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.