CHAPTER XXV.
HOW THE GAME IS PLAYED.
For a moment it seemed to Beatrix that she could not have heard aright. Her brain was giddy, her breath came fluttering feebly—she looked as if she was going to swoon.
Doctor Darrow's practiced eye marked the change in his patient at once, and he started with a low cry of alarm.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, wildly, "what have I done? Oh, Beatrix! Beatrix! do not mind me. I was mad to speak to you of such things now when you are so weak and ill! Forgive me, darling. I will not err in that way again. I promise not to refer to the subject again until you are strong enough to listen."
A faint shudder passed over the sick girl's wasted frame, her eyes shone like stars; but she had made up her mind in a moment that, no matter how it might excite her and retard her recovery, she must speak out now and tell him all—this good, kind heart, this truly noble man who was willing to devote his life to her service, yet knew all her dread secret! And yet how little could he do—could any human being do—to help her!
"Doctor Darrow," she said, laying her little wasted hand upon his arm, "I must speak now. I must tell you the truth and prevent any further misunderstanding. You must not speak to me of love or marriage. Even—even if I were not the afflicted creature that I am, it is wrong, it is sinful to do so; for—I am the wife of another man!"
He started with a low cry, biting his lip until the blood came. All the color faded from his face, and his gray eyes grew black as night with anguish. He turned aside, as though to leave the room; then he came back to the window near which Beatrix was sitting, and sank upon a sofa that stood near. The room was as still as death. He could not collect his thoughts enough to speak. He sat trembling like a leaf. At last:
"I beg you to forgive me," he said, in a shaking voice. "I had no right to speak of such things to you until I had first learned you were free. Of course, no one looking at a child like you would imagine that you were a married woman. I never thought of such a thing. You know that I meant no insult, Beatrix?"
Her great, dark eyes met his gaze with a look of earnest gratitude.
"You? Why, you have saved my life, though that life is not, perhaps, worth saving," she added, sadly. "Oh, Doctor Darrow, you have been so good and kind to me! I can never thank you enough! But, of course, this of which you speak can never be. If you wish, I will tell you my sad story."
"I would be grateful for your confidence," he returned, "and will guard it as sacred. I wish I could help you in this awful trouble. I can only watch you well and study your case, to which I promise to devote all my faculties. I have devoted much of my time to the study of this strange disease and the tests by which its existence in the system is first detected and proven. Ah, well!"—he rose as he spoke, stifling a weary sigh—"at least I shall have that one object left in life. It is something worth living for."
He left the room, and Beatrix was alone with her own dreary thoughts.
All the future looked dark and dismal enough, and it seemed to the poor girl that there could never again be a ray of light to shine upon her darkened pathway—never any more.
She bowed her head and wept bitter tears; but somehow they seemed to relieve her, and after a time she felt stronger and better.
Here Sister Angela found her, and sat down to converse with the sick girl upon the affairs of the institution, speaking to her of cases where the patients suffered more in mind than body, and trying her best to interest Beatrix in these poor creatures.
"As soon as you are strong enough, my dear," the good sister said, gently, "we will take you into the different wards and let you see how people suffer and still live. There is nothing better to cure one of mourning and repining over one's own sad fate—the sorrow which is inevitable—than to witness the sorrow of others, and to help the helpless to bear their heavy burdens. Oh, Beatrix! truly that is worth living for—a comforter! Blessed are the comforters!"
Beatrix lifted her head and taking the sister's hand, pressed it warmly. Her sad heart was somehow strengthened, and she made up her mind to try and bear her burden bravely, and in helping others, and comforting and caring for those who were sick and in distress, she would find her life work.
A few weeks later Beatrix was pronounced able to go into the sick wards as assistant to the trained nurses, waiting upon them and obeying their instructions.
Once accustomed to the routine, to the strange, sad sights and sounds, Beatrix gave her whole attention to it. She threw all her heart and strength and energy into the task before her—the work which God had placed in her hands to stand between her and despair—and devoted herself to the noble work.
In the meantime, at the old Dane mansion, Serena was working hard to attain the desire of her heart. She had made up her mind to become Mrs. Bernard Dane, if it were within the power of a human being to accomplish it, and to that end she labored industriously and assiduously. She made herself so necessary to the sick man's comfort that old Bernard Dane soon began to think that he had judged her too harshly, and that there was some good in Serena after all. She was constantly at his bed-side. Of course, her mother and Mrs. Graves both shared her task, for the proprieties must be observed. But still Serena was the real head of the house, and to her the others began, after a time, to look for direction. And now the managing part of Serena's nature became manifest. She proved a splendid business and household directress, and Bernard Dane began to look up to her with a feeling of admiration, and to declare that she was a very superior woman.
Poor Keith, never dreaming of the contingency which was looming up in the near future, went about the house with a listless, preoccupied air, his face pale and troubled, his eyes wearing a look of heart-break. He paid no heed to the palpable scheme which Serena had formed, and which was apparently on the road to success—the game which was being played before his very eyes—for he had too much else to think about, and his own sorrow occupied him to the exclusion of all else. But Mrs. Graves had her eyes opened suddenly one day. She entered the sick-room in haste on some necessary errand, and found Serena kneeling at the bedside, her eyes fixed upon the old man's ugly face with a rapt, eager look.
"I have thought a great deal of you ever since we first met," Serena was saying, and the old housekeeper caught the words as she crossed the threshold.
"Yes, yes," returned the old man, hastily, "but I am too old to think of marriage now. Serena, we will not discuss that at present."
"Very well."
Serena arose to her feet with an air of resignation, then turning sharply about, she encountered Mrs. Graves.
"What do you want?" demanded Serena, harshly.
The old woman's face wore a look of angry displeasure.
"I came here on business with Mr. Dane," she returned, coldly, "not with you. I beg your pardon, Miss Lynne, but I really do think that you are overreaching yourself somewhat, and playing a dangerous game. But it will be useless here," she added, freezingly, "for Mr. Dane is a man of good sense, although he is old and feeble."
Serena made no reply. She did not wish to provoke a controversy right there, in the presence of the old man; for then, of course, her plot would miscarry—her well-laid scheme be doubtless brought to grief—and her case was growing more desperate day by day.
The old home in Massachusetts had finally been sold, and the small amount which remained over, after all the debts were settled, was meager enough to make Serena's heart contract with slow horror at the thought of a possible old age in some alms-house, and Mrs. Lynne lived in daily and hourly dread of the day that would see them utterly penniless.
Time went on, and Serena tried to keep up heart and courage, and worked hard at her well-formed scheme of besieging the old man's heart.
But it was a difficult task for her to hope to reach that heart, incrusted as it was with worldliness, selfishness, and hardness—a real Chinese puzzle to Serena—but, with a zeal worthy of a better cause, she kept on in the road which she had marked out for herself.
She had succeeded in making her presence indispensable to Bernard Dane. He had long since learned to rely upon her, and to look to her for advice and comfort, to soothe his sufferings and to cheer and console him in his dreary moments. In short, she had, with the greatest tact and skill, made herself a regular sunbeam in the darksome sick-chamber, a ray of sunlight to brighten the old man's gloom; and more than all—a sure road to the heart of a man—she had made herself a household necessity.
Just when she had succeeded in making herself indispensable to Bernard Dane, just when he grew to expect her coming to cheer his dreary sick-room, when he began to rely upon her as a watcher, a gentle, tireless nurse—Serena was a born nurse—when he had begun to believe that there was no comfort in the whole world for him which Serena's hand could not bestow, when he had come to a stage where he would miss the caressing touch of her gentle hands bathing his brow and arranging his pillow, the voice which had lost its shrill tones and now spoke only in a low, sweet way, when he, in short, had begun to look to Serena for every comfort, then—then came a blank, a dull, dreary blank, for Serena suddenly disappeared. And when the old man in querulous tones demanded of his housekeeper the cause of her absence, Mrs. Graves informed him that Serena, worn out with watching and nursing, was very ill and confined to her own room.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A WELL LAID PLOT.
Two or three days dragged by. They seemed to poor old Bernard Dane, lying upon his bed of suffering, to really drag, they were so long and uneventful. Every morning the first question asked Mrs. Graves was: "How is Serena?" And Mrs. Graves would wisely stifle her righteous wrath and answer quietly:
"About the same, sir."
The old man's anxiety as well as loneliness grew and flourished. It would have retarded his recovery but that he became suddenly possessed with a determination to get well, and as his illness had really been more due to sorrow and remorse than to any bodily ailment, he was soon able to sit up and at last, wrapped in a dressing-gown, reclined upon a sofa in his large, cheerful room. He took care to send friendly messages to Serena every day, and eagerly waited for the time when she would be able to return to him. It was true, strange as it may appear, that old Bernard Dane, wise and astute, clever and shrewd, had actually fallen in love with shrewish, plain-faced Serena Lynne.
Wonders will never cease in this strange old world of ours, and the very last thing down on the cards had befallen old Bernard Dane. And yet it was not so wonderful, after all. Give any clever, designing woman the opportunities that Serena possessed, and my word for it, she will succeed though she be as ugly as original sin and as shrewish as a virago. And so Serena won the old man's heart, hard, ossified though it was—won it by her kindly attentions, and the way in which she posed before him as an ardent admirer of his many sterling qualities.
The old man grew more impatient every day over her continued absence, but he was compelled to content himself with sending messages to Serena, and ordering all sorts of dainties to be carried to her room.
So the days went by, and Serena had been out of his sight for a whole week; and then, one morning, she made her appearance once more in Bernard Dane's sick-room. The old man, wrapped in his dressing-gown, was seated in an easy-chair at the window, his eyes fixed upon the scene without, a look of sadness resting upon his face—very pale and worn.
At sound of the closing door he turned, and as his eyes fell upon Serena, his wrinkled face lighted up with a flash of joy. He started as though to arise, but he was still quite weak, and he fell back upon the cushions once more.
"Serena!" he exclaimed, "is it really you?"
She had really been ill, but not enough to cause so long an exile from the sick-room; only that had been a part of the game—her game, which seemed destined to prove a grand success.
"I am so glad that you are able to be up!" she cried, as she laid her hands in his.
Her face was very pale, and its pallor was enhanced by a skillful application of pearl powder, while dark circles, artistically laid on beneath her eyes, increased the appearance of illness. She wore a flowing wrapper of pale blue cashmere, and altogether, Serena, who had studied the effect long and earnestly, was looking her best, and she knew it.
She sank in a low rocker at his side, and began to question him as to the care that he had received during her enforced absence from the sick-room.
He answered all her inquiries with real tenderness in his voice, and really the old man was inexpressively touched at the thought that some one cared for him, and surely, lonely and old as he was, this could not be wondered at.
They conversed together for a time upon indifferent topics and then silence gradually settled down, broken in an unexpected way—Serena bowed her head upon her clasped hands and began to weep softly, to all appearance repressing her emotion by a great effort.
The old man caught the sound of her stifled sobs, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.
"Serena! Good heavens, child!" he exclaimed, in a tone of alarm, "what is the matter? Why are you crying? Lift your head, my dear, and look me in the eyes."
She obeyed him, dabbing her eyes with her lace-bordered handkerchief as she did so, as though in shame and confusion at being detected in such weakness as this.
"It is nothing," she faltered, brokenly. "I am going away—that is all. I ought to have gone long ago, but—I could not leave you so ill and uncared for; and then I was taken ill myself. And I—I think it best that I should leave here at once; for I have learned to—to care too much for you, Mr. Dane. This feeling must be conquered."
"Serena, I did not believe that your expressed affection for me could be anything serious."
"Oh, Mr. Dane!"
She lifted her pale blue eyes to his face with a swift look of entreaty, then they drooped again.
"Serena, do you wish to leave me?" he asked, anxiously.
"No, no, I do not! I would not go if I could help it," she sobbed. "But I can not stay in this way, Mr. Dane. It is not proper. I am an unmarried woman, and you—you—"
"I am old enough to be your father!" he exclaimed; "but, Serena, old as I am, my heart is young. Life is a dreary waste to me—alone. Serena, will you marry me?"
It was said; the words for which Serena Lynne had listened and hoped for so long, the magic words which would change all her life for her; the question was asked at last for which she had schemed and plotted, and which she sometimes had despaired of ever hearing; the question whose answer would bring her wealth, a grand home, and an honored name. She caught her breath with a tremulous gasp, and one hand pressed her heart convulsively.
"Mr. Dane," she cried, "you do not mean it! You should not trifle with a lonely woman; it is cruel, unkind."
And she knew perfectly well, artful Serena, that this delicate flattery would be the very shortest cut to the old man's heart; that to imply his possession of the powers of attracting and winning the admiration of women would be the surest road to Bernard Dane's affections. In short, by appealing to his masculine vanity, guileless Serena hoped to gain her desire. She laid her hand upon his arm as she spoke, and pressed it gently. The old man's eyes rested upon her pale, sad face, which for once wore a look of gentle tenderness, which made her appear essentially womanly in the old man's eyes. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"I mean it, of course," he returned, in a faltering voice. "I have not cared for any one in years, but your kindness has opened my heart and made me feel that there is something on earth worth living for. I ask you once more, Serena, in all honor, will you be my wife? Marry me at once, and we will go abroad for a time; for nothing can be done for poor Beatrix by staying here; and Keith's life, poor boy, is ruined. Will you be my wife, Serena?"
She bowed her head, and one little, potent word of three letters was spoken—a word which made Serena Lynne the promised wife of old Bernard Dane.
CHAPTER XXVII.
KEITH HEARS THE NEWS.
Once decided in his course, old Bernard Dane was not the man to turn back, or to express regret for what he had done. The die was cast. He had asked Serena Lynne to be his wife, and he would make her Mrs. Dane, no matter what obstacles stood in the way. Keith wandered about the house, looking like a ghost, his mind so absorbed in the disappearance of Beatrix that he had no thought for anything else, and did not, therefore, perceive the state of affairs between Bernard Dane and Serena. Mrs. Graves would have attempted to put him on the track of that which the good old lady saw was about to take place, for she alone had kept her eyes open and seen the true state of affairs, but she shrank from being the one to call Keith's attention to the fact, and so no one spoke, and Keith remained in utter ignorance.
Serena at once began preparations for the marriage. She had decided that it must be soon—at once.
Bernard Dane allowed himself to be persuaded; and so, all preliminaries having been gone through with, a clergyman was engaged to perform the ceremony one April eve. But first there remained the task of breaking the news to Keith.
"I can't do it, Serena," the old man declared, childishly. "He will be so surprised—so shocked! You must tell him yourself."
Serena's pale eyes flashed. That was just what she wished to do. She felt a strange satisfaction in wounding this man who had scorned her, and whose fortune she was now about to usurp.
"Very well," she made answer, her pale face growing livid as she spoke; "I will break the news to Keith Kenyon."
She left the room at once, and went up to her own apartment, there to stand for a few moments before the mirror, while she scanned, with true feminine criticism, the details of her own toilet.
She was looking very well in pale lavender muslin—she had discarded mourning—with a bunch of pansies in the yellow lace which covered the corsage. Her dull flaxen hair was in a Psyche knot, and fell in a fringe upon her brow. There was a glitter of cruel triumph in her eyes, and she caught her breath with a low cry of exultation.
"Serena, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, apostrophizing her own reflection. "Beauty is well enough to possess, but a clever woman can overreach mere beauty any day. Well, I will go now to the library—Simons says that Keith is there—and break my important news to that gentleman. But—oh! Keith! Keith!"
She covered her face with her hands for a moment. Not another word passed her lips, but that one wild, agonized cry revealed the bitter truth that, come what would, she had not forgotten Keith Kenyon, and had not ceased to love him. It was the one mad passion of her narrow, empty life.
She left the room and went down-stairs straight to the library. The door was closed. She rapped lightly upon it.
"Come in!" called Keith's voice; and she turned the knob and entered the room.
It was nearly sunset; the slant rays of gold which marked the road taken by the departing god of day streamed in at the open window and across the bowed head of the young man seated at the desk, his eyes fixed upon the western sky with a hopeless look in their depths. At sight of Serena he started up and his face grew paler than before.
"Any news?" he asked, swiftly. "Serena, have you heard anything of—of Beatrix? Have you come to tell me that she is found?"
Serena stopped short, suppressing an exclamation of disgust. Always Beatrix—always Beatrix! Never any thought of her—and there never would be. She drew a little nearer the desk where he was sitting, and turned her face away, that he might not be able to read its expression.
"No,"—trying in vain to keep the harshness out of her voice—"I have no news of Beatrix. She has probably taken her own life; and if that be true, would it not be better, Keith?"
He started to his feet, then sank back wearily once more.
"No, no!" he panted, fiercely; "it would not! Nothing can ever make up to me for her loss—nothing! She is gone, and the light of my life has gone with her. I shall never be happy again. I am utterly and forever alone!"
Serena laid her hand upon his arm and lifted her white, set face to his.
"Whose fault is it that you are all alone?" she demanded, madly. "I would have died to make you happy, Keith; but you would not. You scorned me—scorned my love, and I—I have given up all hope of ever winning a kindly feeling from you; so I have done the best for myself that I can. Keith, are you listening? I come here this evening—I have intruded upon your solitude to tell you a piece of news which concerns me alone, but in which you may be interested. Keith, I am going to be married."
He started and pushed back the heavy hair from his brow with an impatient touch; into his dark eyes a look of satisfaction stole. It was plain to be seen that he felt no regret for the fact of Miss Lynne's intended marriage.
"Indeed?" he returned, trying to show some interest. "Well, Serena, I am sure you have my best wishes. When is it to be?"
"Tonight."
"What? Is it possible? I thought, of course, that the happy bridegroom would be some one from the North. Perhaps he has come here to New Orleans to win his bride. Tell me all about it, Serena."
"Ah! you are interested at last. No, Keith, my intended husband does not come from the North; he lives here in New Orleans. In short,"—gazing full into the young man's pale, handsome face, with eyes full of exultation and a triumph which he could not fail to perceive—"I am going to marry Mr. Bernard Dane."
"What!"
Keith sprang to his feet, with a cry of astonishment and dismay, his face pale as marble, his eyes full of a dawning terror, and something which for a moment made Serena afraid.
"Be good enough to explain," he said, at last, after a long silence.
"There is nothing more to say. I am going to marry Mr. Bernard Dane tonight at eight. He is old, but I must have a home and protector, and he has asked me to marry him. The marriage will be solemnized in two hours' time. That is all that I have to say. Good-night, Keith."
But before she could leave the room he had opened the door and strode over the threshold. Out to the stables he went, his face set and stern and white as death, his eyes full of darkness. He understood at last her plot of vengeance—knew it now when it was too late. It was the utter overthrow of all his hopes and ambitions. He would be homeless, friendless; for how could he expect Bernard Dane to make him his heir now, when he would have a wife and perhaps children to inherit his wealth?
Keith Kenyon had never been a money-worshiper; but he had fully realized the importance of wealth and position, and he had been reared to believe himself Bernard Dane's heir. It seemed to him now that the end of the world had come.
He entered the stables and ordered his horse saddled. It was a new purchase, a splendid thoroughbred, black as night, and well named Satan. In his mad desire for excitement, Keith believed that he could quench the fire which was burning in his brain. He sprang into the saddle when the groom led Satan forth, and whirled madly away, flying like the wind. On he went through the most unfrequented streets of the city. On, on, the horse growing wilder and more ungovernable every moment. In the lower part of the city it came to grief. Foam-flecked, wild-eyed, it dashed into a narrow, stone-paved street and threw its rider violently to the ground, upon the sharp paving-stones.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
BEATRIX SEES THE GAME.
They were very busy that day in the ward of hopeless cases. Beatrix had not had a moment to rest. All day long the tired little feet were running here and there in obedience to the nurse's call, the deft fingers rolled bandages, smoothed fever-scorched pillows, bathed throbbing temples, held cooling drinks to fever-parched lips; in short, accomplished the one thousand and one acts which soothe the sufferer and comfort even the dying. The office of nurse is truly a grand one. What more noble position can a woman fill than that of comforter and consoler, to help ease the pain of serious illness, and, if it can not be assuaged, to do all that human power can do to help the poor sufferer bear the awful suffering that is his doom! So Beatrix, feeling that she had found her life-work, found it in this strange way, and at the very crisis of her life, when she had been on the point of despairing, feeling that, at all events, she had found employment for the present, which would help to deaden her pain, worked away with a will, and was soon looked upon as one of the most efficient and willing assistants attached to the Home.
Today they had been overworked, for there had been an accident—a falling building had crushed and mangled several poor creatures a few blocks away; and a number of the sufferers had been carried to the Home, there to linger for a time in awful agony and then pass away. Beatrix grew heart-sick as she gazed upon the suffering around her, her gentle heart touched inexpressibly by the scenes and sounds, the groans, and cries, and moans; and in some cases—more touching than any other—there was quiet patience, brave heroism; there were those—real heroes—who set their teeth hard together over the groans that would try to force themselves through, and bore stoically the tortures of the lost.
The sun set upon that busy day, a day never to be forgotten by Beatrix Dane, never while she lived. The sun had set and twilight was coming down, and all alone in the ward for hopeless cases, Beatrix bent over the haggard face of an old woman—a coarse-featured, hard-handed old creature—who while intoxicated, had fallen under the wheels of a passing cab, and had been carried to the Home, which chanced to be nearer than the charity hospital. Beatrix was bathing the woman's brow with Cologne water, speaking gentle, kindly words of sympathy all the time, when a voice spoke her name, a voice which always had an influence over Beatrix, and which she had learned to love dearly—Sister Angela's. Beatrix turned as the sister laid her hand upon her arm.
"My dear," the kind voice went on, gently, "you are overworked; you have done too much today for a novice; you must rest now. Go down to the little sitting-room and you will find some tea there. Yes, I insist upon it. I will take your place here."
"You?"
Beatrix's dark eyes rested lovingly upon the sister's pale face.
"You are tired out already, sister; you were up all night."
"But I am accustomed to that, my dear," Sister Angela returned, firmly; "and I find that the very best way to be of use in this place is to husband your strength, and keep some always in reserve. Go now, my child. You do not know what may lie before you ere this night is done."
Were her words prophetic? Looking back upon them afterward, Beatrix could almost believe them so. She went slowly away, however, for she would not disobey the kind sister; and as Beatrix went slowly down-stairs, Sister Angela took her place by the old woman's side. Not until she had reached the foot of the stairs did the girl realize how very weak she was.
"Sister Angela is right," she said to herself. "My strength is not sufficient to keep up as she does. That will come in time."
She went to the room where she had been directed, and after she had drunk a cup of tea and partaken of some refreshment she felt better. She was about to return to her task, when there was a loud ring at the door-bell, followed by a bustle and confusion in the entrance hall.
"Another case, I suppose," commented the girl, and she hastened into the hall just as one of the assistants came hastily to meet her.
"An accident!" she announced briefly. "A man has been thrown from his horse right in front of the door; so, of course, he was brought in here, and Heaven knows we have scarcely room enough to receive any more. The affair of yesterday has filled our wards to overflowing."
They were bringing the injured man into the hall, lying upon a stretcher, the pallid face uncovered, the eyes closed, as though Death had already set his seal there.
One glance, and Beatrix flew to the side of the stretcher with a wild cry which re-echoed through the house like a knell. But cries of pain and anguish were of too common an occurrence there to excite any comment.
She fell upon her knees beside the sofa where the injured man had been placed, and wrung her hands in frantic grief.
"Keith! Keith!" she wailed, in her wild, bitter anguish. "It is Keith, my husband, and he is dead!"
That agonized cry seemed to bring Keith back to life. The beautiful dark eyes flared swiftly open, and rested upon the white, terrified face bending over his own.
"Beatrix!"
The name faltered from his pale lips in one wild, joyous outcry; then the eyelids fluttered down and he was unconscious once more. Beatrix rose to her feet, pale and still.
"Take him up to my own room," she said, turning to the men who had borne that still form into the house. "He will be my especial care.—He is my husband!" Then she added, after a slight pause: "If you will carry him up now, I will lead the way."
They obeyed her without a word, and Keith Kenyon was carried to his wife's room, and placed in bed, while the physicians took possession of him, and Beatrix hastened away to tell Sister Angela.
The good sister was pleased and glad for Beatrix's sake that this strange occurrence had taken place, and Beatrix would have the privilege of nursing the man she so dearly loved. But the kindly face grew pale as death as she thought of the fresh complications that must now ensue. Who could foresee the end?
Beatrix took up her position at Keith's bedside and nursed him indefatigably. The days came and went, and still Keith lay there upon his bed of pain. Through Doctor Darrow, Beatrix was able to send word to old Bernard Dane as to Keith's whereabouts and condition, though Beatrix preferred that her own name should be kept out of the matter, and the message to Mr. Dane was sent, purporting to have come from Dr. Darrow.
Beatrix could not deny herself the privilege of nursing her husband, even though she knew that with his returning health she must go from him again. They must separate, and never hope to be anything to each other. Surely it was the saddest—the very saddest—experience on record. But the brave girl was strong in her determination. Better far to never see him again than to expose the life so dear to her to such a horrible fate!
It was the very acme of self-denial and abnegation; but any true woman would have done as Beatrix did. For what woman who loves a man will deliberately expose him to suffering of any description, mental or bodily? And this was such a horrible thing, that no wonder the poor girl, feeling herself accursed, felt at times almost tempted to take her own life, so that she might escape from the horrors of the future, and above all, put it beyond the possibility of harming the one so dearly loved.
One day, not long after Keith's arrival at the Home, Beatrix was informed that a lady and gentleman wished to see Mr. Kenyon. They were in the waiting-room, and Beatrix hastened thither to receive them.
She had fully expected to meet old Bernard Dane, and probably Mrs. Graves. The thought of Serena had never once entered her mind; for as Keith was almost always delirious, he could not tell her of the strange changes that had taken place since Beatrix had left home.
Imagine her surprise, as she entered the reception-room, to see at the old man's side Serena, the woman who so cordially hated her—Serena, her bitter, implacable foe!
As Beatrix entered the room, old Bernard Dane uttered a wild cry of delight.
"Beatrix! Good heavens! is it really you?" he faltered, brokenly. "We—we thought that you were dead!"
She smiled; but still she observed, with a pang at her sensitive heart, that he did not come near her, or even take her hand. Did he fear contagion?
Serena drew back as she came near, as though she feared infection from the girl's presence.
"How do you do, Serena?" said Beatrix, quietly. "I did not expect to see you; this is quite a surprise. I thought that you had returned to your home in the North long ago."
This is Serena's hour of triumph; for the sake of this moment of supreme satisfaction, she would have given a year of her life. She drew herself up proudly, and the pale eyes shone like glass.
"I shall never return North to live!" her shrill, high-pitched tones made answer; "my home is in New Orleans now. Have you not heard? Do you never see the newspapers? I am married. I am Mrs. Bernard Dane!"
In an instant Beatrix's mind had grasped the situation. She saw at once that this was Serena's game of vengeance.
CHAPTER XXIX.
SERENA'S FAILURE.
As Serena's announcement was made, and the words fell upon the silence with a clear note of triumph pealing through her voice, Beatrix fell back faint and stunned. She realized the truth at once; she saw Serena's game, and knew that she had won. She saw that Serena—stung by the fact that Keith Kenyon's love would never be hers, and that he had allowed himself to be led into an engagement which he had not desired, and of which he soon grew weary, and so had repudiated her—all this had made Serena a very devil. And then added to it was the fact of her own poverty. And here, right within her grasp, was the chance to retrieve herself, to gain a grand home and a fortune, and at the same time ruin Keith Kenyon forever. For the young man had been reared to believe himself to be Bernard Dane's prospective heir; and, of course, with such a rearing he was utterly unfitted for any position in life where he could earn his own bread. Surely the future looming up before him was pitiful to contemplate.
It was a revenge worthy of a woman—of a hard-hearted woman—one who has the fires of baleful jealousy burning in her heart.
It is said that a jealous woman is fit to reign in hell, and it is easy to believe it. Serena was half insane with jealous wrath, and would hesitate at nothing in the way of her scheme to punish Keith Kenyon for not loving her. As though it were possible for Keith to control and direct his own heart! For love is not a matter of our own volition. It must go where it is sent by fate; we can not steer its course. And so Serena, with her mad determination to revolutionize nature, must needs attempt to wreck two lives already saddened by the darkest and most bitter of sorrows—a sorrow more cruel than death.
All this had flashed through Beatrix's brain as she stood there, her eyes upon Serena's pale, triumphant face, her heart sinking slowly into the very depths of dark despair. Keith's life was ruined—ruined irretrievably, his fortune gone, and the heavy, clanking chains of a marriage which could never be a real marriage, after all, fettering his every movement. And she was to blame for it all. In loving him and giving herself to him she had signed Keith Kenyon's death-warrant—a fearful, living death in life. She shuddered convulsively and sank into a seat.
"I cannot congratulate you, Serena," she returned, at last, forcing her white lips to speak, "because this marriage of yours is unnatural and wrong. No marriage will ever be sanctified without love—true love—and you have wedded this old man for his money."
Serena started angrily, and the red blood suffused her cheek for a moment.
"You had better choose your words in addressing me!" she snarled. "I will not bear your insults. I have come here to see Keith. Am I to see him or not?"
"You can not!" returned the young wife, bravely. "He is very ill, and I am his nurse. I would not permit any one for whom he cared to come to his bedside; I most certainly, then, will not admit you!"
Her voice rang out clear and determined. Serena's face grew ghastly white, and her pale eyes scintillated.
"I will make you sorry for that!" she stormed. "How came you here? Who constituted you Keith Kenyon's nurse?"
"I have a right to nurse him; I, and I alone!" returned Beatrix, calmly. "And, besides that, I am a nurse—or, rather, an assistant here—and it would be my duty to nurse him. This is my refuge, my home."
A scornful sneer curled Serena's thin lip.
"And do not the sick people here risk contagion from such as you?" she cried.
It was a cruel question, but the hard heart of the jealous woman was capable of any cruelty to this girl who was her rival—who, no matter what Serena did, or how she planned and schemed, somehow always seemed to get ahead of her without an effort. Even now, accursed as she was, with this hideous inheritance hanging over her head like a two-edged sword, she was more blessed than Serena, for was she not allowed to nurse this man whom they both loved, while Serena was shut out even from a sight of his face?
"I will see him!" she cried, angrily. "I will find the matron of this institution, and demand to see Keith Kenyon. I have as much right to him as you."
Beatrix's large dark eyes met the gaze of the angry woman with a slow, calm scorn.
"He is my husband," she said, quietly.
Serena's eyes blazed.
"And you—what are you?" she demanded. "Accursed! According to the law of the land he is not your husband, because a creature like you is an accursed thing, set aside and apart from other human beings, something too dreadful to contemplate. You must be mad to think that your marriage to Keith Kenyon is, or can be, lawful. Any court in the land will give him freedom from such as you."
Beatrix could not speak; she could not utter a word; she could only sit staring blankly before her, hearing Serena's terrible words, yet not heeding them apparently. But all the same every word, every syllable, sank into her heart like a branding iron, and stayed there. Perhaps it was true. Doubtless the courts of law would give Keith his freedom, if there was any law to fit this special and unusual case.
She would try. For his sake she would give him back his freedom. All this flashed through her brain as she sat there under Serena's scathing words, saying nothing, but hearing all. Old Bernard Dane intervened at length.
"Serena," he said, in his dictatorial way, "this is quite enough; you have no right to annoy and trouble poor Beatrix in this fashion. My child," turning to Beatrix with a deprecating air, "tell me, do you discover any symptoms of—of that awful trouble? How is your health, my dear?"
Beatrix's eyes—full of mournful protest—met his gaze.
"I am very well," she returned, gently; "never was better in my life. And I find no trace of anything that could ever so remotely resemble that awful thing to which you refer. It may be in my system, but so far I see nothing—"
She choked down the emotion which overpowered her, and turned aside.
"Never mind, child. Don't trouble yourself to explain to me," cried the old man, hastily. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I only wanted to know. Now, Serena, if you are satisfied, I think we had better take our departure. Then we can not see Keith?"
Beatrix shook her head.
"He will recover, I feel sure," she returned; "but his recovery rests entirely upon his being kept quiet. Doctor Darrow says that it will take time. Several of his ribs are broken, and he has sustained other injuries. I will let you know every day how he is, Uncle Bernard."
"Thank you, my dear; thank you!" he cried, as he rose to go.
Serena said nothing, but her plain face wore a look that was not good to see. She only bowed coldly to Beatrix, and followed her liege lord from the room. A little later the sound of wheels going down the street told Beatrix that they were gone. She bowed her head upon her hands and gave vent to a storm of tears which she had been bravely choking back.
"Heaven help me to bear my burden," she murmured, softly. "Heaven give me strength."
In the meantime the Dane carriage drove homeward. Once arrived there, Bernard Dane went straight to the library. He opened the door, then started back with an exclamation of surprise. The room was occupied. A slight figure, all in black, sat at the escritoire, with bowed head resting upon one hand. He drew near and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Celia!" he exclaimed. "Celia Ray, what brings you here?"
She lifted her head, and her ghastly face—ghastly from mental suffering—met his gaze. She rose slowly to her feet and faced him, like a forgotten sin come back from its grave to reproach him; and so she was.
"Bernard!"—her voice was low and tremulous—"I have only just heard of your marriage—your mad, insane marriage to Serena, my niece—my niece, remember—and so I came to see you at once. Now, answer me one question. What did you mean by promising me never to marry? You refused to make me your wife—to atone for the wrong you had done me, but you did promise not to marry any one else. You have broken your word, as all men do. False! false! false! Now, listen to me, Bernard Dane."
She drew herself up to an erect position, and her eyes glared into his face with a look of utter hatred, and the worst hatred in the world is that which is born of a slighted love. Her voice sounded like the hissing of a serpent as she went on:
"I can tell you something which would alter all your life, and make you happy, but I refuse to do it. I intend to punish you for what you have done. Go on in your fool's life, Bernard Dane; the day is coming when you will remember me, and curse the hour in which you first deceived me!"
CHAPTER XXX.
A THREAT.
The old man's face grew pale and troubled.
"Celia, can not you let by-gones be by-gones?" he cried, tremulously. "I am old and feeble. I needed some one to take care of me, and as Serena—"
"Offered herself? Yes, I suppose that is about the case. All the same, I should think that you would have kept the promise you made me, since that was all the atonement you could make for my lost life—my ruined happiness. Bernard Dane, you are a villain!"
The old man's face grew stern, and a grim smile touched his lips.
"So I am. I don't deny it, Celia. When I look back upon my own past and recall all my awful deeds, and worse than all else, the plot that I had formed against two lives—the cruel, horrible plot—to ruin the happiness of two innocent hearts, I hate myself, I scorn myself, I loathe myself. Celia, you can not speak one half as bad of me as I deserve. But do not arraign me for taking the step that I have taken. I was ill and alone—"
"You might have sent for me!" the woman cried, passionately. "I would have nursed and tended you. But instead you hung a mill-stone around your neck which will prove your ruin. Serena Lynne is an artful, designing wretch, yet you think she is disinterested, perhaps. Bernard Dane, I am your wife in all justice—ay, more—"
She checked herself abruptly. The old man bowed his head, and silence—awful silence—fell over the room. Every word that she had uttered had stung his heart with the full force of truth, and for a time conscience—that whip of scorpions—stung him with its bitter smart.
Well, it was some satisfaction to be convinced that he still possessed a conscience. He drew a little nearer her side at length, and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Celia,"—quite humbly he spoke her name—"won't you try to be less hard with me? I do not deserve it from you. And yet," he added, swiftly, at sight of the expression which crossed her face, "I acknowledge that I have wronged you, and—and I had no right to break my promise; but it is too late now. I could not atone under any circumstances now for past mistakes. You ought not to come here to make trouble, Celia."
"No,"—her eyes flashed angrily—"I ought not to make trouble for you. Of course not. You ought to have all the easy places in life, while I toil along over the rough, stony road. You are like all other men—false, and selfish, and cruel—hard as iron. All the same, I will keep my secret—the secret which I have long considered the advisability of telling you, but which I now think wiser to bury in my own breast. It is a secret which would make your life a happier one, and brighten up the skies immensely for other parties. But it will keep. I will do no good—no kindness—to you who have made my life so utterly miserable—a wretched failure. I will return evil for evil!"
Her voice rang out harsh and hard; her white face was set and stern; she grasped the arm of the chair in which she was sitting as though to gain strength. Low under her breath she muttered, softly:
"If he only knew, if he only knew! Dare I tell him? He looks so old and worn, the shock might kill him."
She arose and walked over to the window, and stood there gazing forth upon the grounds without, her pale face full of grave trouble. That there was something upon her mind, something that troubled her and made her very anxious, there could be no doubt. She turned away from the window and began to pace slowly up and down the long room, her hands clasped, her eyes full of brooding care.
"I will go," she said to herself, at last, decisively. "If I remain here any longer, I shall be tempted to make a clean breast of the whole affair."
She turned abruptly about.
"I am going, Mr. Dane," she said, coldly; "good-bye."
He bowed his head, but made no attempt to speak. She turned away. The door opened and closed behind her. Celia Ray was gone.
Out in the hall she came face to face with Serena.
"Ah, Mrs. Dane!"—with a curious intonation in her voice, her steely eyes fixed upon Serena's startled face—"I must congratulate you—ahem! I suppose now you consider that you have made quite a grand match for yourself, that you have wedded a wealthy old man, whose entire fortune will go to you some day in the near future? My dear Serena, 'there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip'."
"What do you mean?" demanded Serena, harshly.
"Nothing—of course not. Only some day your eyes will see the truth, and you will be astonished, Mrs. Dane!"
A swift, angry light leaped into Serena's eyes. She turned away with a wrathful gesture just as Simons appeared.
"Simons,"—Mrs. Dane's voice was cold and hard—"show this woman out, and if she ever ventures here again do not admit her."
Simons bowed.
"I'll do so, ma'am, suah!" he returned.
"Will you?" retorted Mrs. Ray. "Very well. Mrs. Serena, your day is done. This insult is the last straw that breaks the camel's back. I will pay you off for this, if I swing for it!"
She walked swiftly to the outer door, and waving Simons aside, opened it herself and passed out. Her face was white as death, her eyes burning like flame.
"I will hesitate no longer!" she muttered low under her breath as she plunged on down the street. "Serena shall suffer for this! I will not hesitate for the sake of shielding him! I will do the work of destruction! I will tumble down Serena's little house of cards! If they had treated me differently—if Bernard had been kinder, and that wretch Serena not so insulting—I might have spared them, I might have continued to keep my secret. I have kept it for years; it would have gone to the grave with me. But the time has come at last, and I will tell, if I die for it!"
The words faltered into silence upon her lips. She had been walking rapidly down the street, and as she spoke she was crossing to an opposite corner. Just at that moment down the long avenue a carriage came tearing, drawn by a pair of frightened horses running away. On, on they came! There was the sound of a fall, a wild, agonized cry of human suffering, and Celia Ray lay upon the stone pavement, with the iron-shod hoofs of the horses trampling her down.
CHAPTER XXXI.
A NOBLE LOVE.
A crowd gathered in a moment to the scene of the disaster. Poor Celia's bruised and bleeding body was lifted from the ground and borne into a neighboring drug store. Here she was placed upon a sofa, and everything was done to resuscitate her that skill could suggest. Doctor Darrow chanced to be passing—or was it chance? In the days that came afterward, Douglas Darrow was wont to look back upon that moment, and humbly thank God for having directed his footsteps to the place where Celia Ray had been carried. For that occurrence was the beginning of a new chapter in the strange romance, a turning-point which was destined to bring about the end as unexpected as strange.
Mrs. Ray was a stranger to the young physician, and all inquiry failed to elicit any information as to her identity. In all the great city she could not have fallen into better hands than those of Doctor Darrow, for he was the kindest-hearted and most philanthropic of men. At last, despairing of ever reaching the truth in regard to the woman, Doctor Darrow sent her to the Home for treatment. He might have sent her to the Charity Hospital, but there was something in the forlorn aspect of the woman—something pathetic, it seemed to him—and there was a familiar look about her face which perplexed the doctor, for he was certain that he had never met the woman before. Yet the intangible resemblance to some one whom he had met before lingered in his mind, and he could not shut it out. So, with a vague feeling that it was his duty to do so, he ordered the unfortunate woman to be taken to the Home, where her injuries were promptly attended to. She was in a very precarious condition; Doctor Darrow saw that, and he entertained grave fears for her recovery. And, even in the event of her recovery, there were serious fears entertained from the effects of the blow upon her head from the horse's feet, which might result in insanity. It transpired that when Beatrix was not with Keith, she found plenty of occupation in the ward where Celia Ray was confined to her bed. As soon as Beatrix saw her she recognized the likeness to Mrs. Lynne, save that this woman's face was more refined, and bore the traces of sorrow and suffering.
"I wonder who she is?" the girl asked herself, as she stood gazing down upon the white face of the sufferer. "Surely I have seen her somewhere before. She looks just like Mrs. Lynne, only there is a difference."
Even as the words passed her lips, the woman turned uneasily upon the pillow, murmuring as she did so:
"Bernard! Bernard! You will not be so cruel—so cruel!"
Beatrix started at the sound of that familiar name. But the sufferer had wandered away again into wild and incoherent delirium, and Beatrix could gain no information from the words which passed her lips. But still some strange influence drew her as often as possible to the ward where Celia Ray lay, growing gradually worse and weaker, until it became evident that she had not long to live. But there was something upon her mind. She tossed and turned in the fever and delirium, moaning and muttering broken fragments of a strange story, over and over, but so brokenly and fragmentary that Beatrix and Doctor Darrow could make nothing of her raving.
In the meantime, Keith was recovering slowly but surely. And now the hour had come when Beatrix knew that she must have a talk with him, and go through the anguish of parting once more. Doctor Darrow had listened to Beatrix's announcement that the injured man was her husband, and his noble heart, though crushed with its sorrow and loneliness, did not shrink from the task before him. He had devoted himself to Keith Kenyon as much as he possibly could, and to the earnest labors of the young physician, as well as Beatrix's tender care, Keith Kenyon owed his return to health. The time came when Beatrix, standing at his bedside, listened to Keith's pleading words—words which broke her heart afresh.
"You shall not leave me, my darling!" the young man cried, passionately. "My wife, my wife, I need you! You must not separate us in this dreadful way, this death in life. It is worse than though death itself had intervened to tear us apart. Beatrix, look up, my beautiful darling, and say that you will give up this mad separation. It has not been proven that you are really—that you—that the disease is even in your system. Such things have been heard of before. For two or three generations a curse like that may lie dormant and then suddenly appear, just when it had come to be believed that it had been eradicated. It may never show itself in your life-time, my darling, and in any case you are my wife, and I claim you. Come, Beatrix!"
"I can not, I must not! Keith, Keith, don't you know that you are holding open the very gates of Heaven to me, and yet I can not, dare not, enter? Don't you know that I would rather lay down my life today than be the cause of possible danger to you? Oh, my husband, so dear to me, don't tempt me, don't tempt me, or you will break my heart anew. For I can not, dare not, consent."
He bowed his head upon his hands and a storm of sobs shook his frame, sobs which choked his voice and made speech impossible. Beatrix laid her hand upon his head. It was to her the very bitterest of anguish to stand at his side and not dare to let her lips meet his in a sweet, clinging kiss of love; and she had not ventured to kiss his lips since that awful shock had come crashing down upon her like an avalanche—the discovery of the awful shadow upon her life, her dark inheritance.
She turned away pale and trembling. After a time she crept back to him and laid her hand upon his arm.
"Keith, my own, my precious husband!" she whispered, "this is more bitter to us than death—this parting—but it must be. And so, since we know that there is no hope for us—that we must be parted anyway—would it not be better for you, for your future—I have none, you know—to place the matter in the hands of the law, to appeal to the courts for your freedom? I am certain the fact of my being what I am, will be sufficient to free you. Oh, Keith, Keith! I can not be a blight upon you forever! You must be free from me, and hold up your head once more among your fellowmen. And once free, you will some time in the future, dearest, meet some one else—"
"Stop! For God's sake, stop! How can you speak such words to me?" he groaned, desperately. "Beatrix, you are my wife; whether we live as husband and wife, or are forever separated here upon earth, does not matter. You are mine and I am yours; no one can alter that. And whether we live apart or anear, I shall always be your husband—yours alone—until death shall part us. You remember the solemn marriage service, Beatrix, and the vows we took before God's holy altar? Never mention the divorce court to me again, my beautiful love—it is sacrilege—that can never be. Now, Beatrix, try to cheer up and hope for the best. Your case may not be hopeless, you know, and anyway—no matter what happens—even though the very worst, remember that I love you and you alone, and I shall love you till I die. Ah, there comes Doctor Darrow! I believe that I will tell him all our sad story, my Beatrix, and ask his advice and opinion. He has been so very kind to me; and to his skill, as much as your splendid nursing, I owe my restoration to health. For I shall soon be well now; I am sure of it. I am getting stronger and better every day. Ah, Doctor—"
Keith paused as the young physician drew near, his face quite pale and grave, in his eyes a look of something like suppressed excitement.
"Mrs. Kenyon," he said, turning to Beatrix with a look in his sad, gray eyes which touched her heart in spite of herself, "will you go to Mrs. Ray? She is asking for you, and I think that there is something upon her mind which will not be relieved until she has seen you."