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.