KEITH HEARS THE NEWS.
Once decided in his course, old Bernard Dane was not the man to turn
back, or to express regret for what he had done. The die was cast. He
had asked Serena Lynne to be his wife, and he would make her Mrs. Dane,
no matter what obstacles stood in the way. Keith wandered about the
house, looking like a ghost, his mind so absorbed in the disappearance
of Beatrix that he had no thought for anything else, and did not,
therefore, perceive the state of affairs between Bernard Dane and
Serena. Mrs. Graves would have attempted to put him on the track of
that which the good old lady saw was about to take place, for she alone
had kept her eyes open and seen the true state of affairs, but she
shrank from being the one to call Keith's attention to the fact, and so
no one spoke, and Keith remained in utter ignorance.
Serena at once began preparations for the marriage. She had decided
that it must be soon--at once.
Bernard Dane allowed himself to be persuaded; and so, all preliminaries
having been gone through with, a clergyman was engaged to perform the
ceremony one April eve. But first there remained the task of breaking
the news to Keith.
"I can't do it, Serena," the old man declared, childishly. "He will be
so surprised--so shocked! You must tell him yourself."
Serena's pale eyes flashed. That was just what she wished to do. She
felt a strange satisfaction in wounding this man who had scorned her,
and whose fortune she was now about to usurp.
"Very well," she made answer, her pale face growing livid as she spoke;
"I will break the news to Keith Kenyon."
She left the room at once, and went up to her own apartment, there to
stand for a few moments before the mirror, while she scanned, with true
feminine criticism, the details of her own toilet.
She was looking very well in pale lavender muslin--she had discarded
mourning--with a bunch of pansies in the yellow lace which covered
the corsage. Her dull flaxen hair was in a Psyche knot, and fell in a
fringe upon her brow. There was a glitter of cruel triumph in her eyes,
and she caught her breath with a low cry of exultation.
"Serena, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, apostrophizing her own
reflection. "Beauty is well enough to possess, but a clever woman
can overreach mere beauty any day. Well, I will go now to the
library--Simons says that Keith is there--and break my important news
to that gentleman. But--oh! Keith! Keith!"
She covered her face with her hands for a moment. Not another word
passed her lips, but that one wild, agonized cry revealed the bitter
truth that, come what would, she had not forgotten Keith Kenyon, and
had not ceased to love him. It was the one mad passion of her narrow,
empty life.
She left the room and went down-stairs straight to the library. The
door was closed. She rapped lightly upon it.
"Come in!" called Keith's voice; and she turned the knob and entered
the room.
It was nearly sunset; the slant rays of gold which marked the road
taken by the departing god of day streamed in at the open window and
across the bowed head of the young man seated at the desk, his eyes
fixed upon the western sky with a hopeless look in their depths. At
sight of Serena he started up and his face grew paler than before.
"Any news?" he asked, swiftly. "Serena, have you heard anything of--of
Beatrix? Have you come to tell me that she is found?"
Serena stopped short, suppressing an exclamation of disgust. Always
Beatrix--always Beatrix! Never any thought of her--and there never
would be. She drew a little nearer the desk where he was sitting, and
turned her face away, that he might not be able to read its expression.
"No,"--trying in vain to keep the harshness out of her voice--"I have
no news of Beatrix. She has probably taken her own life; and if that be
true, would it not be better, Keith?"
He started to his feet, then sank back wearily once more.
"No, no!" he panted, fiercely; "it would not! Nothing can ever make up
to me for her loss--nothing! She is gone, and the light of my life has
gone with her. I shall never be happy again. I am utterly and forever
alone!"
Serena laid her hand upon his arm and lifted her white, set face to his.
"Whose fault is it that you are all alone?" she demanded, madly. "I
would have died to make you happy, Keith; but you would not. You
scorned me--scorned my love, and I--I have given up all hope of ever
winning a kindly feeling from you; so I have done the best for myself
that I can. Keith, are you listening? I come here this evening--I have
intruded upon your solitude to tell you a piece of news which concerns
me alone, but in which you may be interested. Keith, I am going to be
married."
He started and pushed back the heavy hair from his brow with an
impatient touch; into his dark eyes a look of satisfaction stole.
It was plain to be seen that he felt no regret for the fact of Miss
Lynne's intended marriage.
"Indeed?" he returned, trying to show some interest. "Well, Serena, I
am sure you have my best wishes. When is it to be?"
"Tonight."
"What? Is it possible? I thought, of course, that the happy bridegroom
would be some one from the North. Perhaps he has come here to New
Orleans to win his bride. Tell me all about it, Serena."
"Ah! you are interested at last. No, Keith, my intended husband
does not come from the North; he lives here in New Orleans. In
short,"--gazing full into the young man's pale, handsome face, with
eyes full of exultation and a triumph which he could not fail to
perceive--"I am going to marry Mr. Bernard Dane."
"What!"
Keith sprang to his feet, with a cry of astonishment and dismay, his
face pale as marble, his eyes full of a dawning terror, and something
which for a moment made Serena afraid.
"Be good enough to explain," he said, at last, after a long silence.
"There is nothing more to say. I am going to marry Mr. Bernard Dane
tonight at eight. He is old, but I must have a home and protector, and
he has asked me to marry him. The marriage will be solemnized in two
hours' time. That is all that I have to say. Good-night, Keith."
But before she could leave the room he had opened the door and strode
over the threshold. Out to the stables he went, his face set and stern
and white as death, his eyes full of darkness. He understood at last
her plot of vengeance--knew it now when it was too late. It was the
utter overthrow of all his hopes and ambitions. He would be homeless,
friendless; for how could he expect Bernard Dane to make him his heir
now, when he would have a wife and perhaps children to inherit his
wealth?
Keith Kenyon had never been a money-worshiper; but he had fully
realized the importance of wealth and position, and he had been reared
to believe himself Bernard Dane's heir. It seemed to him now that the
end of the world had come.
He entered the stables and ordered his horse saddled. It was a new
purchase, a splendid thoroughbred, black as night, and well named
Satan. In his mad desire for excitement, Keith believed that he could
quench the fire which was burning in his brain. He sprang into the
saddle when the groom led Satan forth, and whirled madly away, flying
like the wind. On he went through the most unfrequented streets of the
city. On, on, the horse growing wilder and more ungovernable every
moment. In the lower part of the city it came to grief. Foam-flecked,
wild-eyed, it dashed into a narrow, stone-paved street and threw its
rider violently to the ground, upon the sharp paving-stones.