CHAPTER V.
ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE.
Out in the cold starry night Beatrix was riding swiftly on to the little town of Burtonville—a small settlement which lay some three miles beyond the home of the Lynnes. It was isolated from the railroad, and was in fact only a handful of houses dropped down in the midst of the woods for no apparent purpose whatever.
The wind blew shrill and cold, but the girl had wrapped herself warmly and did not mind it as she galloped on in the face of the blast. She had only one thought to occupy her—the good old man whom she had loved as a father, was dead. Never more would she hear his kindly voice, never more would she listen to his gentle words. She thought of the parting that night, and her heart thrilled with thankfulness that she had come back to kiss him and bid him good-night.
"For the last time," she murmured, sadly; "the very last time—poor papa!"
On she went, until the three miles were covered, and she drew rein before a tiny brown cottage, where dwelt their kind friends, the Rogerses. Dismounting, she rapped loudly at the outer door. Her summons aroused the inmates, and in a few moments her sad story was told. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rogers hastily prepared themselves to return with Beatrix to the desolate home of the Lynnes; and so in the course of an hour they entered the weather-beaten old house upon whose portals death had left its dreadful sign.
Once inside, and satisfied that Mrs. Lynne would be relieved from further cares, Beatrix made her way slowly, falteringly, up to her own chamber, and once there, fainted quietly away for the first time in her life. The natural reaction to all the excitement of the day had come, and the girl's strength could endure no more. A little later, Serena, passing the open door, saw Beatrix lying upon the floor where she had fallen. She came swiftly to her side and gazed into the pale little face with eyes full of hatred.
"I wish she was dead!" hissed the woman, bleakly. "I wish to Heaven she would never recover from this swoon, never open her eyes to the world again. I hate her. I can not help it. She will steal him from me—the only man for whom I shall ever care. Keith might have learned to love me in time; but, of course, a face like hers is certain to win the prize. I am plain—I know it—and I can not deny that Beatrix is lovely. But I would have been a good wife to Keith; I would lay my life down for him; I would be willing to be his slave if only he would love me. Oh, Keith! Keith! Heart of my heart, soul of my soul!" She turned away, wringing her hands frantically. "If I can not win you, it would be better for me to die!"
She left the unconscious girl alone, and calling Mrs. Rogers, sent her to Beatrix's assistance. It was hours before the poor girl was fully restored. She looked like a snow-wreath as she moved silently about the house, in the plain black gown which had been provided for her. She was pale and wan, and her great dark eyes looked unnaturally bright, and shone like stars.
Two days later the funeral took place, and Frederick Lynne was buried away out of sight in the bare, bleak little grave-yard, over which the first snow lay soft and warm like a blanket. The day after the funeral, Mr. Rogers, driving over from the post-office (the bridge having been repaired), paused at the dreary home of the Lynnes with a registered letter addressed to its late master.
"I took the liberty of signing for it," he said, as he placed the letter in Mrs. Lynne's outstretched hand. And then, with a kindly inquiry for Keith Kenyon, and a cheerful good-morning, he took his departure. Without a moment's delay, Mrs. Lynne tore open the letter with eager haste. A crisp five-hundred dollar bill dropped from between the folded pages. She picked it up with a gasp of delight, and just at that moment Beatrix entered the room. There was no help for it. Mrs. Lynne knew that the letter and its inclosure must be at once turned over to the girl. She placed it in her hand.
"There! That is yours, I suppose," she said, ungraciously.
With dilated eyes Beatrix read the words addressed to Frederick Lynne:
"Doctor Lynne," so ran the letter,—"I send inclosed five hundred dollars per registered mail, the most convenient way of forwarding remittances, since you are residing in a place destitute of banks and other conveniences. Send Beatrix Dane to New Orleans immediately—to No. —— St. Charles Avenue, and oblige,
"Yours respectfully,
"Bernard Dane."
Beatrix lifted her eyes, and they met the cold gaze of Mrs. Lynne.
"How much will my ticket cost?" she asked, abruptly.
Mrs. Lynne made no reply.
"Will you please get the money changed?" persisted Beatrix, gently, laying the bill in the woman's hand. "I will take one hundred dollars; the rest is yours."
A swift gleam passed over the hard countenance.
"Do you mean it?" she cried.
Beatrix's red lip curled scornfully.
"Certainly. I have been an expense to you ever since the remittances failed to come. And now, Mrs. Lynne, I suppose I had better prepare at once for my journey."
Mrs. Lynne did not attempt to dissuade her. The simple preparations were soon completed, and it was arranged that Beatrix should start on the early train the next morning.
Late in the day, as Beatrix was passing the open door of the sick-room, she heard her name called in a low, eager tone. She paused hesitatingly.
"Come in, will you not?" Keith Kenyon asked, softly. She came swiftly to the bedside.
"I hope you are feeling better," she ventured, timidly; for this was the first time she had seen him since the accident. His beautiful eyes lighted up with a tender light. He took her hand in his.
"Why have you not come to see me?" he asked in a low tone. "I have begged Serena and Aunt Lynne to ask you to come for a moment. I have something to say to you—such a strange thing to tell you, Miss Dane; it seems like a romance, this that I have to say. But first let me thank you for saving my life."
Her face flushed, and then grew pale.
"I have done nothing," she faltered. "I only wish—"
She paused, and for a brief moment their eyes met. A sweet, nameless thrill passed from heart to heart. He laid her little hand against his lips.
"My darling!" he was beginning, passionately. But the words died upon his lips, checked abruptly; for there in the open door stood Mrs. Lynne, pale with wrath, her eyes blazing.
"Beatrix!" she panted, wrathfully. "Good gracious girl, what are you doing here? This is no place for you. How improper! how very improper and unmaidenly!"
Blushing like a rose with mortification, poor Beatrix fled swiftly from the room. And little did she dream of the strange announcement which had been upon the lips of Keith Kenyon.
Mrs. Lynne followed the girl to her own room, and once there, closed its door behind her.
"You bold-faced creature!" she panted, angrily, "How dared you enter Keith Kenyon's room alone? You are utterly shameless!"
The beautiful eyes met the fiery orbs before her with brave frankness.
"Mr. Kenyon called me; he had something to tell me, he said," she returned, quietly, "and I could not refuse to see him. I have not seen him before since the accident."
"And I will take care that you shall not see him again!" hissed the woman, fiercely. "Such conduct is terrible! It is positively shocking for an unmarried woman—a mere girl—to enter a man's sick-room!"
The girl's eyes flashed ominously.
"If it is improper for me, Mrs. Lynne," she returned coldly, "it must be the same for Serena. She is not married, although she is rather an old girl," she added, naïvely.
"You wretch!"
Mrs. Lynne was almost speechless with wrath.
"How dare you?" she hissed, bringing her hand down upon the girl's shrinking shoulder with savage emphasis—"how dare you call Serena old?"
"She is nearly twenty-seven," returned Beatrix, coolly. "Not old, to be sure, but certainly old enough to know how to behave herself. I think that—"
"Hush! Not another word, or I will strike you!"
"You shall not!"
Beatrix faced the termagant before her with a white, resolute face, and a look in the depths of her dark eyes which made Mrs. Lynne quail.
"As I intend going over to the village tonight," said Beatrix, quietly, "that I may be in time for the train in the morning, I may as well bid you good-bye. I think that you will be sorry some day for the way that you have treated me, Mrs. Lynne."
She closed the door behind the retreating figure of her tormentor, and made ready for the journey. A little later she came down the stairs, attired in a traveling-dress, her only baggage a small hand-bag. Everything was as still as death. She stole softly to the door of the room where Keith Kenyon lay upon his sick-bed. The door was closed; she paused and laid her hot cheek against the cold, hard panel of the door, her sore heart swelling with bitter resentment.
"Good-bye!" she whispered, softly. "I shall never see you again—my friend that might have been. Good-bye!"
Never see him again? Yet how can Beatrix Dane know that? In the long, dark days before her, how can she tell what the strange chances in life's lottery may bring her? It is well that she does not know. How many of us, knowing the future, would shrink from the ordeal before us, and pray for the boon of death!
CHAPTER VI.
HER OATH.
In a spacious chamber of a great, gloomy mansion, an old man sat alone, his gray head bowed upon his trembling hands, which rested upon a cane. A few blocks away the hum and traffic of the Crescent City filled the air; but here all was still and quiet. An up-town mansion, embowered in huge live-oaks—a shady, silent place, the sight of which made one feel gloomy, and caused a slight chill to pass involuntarily over the frame. The great house looked like an enchanted palace, with old Bernard Dane the presiding genii, all alone and lonely like the last leaf upon the tree.
The moments came and went, and still he sat there silent and alone; once in awhile a few muttered words would pass his grim lips, and the wrinkled hands upon the cane-head would clinch each other savagely. At last he lifted his head, and turning slowly in his arm-chair, pressed the electric button in the wall at his side. A moment later, an obsequious servant entered—a black servitor in the Dane family for years.
"Any news, Simons?" asked Bernard Dane, eagerly.
The man shook his head.
"No, sah; nothing—nothing 'tall, sah—not yet. We only got de tellygram from Marse Ken sayin' dat he done arrive safe—dat's all, sah. Kin I do anything for you, Marse Bernard?"
"No—no; nothing. Of course not. I want nothing in the wide world but to see that boy back again, with his errand done as I directed him. It was a wise thought of mine—a wise thought to send him. Ha! ha! Throw two young fools together, under the circumstances, and they'll fall in love with each other as sure as they live! Love? Bah! if I had my way, that word should be stricken from the lexicon. It is the cause of all the trouble, all the sin, all the sorrow in the world—Confound it, Simons! are you there yet? Do I employ you to stand listening to me in this way? Do I? Answer me, sir!"
"No, sah—no, sah; in course not," stammered Simons, in confusion. "I beg pardon, sah; but, you see, Marse Bernard, I—I thought—"
"Thought! Never think, Simons. Don't let me ever hear again that you indulge in the pernicious habit of thinking! Great Heaven! what would I not give to drown thought—to bury it out of sight—deep, deep—so deep that nothing on earth would ever have the power to resurrect it! Thought—memory! Bah! a regular Old Man of the Sea—like that story of Anstey's, 'The Fallen Idol.' (Deuced clever fellow is Anstey!) Some artist fellow owned the idol, and he could not get rid of the thing, no matter what he did. He hid it—gave it away—lost it—drowned it—buried it—left no stone unturned to be rid of its cursed presence. It was ruining his life, and making him contemplate suicide. But all his efforts were in vain. Even theosophy itself was of no avail—and, to my way of thinking, theosophy can do much. And so the poor fellow was cursed by the presence of this idol—a black, evil shadow upon his life—until a bolt of thunder and a flash of lightning shivered the thing to fragments. Direct interposition of Providence! Ah, yes; to be sure—Simons!"—flashing about swiftly, as his eyes fell upon the unfortunate darky—"what on earth are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to go?"
"No, sah; I never heard you, sah!"
"Then hear me now—Go!"
And the heavy cane came down upon the floor with emphasis.
Outside, a night of storm and tempest. The roar of the wind, the beating rain, or roar of the elements, which, after all, is no more fierce and bitter than that which often rages within a human breast. The wind shrieked shrilly down the chimney, the trees swayed in the blast, and tapped upon the crystal window-panes with bare, ghostly fingers. Old Bernard Dane drew a little nearer the fire, and wrapped his silken dressing-gown about his gaunt frame.
"What o'clock is it?" he demanded, as Simons was about to withdraw.
"Jes' nine, sah. De church clock jes' struck."
"Humph! Very well; do go. No—stop! was not that the gate bell? Can it be Ken at last? Wish to mercy it may be. Go and see who has come, Simons, and make haste!"
The negro obeyed in silence, and the door closed behind him.
Bernard Dane's head drooped once more upon his clasped hands, and save for his slow, labored breathing, there was no sound to break the dreary silence of the room. The moments came and went until five—twice five—three times five—were ticked away. Then the chamber door opened noiselessly, so noiselessly that Bernard Dane did not hear it, and a slight, black-robed figure stole softly into the room and stood beside the hearth. A forlorn little figure in an old-fashioned, dingy black gown, with a dowdyish hat pushed back from the pale little face, with its tired, drooping mouth, and great, glorious dark eyes full of a weary light.
"I am Beatrix Dane," said a soft voice, timidly.
The old man lifted his head, and his eyes fell upon the face before him. A strange change passed over his stern features, a look of slow horror froze his face down like an icy mask. He arose to his feet, tall, gaunt, grim; but in the presence of this slip of a girl, he was trembling as though he was afraid.
"Powers above!" he panted, brokenly. "When did you arrive? Where is—is—Surely you did not travel all this distance alone!"—his voice trembling with an inflection of surprise which was almost terror.
"Yes, sir; I came alone. There was no help for it. Oh, Mr. Dane, I have such dreadful news to tell you! Papa is dead; he died of heart disease while he was reading your last letters to him!"
"Papa!"—the scornful intonation in Bernard Dane's voice was a revelation. "Papa, indeed! Ha! ha! You have no father. No, I do not mean that you are not legitimate, but it is worse than that. You, upon whom the curse of God has fallen, can have no claim of near kinship with any one. It would be a fine thing to be the father of a creature like—like—Girl, do you know that you are accursed? That you have a destiny to fulfill, the very thought of which makes my heart stand still with horror? You have a dark inheritance in store, and may Heaven give you strength to bear your burden, for 'vain is the help of men.'
"No, I am not insane; there is no insanity in the Dane family. I am not idiotic; I am as sane and sound as you are, and more than you will be when you learn the truth concerning yourself. Don't shrink away and cower out of sight like that. Be a woman. Do you know what that means? It means to bear the burden of another's sin; to carry its consequences about in your heart—your tender, guiltless, woman's heart—until your life is darkened and ruined forever. It means to suffer in secret and silence, and to lie down and die, sooner than see the one punished for whom you suffer. This is to be a woman. There! I have no more to say tonight—No—wait a moment before you go to your own room which I have had prepared for you. Come here, and let me look at you. Yes, to be sure, you are fair. I thought that you would be. You are beautiful, indeed. Oh, heavens! what a fate—what a fate for one so young and fair! Now, Beatrix Dane, answer me: have you come here prepared to render strict obedience to my wishes? You do not know what right I have to direct you? Ah! so I thought. Well, you may call me uncle—Uncle Bernard. The first relative you have ever known? Humph. Well, pray Heaven it may be the last. Now, listen while I tell you why I have sent for you at this late day."
She came a little nearer and lifted her piteous, pleading eyes to his stern face.
"Uncle—Uncle Bernard," she faltered, timidly, "please don't speak such wild, harsh words to me tonight. Let me hear you say something kind. Remember, I have no one in the wide world but you. I promise to be good and obedient. I promise to obey you like a slave; to do anything you say. No one has ever loved me. Won't you try to love me a little—only a little? I promise to do whatever you may wish me to do."
"You promise?"
His wrinkled face lighted up with a swift gleam of triumph.
"Swear to do as I wish!" he panted, desperately. "I demand that you do so. Swear to obey me implicitly, Beatrix Dane."
The beautiful eyes drooped for an instant. Surely he would exact no promise of her beyond her power to fulfill? Could a man—an old man—be so hard upon a poor, weak, timid creature—utterly defenseless—like herself? For she had yet to learn, poor ignorant child, that with some men "might makes right."
"I swear it, Uncle Bernard!" she said, slowly. "Now, kiss me, and say that you will love me a little!"
And she ventured to lay one small hand timidly upon his arm. With a hoarse, inarticulate cry he struck the little hand aside and started to his feet.
"Don't touch me!" he panted, wildly; "don't dare to touch me! Kiss you? I would sooner cut my own throat. Get away—away—out of my sight! Do you hear? No! Wait until I have told you what I wish you to do, and remember, Beatrix Dane, you have sworn to obey me. I have sent for you for a particular object; for that object I have had you reared and educated. The time has come to carry out my plan; it is this: I have sent for you, Beatrix Dane, to marry the man whom I have chosen for you—the son of my adoption. You must become his wife at the time I have appointed, or—you will wish that you had never been born!"
CHAPTER VII.
BETROTHED.
The days came and went with slow, monotonous round in the old brown, weather-beaten house where Keith Kenyon lay ill unto death. Mrs. Lynne scarcely left his bedside. She was a skillful nurse, and in this case she felt more than an ordinary interest, for she had come to look upon Keith as a prospective son-in-law. When he was a child—a little fatherless, motherless babe—he had been placed in care of Mrs. Lynne's sister to be reared. It was after he had grown to be a youth of fifteen that he had been formally adopted by an old man in New Orleans, of whose name Mrs. Lynne and Serena were both ignorant; they had only heard of the mere fact of his adoption. The years had come and gone, and although he wrote occasionally to Mrs. Lynne, and always inclosed a kindly message and sometimes a few written lines to Serena, he had never confided absolutely in them, and they had refrained from asking questions. Year after year he had written that he hoped to find an opportunity to visit his old friends; but heretofore he had found it impossible to keep his promise.
There is a certain place, unmentionable to ears polite, which is popularly believed to be paved with good intentions. Keith Kenyon had evidently laid a block or two of this pavement; at all events, his intentions, though good, had come to naught. And now, just when the mother and daughter had given up all hope of ever seeing him again, he had suddenly appeared at their home. For all these years—the long, long time since their last meeting—years during which Keith Kenyon had not given many thoughts to Serena, and even then only thinking of her as his childish playmate, she had thought of him with a steady and unwavering interest and a fixed intention to some day become his wife.
The news of his adoption by a wealthy old man had not lessened her interest in Keith or her resolution to marry him. He would be rich some day. She was tired of the weary battle with poverty, and longed, with all her mercenary heart and narrow soul, to enjoy the advantages of wealth and position. And as the years went by, her purpose grew with them; she had but one object in life—to marry Keith Kenyon and share his fortune. Yet now that she had met him at last, her love for him had grown to such great proportions, that, even had he not been the rich man's heir in prospective, she would have been willing to marry him had he chosen her to be his wife. But fate had decreed that he should choose otherwise.
After Doctor Lynne's burial, Keith grew rapidly worse, and was soon in a raging fever, with small hopes of recovery.
Doctor Stone, the village physician, called every day to see the patient, and his wrinkled face grew graver and graver as he marked the alarming symptoms.
"I fear for the worst," he said to Mrs. Lynne at last.
And then into that astute lady's heart a swift inspiration rushed like a flood. Her eyes wore a look of resolution, and she shut her thin lips grimly together as she hissed, sharply:
"He shall make Serena his wife before he dies! She shall be his wife; and then she will be able to claim a portion of the fortune. It shall be so!"
She was passing the open door of the sick-room one day, when she was startled by hearing Keith's voice, weak and tremulous, calling her name.
She came to a halt, her face pale with surprise, for he had not spoken for several days, only the wild ravings of delirium.
"What is it, Keith?" she asked, going swiftly to the bedside.
His great dark eyes were lifted to her face with a wistful look in their depths.
"Beatrix!" he faltered, feebly. "I want Beatrix. Where is she?"
A look of fiendish hatred flashed into Mrs. Lynne's pale eyes, and the bony hands clutched each other fiercely.
"Beatrix is not here," she replied.
He started up wildly; then fell back upon the pillows, faint and exhausted.
"Not here?" he repeated, brokenly. "Oh, Mrs. Lynne! don't tell me that she is gone! Why, she could not go all alone; and he—he sent me here for her."
"Sent you for her? Who sent you?" demanded Mrs. Lynne sharply.
"Uncle Bernard. That was my business here in this place. He said that Beatrix was to come home to New Orleans to him, and so he sent me to escort her there. Tell me—where is she? Tell her to come to me. I want Beatrix—I want Beatrix!"
"You will never get her!"
Mrs. Lynne's breath was coming thick and fast; her pale eyes scintillated; her hands were clinching each other convulsively.
"You will never see Beatrix Dane again," she panted. "Shall I tell you why? She has left us forever—gone away to be married. She is married by this time. She went away, leaving you lying here upon this sick-bed. In vain I begged her to remain for a time with poor Serena and myself and help nurse you. But she only laughed and said that she could not alter her plans and postpone her marriage for the sake of a stranger. I tell you she is gone—gone forever, Keith; and she is married to a wealthy man, who is able to take good care of her. Put her out of your mind at once; she is not worthy a kindly thought from you."
But he only moaned over and over again, weakly, brokenly: "I want Beatrix—Beatrix, my beautiful Beatrix!" until Mrs. Lynne felt that she should go mad.
He had relapsed into delirium again, and the worst was before them.
Days went by; and it was a hand-to-hand fight with death. And away in that distant Southern city, old Bernard Dane waited impatiently for his recovery and return, the only news received by him being the telegrams which Mrs. Lynne sent him almost daily. Their import was always the same: "No better." But the day came at last when, weak and feeble as a newborn babe, Keith Kenyon struggled back to existence once more; and the first person upon whom his eyes rested was Serena Lynne. Constant watching and the cares of the sick-room had not improved her appearance; she was more sallow, and gaunt, and unlovely than ever. His eyes wandered slowly over the grim figure and smileless face, and he strove to speak.
"Mrs. Lynne," he said, softly, firmly, believing that the woman seated at his bedside was the mother instead of the daughter.
Serena started, and an ugly frown disfigured her face.
"Mrs. Lynne is not here," she returned, curtly. "It is I—Serena. You do not see well, Keith!"
A slow smile stole over his lips; he held out one feeble hand.
"I—I beg your pardon, I am sure," he said, the smile lighting up his wasted face like a ray of sunlight. "I am so grateful to you, Serena," he said, softly. "Under God, I owe my life to you."
She fell upon her knees at the bedside.
"I would not have cared to live if you had died," she sobbed, bitterly. "Oh, Keith—Keith! You are the very light of my life! Say that you care a little—even a little—for me!"
His face grew pallid, and an awful faintness crept over him.
"Of course I care, Serena," he faltered, brokenly. "You are like a—a sister to me."
"But I do not want to be your sister," she cried, boldly. "Let me be something nearer and dearer, Keith. Let me—"
She stopped short with a cry of horror. He had fainted dead away, and lay back upon the pillow as white as a corpse. With a wild shriek, and crying out madly that he was dead, she summoned her mother, and together they finally resuscitated him. But he was as weak and feeble as a living man could be. Should there be a second relapse, no human power could save him. When at last he had fallen into a refreshing slumber, Mrs. Lynne beckoned Serena out into the hall.
"If you have any hope of ever becoming Mrs. Keith Kenyon," she began in a dry, hard tone, "I advise you to secure him as soon as possible. Marry him as he lies upon that sick-bed, or, if that be inexpedient, make him enter into an engagement to marry you. I know Keith Kenyon. An engagement would be as sacred in his eyes as marriage itself. Do your best, Serena. If you fail to grasp this opportunity, you are lost. How can you ever content yourself to drag out your days here in this dead-and-alive place, with only a pittance to live on, with no pleasures, no society—nothing in the whole world but an endless and wearisome round of distasteful duties, no happiness, no love. And you do love Keith Kenyon, do you not, Serena?"
"Love him! Oh, my God!"
She sank into a seat and covered her face with her trembling hands, while a torrent of sobs shook her angular frame.
"Love him!"
Her hands fell helplessly to her side, and the tear-stained face and eyes swollen and dim with weeping met her mother's sympathetic gaze.
Mrs. Lynne had little sympathy with such weakness; but Serena was her daughter—her only child—and the mother's heart, jealous over her offspring, was sore for her daughter's sorrow.
"Love him!" repeated Serena, wildly. "I only live for him! I could not exist without him! Believe me, mother, this is no exaggeration. If I could not see Keith Kenyon and be with him sometimes I should die."
Her mother's thin lip curled contemptuously; but a glance into the tear-wet eyes and face full of keenest suffering, and the mother-love and mother-pity—which are almost divine—were in the ascendent once more.
"Bah! Love is only madness. But since you do love him in this mad way, Serena, you shall marry him!"
The words were low and fervent. It was as though that plain-faced, harsh-voiced woman had been suddenly and mysteriously endowed with the gift of prophecy. Would the prophecy come to pass? Time alone would tell.
The days went slowly by, and Keith grew daily stronger and better. One evening, when Serena was sitting beside the sofa, to which he had at last been promoted, he heard the sound of a stifled sob, and turning his head, found that she was weeping bitterly. He was still very weak and feeble, and the sight of her emotion fairly unmanned him.
"Serena! Serena!" he cried, frantically, "for Heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter! Are you in trouble?"
She lifted her pale face and tear-wet eyes.
"I am in the worst trouble that could happen to a woman," she faltered. "It sounds shameful and unwomanly to confess it to you, Keith; but—but I have come to dread the time like death when you will go away from us—go away from me forever, and leave me here to a dreadful fate. My heart is breaking with its sorrow; for I have loved you all my life, and I love you now so dearly that the thought of not seeing you gives me the greatest pain that I have ever known. I did not know that a human heart could suffer so and yet beat on. Keith, must I give you up? Will you not try to love me a little, and some time in the future let me be your wife? I would be such a good wife, Keith—such a good, kind, devoted wife! I would be willing to lay my life down to give you a moment's happiness. I would live for you, die for you, Keith! Believe me, I would make you happy, for I would sacrifice my every hope here and hereafter to that end, and you would never regret marrying me."
His eyes, dark and dilated, were fixed upon her eager face with a slow wonder in their dusky depths. He had never thought of such a thing as Serena Lynne lavishing such a wealth of affection upon himself. It did not make his heart thrill with ecstacy to think of it now.
"I—I do not understand you," he faltered, brokenly, manlike, trying to gain time by evasion. "I—I—It is quite impossible, Serena—quite!"
Her eyes flashed with an ominous light.
"If you are thinking of Beatrix Dane," she cried, angrily, "you are only wasting your time and committing a sin. She is another man's wife, Keith Kenyon. You can never be anything to her."
And Serena never dreamed that the "Uncle Bernard" with whom Keith Kenyon lived—his uncle only by adoption—was the Bernard Dane who had sent for Beatrix to come to his home.
Mrs. Lynne and her daughter both had placed no credence in Keith's assertion that he had been sent thither to escort the girl to her new home. They looked upon that as a vagary of delirium.
Serena urged her own cause until the poor young man's brain, weakened by his long and dangerous illness, grew too confused to grasp the situation or to realize what he was doing; and the day came at length when Keith Kenyon, worn out and weakened in mind and body until he was as feeble in judgment as a child, gave an unwilling consent to make Serena Lynne his wife.
That very day a telegram arrived for him from New Orleans, short and concise, as telegrams usually are.
It bade him return home at once, if he was able to travel; for his "uncle" had been stricken down, and lay at the point of death.
CHAPTER VIII.
A STRANGE COMMAND.
Life had seemed strange to Beatrix in that gloomy mansion in the Crescent City. From the night of her arrival she had scarcely seen old Bernard Dane—a circumstance which she could not regret; for, try as she might to shut her eyes to the truth, there was nothing pleasant or lovable about the old man. He was, indeed, everything repulsive; and his strange, wild outbursts of rage and malice against some evil which he could not prevent or forget—something hidden away in his own past—made Beatrix tremble with terror. She shrank from the gaze of his shifting dark eyes, preternaturally bright with some hidden fire which made them appear like fierce flames ready to burst forth and devour her. Since the evening of her arrival she had never again attempted any familiar or affectionate demonstrations. She had kept at a respectful distance, and comprehended fully that there was no possibility of any friendliness between them.
Why had he sent for her to come to his home, only to treat her with chilling coldness or outbursts of ungovernable rage? When she thought of the oath that he had extorted from her—her solemn promise to wed the man whom he had selected as her husband—Beatrix's heart grew faint and chill with horror. How did she know but that she had pledged herself to a fearful fate—a dark, an awful future, bound to a man whom she might hate at first sight? And then she thought of Keith Kenyon, and her heart grew warm and tender. Could she ever forget him, even though she might never see him again? Was it possible for her to shut her heart against the sweet thoughts which would intrude—the few tender words that he had spoken, and, above all, the light in his beautiful dark eyes, which had thrilled her to the heart?
"I can not forget him," she would say over and over, when the unpleasant recollection of the oath that she had so blindly taken would come back to her memory—"I can not forget him, and there will be no use in trying. Uncle Bernard may force me into a dreadful marriage if he sees fit—I suppose I shall have to obey him, the old tyrant!—but I shall never forget Keith Kenyon as long as I live—never!"
The great, gloomy old mansion was well worth exploring, for it was like the houses of which one reads in romances, where some dark mystery seems to be hidden away secure from the light of day and prying, curious eyes. There was one room called the tower-room. Beatrix went there every day, impelled by a strange and unaccountable fascination, to sit alone and wonder over and over again for what use the room had been originally intended. It was reached by a long spiral staircase, and was built in a circular shape, and known as the "round room." There was only one window, and that was merely a small square hole in the wall, and was covered with a strong iron grating.
For what purpose had this room been intended? In vain did Beatrix puzzle her brain over the vexed question. Mrs. Graves, the old housekeeper, looked cold and non-committal when Beatrix at last ventured to propound the question.
"I really can not tell you, Miss Dane," she said, shaking her gray head slowly and solemnly. "It has never been used for anything since I have been in the Dane family, and that is nearly thirty years now—just once!"
The thin lips closed down tightly together, and she turned resolutely away, as though to give Beatrix to understand that the tortures of the Inquisition could draw forth no more information from her.
Left to herself, Beatrix speculated continually upon the romance which she felt certain must be connected with the round room in the western wing. She reflected so much upon the subject, and it grew to be so all-absorbing a source of wonder to her lonely girlish heart, that one day she made up her mind quite bravely to seek for information at headquarters. That very day, accidentally encountering old Bernard Dane in the great entrance hall, she ventured to put the question to him.
"Uncle Bernard," she began in a rather shaky voice—for, to tell the truth, she was horribly afraid of the old man—"you gave me permission to go all over the house when I first came here, and I have done so. I have so little to occupy my time," she added, half apologetically. "It has interested me very much to go into all those beautiful rooms. But I would like to ask you a question. Why was that round room built in the tower? For what purpose was it intended? I am greatly interested, and would like to know."
She stopped short, awed by the awful look in his eyes and the strange gray shadow which had settled down upon his face. Not a word was spoken for some minutes; he stood as still as a statue, one hand clutching at the carved back of a Gothic hall chair with such force that one of the elaborate ornaments snapped off in his grasp.
"The round room, eh?" he cried in a harsh, croaking voice—"the round room in the tower? Ha! ha! you have been there, then? I ought to have known that you would have found your way there before you had been under this roof four-and-twenty hours! So you wish to know for what purpose the round room was designed? Ah, Miss Beatrix Dane, you may find that out sooner than you wish, and the knowledge of the truth will drive you mad! In the long black nights and the dreary darksome days, when you will pray for death and find it not, then you will learn the secret which is mercifully hidden from you now. Mercifully—ay, but why should I show mercy to you or yours? Mercy! Who has ever been merciful to me? Do I not owe it to your accursed race that I am what I am? Ah, Miss Beatrix Dane, ask no idle questions. You are fated to know for what purpose that room was built, to know in good time. Don't touch me, girl!"—for she had ventured to lay her hand upon his trembling arm—"don't dare to touch me, or I will strike you down at my feet! The very touch of your hands is pollution!"
She drew back, faint and shivering, as though he had indeed dealt her a blow; her face was as white as marble, her dark eyes dilated with unutterable horror—horror too deep for expression. What was this fearful secret which Bernard Dane held over her head, continually like a two-edged sword? What effect was it destined to have upon her future life? She turned away, faint and trembling. It crept into her mind then—dawning upon her with a strange feeling of uneasiness—that ever since her arrival at the old mansion she had been treated in a strangely formal way, a sort of stand-off-and-don't-touch-me way, which was remarkable, to say the least.
Her room was in a remote wing of the building. Everything there was solely for her own use, set apart for her.
She remembered now, with a faint sickness creeping over her heart, how strangely Mrs. Graves had watched her every movement. Did they suspect that she was going mad? No; it could not be that; for madness is not contagious, and the precautions with which she was surrounded looked greatly as though some contagion was feared and must be guarded against.
The very dishes upon which she ate were used by no one else. She had seen Mrs. Graves actually strike the little maid-servant who one day was about to raise to her lips the half-empty goblet of milk from which Beatrix had been drinking.
It was strange and mysterious.
The girl turned away from the sight of the wild, distorted face of the old man before her with a hopeless feeling tearing at her heart-strings. She went slowly back to her own room and sat down at the window.
"There must be some awful curse hanging over me!" she murmured, brokenly. "I can not imagine what this strange mystery means. I wish I could find out. I wish I might know. Anything is better than suspense!"
Alas! poor Beatrix! ignorance was certainly bliss in her case, if only she could have known it. The day would come when she would look back upon this blissful ignorance and curse the hour when first she had heard the mystery explained.
That very night old Bernard Dane sent for Beatrix to come to his room. She obeyed the summons, and found him crouching over the fire, looking like some weird priest of old performing an incantation.
"Come here!" he commanded, harshly, lifting his head and transfixing her with wild eyes as the girl entered the room—"come here, Beatrix Dane! Put your hand into that fire—right into the flame, I say. Yes; you must do it. You swore to be obedient to me, and it is for a good reason that I wish to put you to a test. I wish to prove the truth. Of course you think me mad for desiring this, but I am as sane as you are. This is a test, I tell you. The day may come when you will see the wisdom of my words. Come; you must obey me. Don't stand staring at me in that helpless way. I mean what I say, and I will be obeyed. Put your hand in the fire, and hold it there quietly for a moment!"
CHAPTER IX.
JUST IN TIME.
Beatrix stood staring blankly into the old man's excited face, with a strange feeling of sickening terror creeping over her heart. Was he mad? In Heaven's name, what did he mean? Was she shut up alone in this dreary old house with a raving madman? She stood there, trembling like a leaf, quailing before the steady stare of his wild, dark eyes burning into hers with a look of awful meaning.
"Oh, Uncle Bernard!" she faltered at length, striving hard to steady her tremulous voice, "surely you do not mean that? You are only jesting, of course. You surely could not mean for me to do such a thing—such an unheard-of thing? Why, think of the suffering I would endure—the pain and torture, and don't ask me to do such a mad thing, Uncle Bernard! And—for what purpose?"
His bloodshot eyes gleamed with a curious light.
"For what purpose? That is for me to know, Miss Beatrix Dane. I have already told you that this is a test. A test of what, you will ask, with all a woman's curiosity. But that question I shall not now answer. Should the test fail, then I shall be at liberty to tell you all, and you will have cause to be grateful, Beatrix. But there is no other way to prove the truth only by this, which seems so absurd to you. You must try and be brave, and obey me, Beatrix. You must thrust your right hand into the flames; that was the advice of the physician whom I consulted. 'If you can induce the young lady to put her hand in the fire,' so Doctor De Trobriand informed me, 'you will soon know the worst. If the thing you suspect should prove to be true, then—' But there, Beatrix, I must not reveal to you the rest of the doctor's opinion. That is a professional secret. Do you still refuse?"
"I do."
Beatrix's voice was stern, and her eyes full of a resolute light. Surely the man before her was a lunatic, and she must not allow him to intimidate her.
"I do refuse—absolutely!" she repeated, bravely. "Your command is not reasonable, and I shall not obey it. You must be mad, Uncle Bernard, to expect obedience to such a command!"
"You refuse, eh?"
He started to his feet, white with anger.
"Remember that I know best, and this is best for you, a necessary test, I say. But since you refuse, I shall be compelled to use force."
He seized her hands and dragged her forcibly to the fireside, the poor girl writhing and struggling in his grasp.
"Uncle Bernard—for the love of Heaven, stop!" she pleaded; "stop and think what you are doing! You are about to inflict the most terrible torture upon me; you will doubtless maim me for life. Uncle Bernard—Uncle Bernard, for the love of Heaven—I beg of you to stop—to spare me! Please—please—please!"
The sweet voice grew weaker and fainter as the old man forced her nearer the burning coals within the grate; in his eyes the fire of a fiendish purpose, his face as white as marble.
"I am obliged to do it, Beatrix," he said in a low, ominous voice. "If the result proves satisfactory, I shall be at liberty to explain the mystery to you, and then you will know the unutterable horror that you have escaped. If the fire burns you—pray that the fire will burn you, Beatrix," he broke off, wildly—"pray that your little hand may be scarred for all time, rather than have that awful curse to fall upon you. Oh, yes, I know you think me a madman! but listen to me, child"—his voice softening a little: "You think me a madman—a brute—a fiend; but when you have heard the truth you will think differently. I have sought vengeance all my life, but somehow your piteous eyes and helpless loneliness have made me feel a little kinder, and if it were not for Keith Kenyon, and the debt of vengeance that I owe—" He stopped short, checking himself with a strange, half-angry gesture, as though he regretted having spoken so freely. "This much I can tell you, Beatrix"—his voice had fallen almost to a whisper. There was no sound to break the awful silence of the room, save old Bernard Dane's heavy breathing and the dropping of a coal in the grate. Beatrix stood there, her hands crushed in his iron grasp—one would never have dreamed that the old man was so strong—and listened eagerly, breathlessly, to his next words.
"This much I will tell you," he went on, slowly; "and after you have heard it, I think you will agree with me. Yours is a fearful heritage, Beatrix—an heritage of woe. I will not put it into words, for if you were to know it—to know the secret of your own dark inheritance—it would kill you as you stand there before me. Beatrix, there is poison in your very life-blood—an awful taint suspected, which can only be proved by this crucial test. Beatrix, obey me; place your hand in yonder fire, as I bid you. If it comes forth burned and disfigured—a mass of horrible burns and unsightly scars, your body racked with suffering, then thank your God upon bended knee that you have escaped the doom of your race. If, on the other hand, contact with the fire should have no effect upon you, I advise you, young and fair though you are, to take your own life! Will you place your hand in the flame?"
She shrank back, paling and shivering.
"I—can not!" she faltered. "I—"
"Hush! You shall—you must!"
With a swift movement he dragged her close to the fire, and bending her slight form forward, was about to lay the little white hand upon the bed of live coals, when all at once there was a loud peal at the gate-bell. A moment later, before old Dane could carry out his horrible intention, the door of the room was thrown open, and a tall form bounded over the threshold.
One swift glance, and the newcomer sprang to the fireside, and seizing the old man by the shoulder, forced him into the nearest seat; then, before Bernard Dane could recover from the shock of the surprise, the intruder turned and faced the half-fainting girl.
"Beatrix!"
"Keith!"
Keith Kenyon's face was pale and stern, and his dark eyes flashed fire.
"So!" he cried, indignantly. "I come home in answer to a telegram which declares you to be at the point of death, Bernard Dane, and I find you in usual health, and in the very midst of an act of inhuman torture. Simons told me what was going on as soon as he opened the door to me. I rushed up here at once—just in time, it seems. Bernard Dane, I demand to know what you mean by such inhuman conduct? Understand me: if ever I find you attempting a repetition of this torture, I shall leave you forever, and I shall take Beatrix with me. She shall not remain here to be murdered. Keep your money, Bernard Dane; I do not want it. I will have nothing to do with a wicked wretch like you!"
"But—Keith"—the old man quavered the name forth in a broken voice—"you do not know. It is for her good—for your good. If she escapes the awful doom of her race, she—No, no, Keith; I must not tell you."
The old man broke down and buried his face in his shaking hands—a pitiable sight.
"Keith!" starting up suddenly and gazing into the handsome face with horror-dilated eyes, "I had planned a marriage between you two; but—but it must never be. It would be sacrilege—a crime!"
Keith Kenyon turned, and his dark eyes met the frightened gaze of Beatrix.
What was that which he read in those timid, trusting eyes lifted to his face with a shy look? Was it love?
With a low cry of rapture, he sprang to her side and caught the girl's slight form in his arms.
"Beatrix! Beatrix!" he whispered, passionately, "we have not long known each other, but I love you! I think I have loved you ever since our first meeting, when you risked your precious life to save mine—long before I suspected the truth—that you were the young girl whom I was sent to escort to this place—this cursed place where I wish you had never come. I love you, darling—love you with all my heart. Be my wife at once, Beatrix, and we will leave this place. Let Bernard Dane keep his money; we do not want it. I am strong, and can work for us both. Say yes, Beatrix, darling—say yes! For surely no man ever loved a woman as I love you."
And then he stopped short, and his heart grew faint and cold within his breast.
He had forgotten that he was Serena Lynne's promised husband, that he was bound in honor to make Serena Lynne his wife.
CHAPTER X.
AN OLD MAN'S SECRET.
Yes, he was Serena Lynne's betrothed husband, and bound in honor to make her his wife. The sharp remembrance cut him to the heart like a sword. He fell back with a cry of anguish, and the love-words died upon his lips.
"May Heaven have pity!" he groaned. "I had forgotten—forgotten. Don't look at me with such piteous eyes. Beatrix! oh, Beatrix, my love, I have done wrong! I have made a mistake, and my happiness is wrecked. All my life is ruined and darkened forever!"
Old Bernard Dane hobbled over to Keith's side and laid a trembling hand upon his arm.
"Keith, my boy, I—I can't explain this to you," he mumbled, brokenly.
He had not observed the scene which had just taken place between Keith and the shrinking, trembling girl who stood there, pale as a lily, before them. He had not listened to Keith's impassioned avowal; he had been deaf and unseeing to all that had taken place. Keith's dark eyes flashed with an angry light.
"I wish no explanation," he returned, harshly; "there is no excuse, no palliation of your conduct possible. You have acted the part of an inhuman monster—a madman! Yes, let us hope that temporary aberration is responsible for your strange conduct. Uncle Bernard, I warn you that if your attempt to torture this poor girl should be repeated, I will appeal to the authorities. You shall be confined in a retreat for the insane. You are a dangerous person to go at large."
The old man seemed strangely weakened and unmanned. He uttered no word; no sound escaped his dry, parched lips; but upon his wrinkled face there was a look of abject terror.
Trembling like a leaf, he turned, and leaning heavily upon his cane, passed from the room and closed the door behind him. He went straight to the library—a great solemn-looking apartment filled with well-laden book-shelves, and with a huge escritoire standing beside a window. The old man hobbled over to the desk, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the desk and turned to a small drawer at the right. From this drawer he removed a small package of old letters tied with a narrow black ribbon. Removing the ribbon, he began to examine the letters, reading them over hastily, one by one, the frown upon his brow growing deeper, his dark, deep-set eyes flashing with an angry light. When he had read the last of the letters he replaced the somber ribbon and returned the package to the drawer. Then bowing his head upon his hand, Bernard Dane sat buried in profound thought.
Whatever the subject that engrossed his thoughts, it was not a pleasant one. That could be easily seen by the lines of care upon his brow, the furrows of anxiety—the evidence of a great trouble—that were plainly written upon his face. A look of intense anger settled down upon it. He clinched his white hands fiercely, and the deep, dark eyes gleamed like fire.
"To think of it all!" he muttered, harshly—"all that I have borne for long years! The horror—the agony of it! To think of her—the woman I loved, who duped me, deceived me, made a mock of me! But I canceled the account between us and wiped out the score!" he went on, with a fiendish chuckle, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. "I paid her back, word for word, blow for blow! When I remember all—when I think of that death-scene—I—I feel amply satisfied. For all the suffering she caused me, she suffered fourfold. And was it not almost miraculous that the man who won her away from me—the man who had been my best friend, who had deceived me and fooled me to the top of my bent—in short, Guy Kenyon himself—should have been placed in my hands—at my mercy! He never realized the bliss that would have been his. His cup of happiness was snatched from his grasp before he could raise it to his lips, for she—she died—ha! ha!—died! and no one knows—no one but old Bernard Dane will ever know—how and where she died. Poor child! After all these long years, can it be that pity has come to life within this hardened old heart of mine? But I can not help it, when I remember how they forced her into an unholy marriage with that old man. But still there were compensations, for when her babe was six months old he departed this life, leaving all his worldly possessions to his beautiful young widow and her infant child. Then Guy Kenyon, a widower with one son, came to the fore with his handsome face and winning ways. She had known him and cared for him previous to her ill-starred marriage with old Godfrey Dane, and it did not take long to revive old feeling, to warm over the ashes of the old love, from which the new arose like a phenix.
"Married or single, bound or free, it was all the same, she never cared for me. And Guy Kenyon would have wedded her if fate had not interfered—fate in the person of old Bernard Dane. Ha! ha! Bernard Dane—but not so old and ugly then as he is now. He appeared, and in his possession proof positive of the awful curse which rested upon her—upon Mildred Dane. He loved her—there was no doubt upon that score—he loved her, and the knowledge of this fearful curse which rested upon the woman he loved killed him. He did not long survive the fearful knowledge of her secret. Then came the grand finale. I placed his child Keith, then a boy of ten or eleven, in the care of respectable people, after which I turned my attention to her—to Mildred. I had sworn that she should be my wife or nobody's. But even I, with all my great love for her, could not, dared not, make her my wife with the knowledge of that fearful, that hideous curse hanging over her like a pall. I do not like to recall that time," the old man went on, wearily, pushing back the scanty locks from his wrinkled brow. "She was like a mad creature when she learned the truth, when I told her all. Poor, heartbroken Mildred! She swore that she would take her own life, and—she kept her oath. Ah, well!"—a fearful shudder convulsing his frame—"it is an awful thing to reflect upon. But I could not blame any living creature, and, above all, a young and beautiful woman, for committing suicide under those circumstances. I risked my own life in keeping near her as I did; but my heart was heavy for her sake, and I could not leave her to meet her awful doom alone. And in return for my self-sacrifices, she hated me, defied me, died without one word of kindness to me. His name—Guy Kenyon's—was the last upon her lips. Was it not enough to harden a man's heart against a woman to whom he had given all, to whom he had dedicated his whole life? Her cruelty to me hardened my heart against her, living and dead. Ay, I even grew to hate her memory. I fell upon my knees and swore by every thing holy that I would be avenged.
"After that, as the years rolled by, and I hated Mildred Dane's very memory—even as I had long hated Guy Kenyon; hated him living, hated him dead—I finally planned this marriage between the two descendants of the man and the woman whom I hated. It is a fiendish plot. I look upon him in his noble, manly beauty, his true, warm heart and honorable nature; I look upon her with her beautiful face, so like that other face once loved, but now in death hated, and something in the girl's piteous eyes makes my heart quail. I am not altogether a demon, and I am sick—sick of the whole plot. That girl's eyes! They are Mildred's own—just as she used to look when she was a sweet young girl, before they sold her to Godfrey Dane for money. I can not shut out the look of appeal in Beatrix's eyes; it makes my heart ache, hard, and cruel, and bitter though it is. I pity her, I pity him! I see my own error now, when, oh, God! it is too late; for they love each other. I would do anything in my power to prevent the marriage between them now; but they are young, headstrong, and I shall fail in my attempt. Then, oh, heavens above! the very thought of what must come, of what looms up before them in the dark future, makes me sick and faint. I have sought the best medical advice in the country. Doctor De Trobriand, whose specialty is this particular horror that threatens poor Beatrix's life, has told me that the fire test is the only possible test of which he knows. He advised me to attempt it, but the girl refused. I could not explain to her and tell her why I made so seemingly absurd and cruel a request of her. I dared not tell her my suspicions—my reasons for making this request; the knowledge would drive her mad. And I have failed in the attempt, as I have failed in everything else all my life long. Curses upon it!"
He rose slowly to his feet and relocked the escritoire, and then, with slow, unsteady steps, he returned to his own room. Beatrix had gone, but Keith was sitting alone before the fire, his face pale and stern, his eyes full of sadness. The old man crept to his side like a penitent.
"Keith, my boy, you will forgive me?" he quavered. "What I did was for your good—and hers. Listen to me, Keith. You will give up this marriage—this mad marriage? I—I had always intended you two to wed each other. For that purpose I have brought you together; but since—since I have lived under the same roof with that child, my heart is melted somehow, and I can not consent to the awful sacrifice. You don't know—Keith, you don't know—what a fearful fate is in store for you if you persist in this mad marriage. Forget that I had ever planned it—forget Beatrix Dane!"
"I can not—I will not! I love her. Your warning comes too late, Uncle Bernard."
The old man bowed his head upon his clasped hands, and a fearful shudder crept over his gaunt frame. It was all his own fault—all the result of his own mad folly. His own hands would now overthrow the fabric which he had patiently reared; but it was too late, and only desolation remained. Surely Bernard Dane was undergoing a strange transformation—the result of contact with a pure young being like Beatrix Dane; the great, sad, dark eyes which gazed so pleadingly into his face had made the old sinner ashamed of himself. He saw for the first time in the clear light of reason his own wickedness, and his soul shrank back ashamed. How could he ever have formed so vile a plot—such a diabolical scheme to entrap two innocent people—to wreck and destroy two young lives? Keith Kenyon felt no pity for him. He never dreamed the full iniquity of that which Bernard Dane had plotted to do; but the fact that he had plotted in some way—that he had thrown Keith himself and Beatrix together only to sever the ties between them now, seemingly to gratify a foolish whim of his own, made the young man's heart grow hard as steel within his breast, and a cold chill of horror crept over him. He felt disgusted with the whole world, and with old Bernard Dane in particular. Had he known the worst—the full extent of Bernard Dane's crime—he would have fled from the house that very night in horror, and would never willingly have looked upon the old man's face again. He rose and stood leaning against the carved marble mantel.
"I am very sorry, Uncle Bernard," he said in a low, resolute tone; "but I love Beatrix, and I intend to make her my wife. I will surmount every obstacle in the way; but she shall be my wife! Good-night, sir."
He turned swiftly and left the room in haste, as though determined to prevent any further remonstrance. Up in his own chamber, he walked straight over to his writing-desk.
He had made up his mind what to do, and the sooner the disagreeable task was performed—was over and done with—the better.
"I will do it at once," he muttered, resolutely. "Delays are dangerous; and, besides, I shall be in a fever of impatience for the answer. How terrible it will be to wait for it! Two whole weeks—fourteen endless days—before I can hope to hear from her in reply! I will write to her at once—write to Serena Lynne—and confess all, and beg her to release me. It was an absurd engagement at best—a wrong—a wicked engagement, for I do not love her; I have never cared for her! I shall never care for her, though I live to be one hundred. Love! Good heavens! the very idea in connection with her is ridiculous, grotesque! Once broken off, the engagement will soon fade from her memory, and she will turn her attention to some more suitable and worthy object than your humble servant. She will not—dare not—refuse to release me!" he cried, softly, an awful thought crossing his heart like a cold, slimy serpent. "She would not be a woman, with a woman's heart, if she refuses to grant it."
Alas, poor Keith! He did not know—he did not realize—that when a woman like Serena Lynne loves, her heart hardens against all other women—the very love in her heart crystallizes. She will fight for that love, sin for it, die for it, but she will never give it up—never—while she lives.