HOW THE SECRET IS TOLD.
When Serena had left the house, Beatrix went straight to old Bernard
Dane's room and rapped at the door.
"Come in!" cried a harsh voice; and Beatrix pushed the door open and
entered the room. Bernard Dane was standing before a window, gazing out
into the grounds, his wrinkled face looking grave and thoughtful. At
sound of the girl's footsteps he turned slowly, and as his eyes fell
upon her pale, troubled face, something like pity flashed into his
own--but only for a moment.
"Well?" he demanded, sharply, as she paused before him.
"Uncle Bernard!"--Beatrix's voice was low and hurried. She shrank from
the interview, yet she felt that she must go through with it--"I have
intruded upon you to ask you a question. I am here to demand of you
the secret of my mother's life and death. Why is her portrait hidden
away in the round room, with its face turned to the wall? What is this
secret which _killed_ her, and which her own handwriting declares is
destined to descend, like a curse, upon the head of her child? Uncle
Bernard, I must have an answer! This silence is unjust; it is cruel; it
is maddening! Tell me, what is this secret connected with my mother? I
_will_ know!"
The old man's face was a study as he stood listening to her eager
outburst, his keen, dark eyes fixed upon her face with a penetrating
look in their depths. He shook his gray head.
"My dear, I will not. Now, that is all, and it is quite useless to ask
me any more questions. And there is no one else in the world who can
enlighten you; so it will be useless to seek information elsewhere.
Beatrix, my child, why torture yourself in this way? Be content as you
are, and do not seek to look back upon the past, or trouble yourself in
regard to the future. See here, child!"--the old man's voice softened
insensibly--"you must believe that I am acting for your good. When you
first came here I resolved upon a step, the very thought of which now
fills my heart with horror. I had wished to see you and Keith married,
but now--Oh, my God! I would sooner see you both in your graves."
"_Uncle_!"
"It is true--too true, Beatrix. I am going to send you away from this
place. If you remain here, you and Keith will marry, even against my
wishes--I feel it. And it would be better--much better for you to be
dead and buried than to take such a step. Do you hear me, Beatrix?"
"Yes, sir," the sweet voice trembling, but in the great dark eyes a
look of determination. Ah, Bernard Dane, your warning comes too late!
You have sowed and you must reap. If a man sows tares he can not
harvest wheat. She turned and left him alone without another word.
Give up Keith Kenyon? Not if she knew it; on the contrary, the girl
felt more determined than ever to become Keith's wife.
"He is the only creature in the wide world who loves me, and I love him
with all my heart. My darling! I _will_ be his wife, and we can not
help being happy, even though Uncle Bernard should disinherit him."
She went to her own room and sat down to think over the situation. She
did not wish to disobey her uncle; but Bernard Dane had no right to
dispose of her as though she were a toy, a puppet in his hands. She
would not endure it.
"Good heavens! how unjust!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "He did all in
his power to make us care for each other, and now, when it is too late,
he wants to separate us. He must be mad!"
As she sat there absorbed in reverie, a message came from Keith asking
her to come out into the grounds. She made haste to obey the summons,
and once out in the grounds together, they discussed the coming event.
"It is all arranged, my darling," he said, as he kissed the sweet red
lips, "and in a few short hours you will belong to me, never to part on
earth--never any more."
She had meant to tell him of her interview with Bernard Dane, and the
old man's stern command that they should forget each other; but it
seemed a pity to trouble him or cast a cloud upon his happiness. And,
after all, Keith was his own master. So she held her peace and said
nothing of her interview with her uncle; and thus she made a fatal
mistake. Had she confided all to her lover, he would have demanded an
explanation from Bernard Dane, and much unhappiness and suffering might
have been prevented.
But what lover ever listened to reason? A vague uneasiness had
stolen into Keith's heart; but he accounted for it by the peculiar
circumstances in which they were placed, and resolved to say nothing
that would trouble her.
He was happy--very happy--in the prospect of making Beatrix his wife so
soon.
"Darling," he said softly, pressing the light form to his heart,
"everything is arranged. We will drive out at three in the
pony-carriage. We will go direct to Mr. Darrell's house--the clergyman
who is a friend of mine--the license is already procured; nothing to
wait for--not even the ring."
Drawing a tiny velvet case from his pocket he displayed a heavy gold
band, and with it a glittering diamond.
"Here, sweetheart, let me put on the badge of your slavery," holding
up the diamond as he spoke. Then with a swift glance into the lovely,
downcast face he slipped the ring upon the third finger of her left
hand. But Beatrix did not need a ring to remind her of her love for
Keith.
"We broke no gold--or sign
Of stronger faith to be;
But I wear his last look in my heart,
Which said, 'I love but thee!'"
Three o'clock found the two lovers seated in the carriage on their way
to the clergyman's house. A little later Beatrix Dane came forth,
Beatrix Dane no longer, but Mrs. Kenyon. How different everything
seemed! the whole world was metamorphosed to her eyes. She glanced into
Keith's face with a look of wordless love.
"Oh, Keith," she whispered, softly, "I am so happy!"
It was the last time that such words were destined to pass her lips
for many a dark and dreadful day. They reached home, and Beatrix
went straight to her room. She wanted to be alone and think over her
new-found happiness. She gazed upon the wedding-ring on her finger as
she hid the marriage-certificate away safely in her desk.
"My husband!" she whispered, softly. "Nothing can part us now--nothing
but death! No one can come between us now--never while we live!"
Hark! what is that? The sound of voices--women's voices--fell upon her
ears.
It was Serena and her mother in an empty room adjoining Beatrix's
chamber. They had gone there for a private conference, and did not
dream that she would overhear.
"Mamma,"--Beatrix heard Serena's sibilant voice, and a shudder passed
over her--"I know all the whole fearful secret at last, and Beatrix
Dane will never marry Keith Kenyon now. I know the nature of the awful
curse which descends from Mildred Dane upon her child, which was
originally transmitted from Mildred Dane's South American ancestors,
and I no longer envy Beatrix her beauty. Better be the ugliest woman in
the land than the thing she is! I would not exchange my plain face,
were it ten times plainer, for Beatrix Dane's glorious beauty. Mother,
listen, and do not faint or cry out. This is the bad, black secret:
Mildred Dane inherited the awful plague of leprosy, and from her it
descends to her child, Beatrix Dane!"