could see too plainly that Serena was half insane with jealous hatred, and Beatrix shut her heart upon her vile insinuations. And so at length she sank away in peaceful slumber, unconscious of the dark clouds slowly but surely gathering about her, and soon to break in awful ruin upon her defenseless head.
A strange future—a strange fate—lay spread out before her—a thorny path for her little feet to tread.
Had she known the bitter truth, Beatrix would not have wished to awaken again in this world. But she did not know, and it was well that she did not; for the knowledge of her awful fate—her dark inheritance—would have driven her mad. And yet, some day she must know—she must know! Poor child! let her dream on now in innocent unconsciousness of what the future has in store for her. Soon enough the day will come when Beatrix Dane will pray for the boon of death, the peace and quiet of the grave!
In the meantime, alone in her own room, Serena sat before a table upon which she had placed the tin box. She looked like a fiend gloating over the possession of another human soul as her long fingers touched carefully the scorched and blackened fragments of that fatal letter which Doctor Lynne's last act on earth was to destroy, hoping to hide forever the secret which it contained.
"I will do it!" muttered Serena, hoarsely, her eyes sparkling with hatred and malice. "I will take these papers tomorrow to an expert—I know just where to find one—and I think they can be deciphered. And—then"—arising to her feet and clinching her cold hands fiercely together—"Miss Beatrix Dane, I shall hold you in the hollow of my hand!"
CHAPTER XVII.
SERENA SUCCEEDS.
That night Beatrix dreamed a strange dream. She thought that she was alone in the mysterious round room in the western tower, gazing upon a portrait which hung upon the wall—the portrait of a woman—a beautiful, dark-eyed, sad-faced woman, the sweet lips parted with a smile—surely the saddest smile that ever touched human lips. And as Beatrix gazed, spell-bound, upon the portrait, the painted lips seemed to open and breathe softly the one word:
"Beware!"
Under the spell of a weird fascination, Beatrix stood before the portrait in her dream, her heart beating fast with a strange terror, her limbs trembling, a cold chill creeping slowly over her. She seemed on the verge of suffocation; her breath came in fitful gasps.
She awoke. Good heavens! where was she? She found herself alone in the round room in the western tower, in her long white night-robe, with a lighted lamp in one hand, gazing about her with wild, dilated eyes. How had she reached that room, traversed the long corridors, ascended the spiral staircase in her sleep?
With a shivering terror creeping slowly over her, the girl was about to turn away and retrace her steps to her own room; but at that moment her eyes fell upon a small knob, like an electric button, in one of the panels of the wall. She had never seen it before, notwithstanding her frequent visits to the room. It was at the very spot where in her dream she had seen the portrait. Impelled by a strange impulse, Beatrix pressed her finger lightly upon the knob. It moved, and the wooden panel slowly revolved, turned outward, and revealed the portrait of a woman's face—the very face of her dream. She stood before it pale and trembling, full of a strange terror for which she could not find a name. Would the painted lips open and speak even as in her dream?
Who was the woman before her? She drew nearer and peered curiously into the painted face. There was a look of piteous sadness in the large, dark eyes, as though an awful doom was resting upon her. As she gazed spell-bound, her sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a name affixed to the portrait. She bent her head to read it, and her heart gave a great bound and then stood still, for the name was Mildred Dane. So this was her mother, her own dear mother, whom she had never seen, whom she could not remember. Why was the picture hidden away in this room—this mysterious room—in the deserted and unfrequented tower? What strange mystery enshrouded the fate of Mildred Dane? How had she suffered? For that some tragedy was connected with her life Beatrix had long been convinced, and it needed only a look into that beautiful, heart-broken, hopeless face to confirm her suspicions. Why was the portrait hidden here, and what was the secret of Mildred Dane's life? In vain did Mildred Dane's daughter turn the question over in her mind; there was no answer. But as she stood staring blankly into the pictured face before her she caught a glimpse of a folded paper lying in the embrasure where the picture stood. When it swung around and disclosed itself there was a narrow space left behind, and there the paper lay. Beatrix snatched it up.
"I will see what it is!" she exclaimed. "This is my mother's portrait, and I have a right. Tomorrow I will demand of Bernard Dane why her portrait is hidden here, its face to the wall, alone in this dreary room which was used in times past for God only knows what dreadful purposes. I must know the meaning of this mystery!"
Grasping the folded paper in one cold hand, Beatrix made her way back to her own chamber, locked herself in, and sat down to examine the paper so strangely come into her possession.
It was a letter addressed to Bernard Dane in a delicate hand, the ink faded, but still legible.
"You have loved me, Bernard Dane"—so ran the written lines—"and I am grateful for your love, though I can not return it. But since you have told me all—all the bad, black secret of my doomed life, which has been concealed from me until now—I feel that with love or ties of friendship I have nothing to do. For me there can be no earthly affection, no love-lit future, no tender care. The ties of home, the love of little, innocent children are not for me. Oh, Bernard, surely, in this bitter knowledge that has come upon me at last, you are amply avenged! for I am accursed—accursed! The heritage into which I have come—descended to me straight from my South American ancestors—has wrought the ruin of my whole life. Yet I never knew it, never suspected it, until it was too late, and they had forced me to marry old Godfrey Dane. Upon my little child—my little, innocent Beatrix—the curse will descend—the awful curse which has desolated my life. Her dark inheritance will come upon her, and she will long for death, and curse the mother who gave her birth. Oh, Bernard, Bernard! pity me and help me to escape. Kill me, Bernard, will you not? It will be such a grand relief to be free from this horrible burden—to be done with this curse, and get out of the world—anywhere—anywhere—"
Here the writing ceased abruptly, and the letter ended with its grewsome secret still untold. Beatrix crumpled the letter in her shaking hand, and rising to her feet, began to pace to and fro, her face as white as the face of the dead, her eyes wild with horror—the madness of despair.
"In the name of God," she groaned, desperately, "what is this secret—this maddening, tantalizing secret—the curse which has ruined my mother's life, and which I firmly believe brought her to her death? Oh, God, have pity, and deliver me from this awful curse! But if I must suffer—if I can not get free—let me know—in pity and mercy let me know the nature of the awful blight which hangs over my life like a curse!"
Alas! poor Beatrix—poor, unhappy child—she is destined to learn soon enough; and when that hour of darkness comes, prone upon her face in the dust, she will cry aloud in bitter anguish, "Oh, God!—my God!—why hast Thou forsaken me?"
But at last, worn out with her bitter thoughts, and faint and exhausted, the girl crept into bed once more; and her last thoughts, as her head rested upon the pillow, were of Keith Kenyon, and the morrow, which was to be her wedding-day, and, although she dreamed it not, a day of doom.
Morning dawned fair and clear, with the sunshine glinting over the smooth lawn, where even in this wintry season the grass was green, and with birds chirping in the branches of the trees—quite a holiday time. Beatrix arose early, and the first object upon which her eyes fell was the letter which she had so strangely discovered the night before.
At least that was no dream.
She dressed herself and made her way at once to the round room in the western tower; she wished to restore the portrait to its former position. But when she entered the round room there was no trace of a portrait to be seen; even the brass knob had disappeared. Dazed and bewildered, the girl left the room and went down-stairs and out into the grounds. She felt restless and uneasy; her heart was weighed down with a strange foreboding. Yet today was to be her wedding-day.
Directly after breakfast Serena announced her intention of going out. She and Mrs. Lynne were to take their departure in a day or two, and Serena declared that she had important business to attend to which might occupy her all day. There was an unnatural glitter in her pale eyes as they rested upon Beatrix's face; and Beatrix fancied that there was something like concealed triumph in the tones of her shrill voice. The girl's heart sank like lead in spite of her efforts to be brave, for well she knew that that look upon Serena Lynne's face boded evil to somebody.
"No matter," she whispered softly under her breath; "after today they can not harm me. I shall be Keith's wife—Keith's own beloved wife. He will protect me from all ill."
Serena donned a street dress and set forth, her veil drawn closely over her face, as though to conceal her features, one gloved hand holding tightly, as though it was precious, a small tin box. Her pale eyes glittered with exultation behind the folds of her tissue veil; she seemed eager and anxious.
So she was. Just as eager and impatient to begin her dreadful work as the vulture which waits greedily for the corpse to putrefy upon which it expects to make its horrid feast.
She made her way down-town to the very outskirts of the business quarter of the city.
Pausing before a long row of offices in a dingy-looking building, she drew a card from her pocket and glanced at an address upon it. Her face lighted up with satisfaction.
"I believe I am right," she said, half aloud. "This is the place."
She entered a doorway and ascended a flight of bare stairs.
A little later she was standing in an office, in the presence of a pale, grave-looking, elderly man who was seated at a long table covered with papers.
Serena advanced and laid the box upon the table.
"You are Mr. Demorest, are you not?" she began, abruptly.
The man bowed and rose to offer her a seat. She checked him with a slight gesture.
"No thanks; I will not detain you. I have here the fragments of a letter supposed to be important, and which has been exposed to fire. I ask if you can decipher its contents. Please examine and let me know."
Ten minutes later he lifted his head from the small heap of smoke-scorched paper before him.
"Yes, madame," he returned, gravely; "I have reason to believe that it can be deciphered. I promise you in a few hours' time to restore to you the contents of the letter."
"Very well." Her eyes were blazing. "I will leave them now and call later in the day. Restore the contents of that letter so that it can be easily read, and I will pay you handsomely."
And drawing her veil closely over her face, she left the office, her evil work well done.