SERENA'S FAILURE.
As Serena's announcement was made, and the words fell upon the silence
with a clear note of triumph pealing through her voice, Beatrix fell
back faint and stunned. She realized the truth at once; she saw
Serena's game, and knew that she had won. She saw that Serena--stung by
the fact that Keith Kenyon's love would never be hers, and that he had
allowed himself to be led into an engagement which he had not desired,
and of which he soon grew weary, and so had repudiated her--all this
had made Serena a very devil. And then added to it was the fact of
her own poverty. And here, right within her grasp, was the chance to
retrieve herself, to gain a grand home and a fortune, and at the same
time ruin Keith Kenyon forever. For the young man had been reared to
believe himself to be Bernard Dane's prospective heir; and, of course,
with such a rearing he was utterly unfitted for any position in life
where he could earn his own bread. Surely the future looming up before
him was pitiful to contemplate.
It was a revenge worthy of a woman--of a hard-hearted woman--one who
has the fires of baleful jealousy burning in her heart.
It is said that a jealous woman is fit to reign in hell, and it is easy
to believe it. Serena was half insane with jealous wrath, and would
hesitate at nothing in the way of her scheme to punish Keith Kenyon for
not loving her. As though it were possible for Keith to control and
direct his own heart! For love is not a matter of our own volition. It
must go where it is sent by fate; we can not steer its course. And so
Serena, with her mad determination to revolutionize nature, must needs
attempt to wreck two lives already saddened by the darkest and most
bitter of sorrows--a sorrow more cruel than death.
All this had flashed through Beatrix's brain as she stood there, her
eyes upon Serena's pale, triumphant face, her heart sinking slowly
into the very depths of dark despair. Keith's life was ruined--ruined
irretrievably, his fortune gone, and the heavy, clanking chains of a
marriage which could never be a real marriage, after all, fettering
his every movement. And she was to blame for it all. In loving him and
giving herself to him she had signed Keith Kenyon's death-warrant--a
fearful, living death in life. She shuddered convulsively and sank into
a seat.
"I cannot congratulate you, Serena," she returned, at last, forcing her
white lips to speak, "because this marriage of yours is unnatural and
wrong. No marriage will ever be sanctified without love--true love--and
you have wedded this old man for his money."
Serena started angrily, and the red blood suffused her cheek for a
moment.
"You had better choose your words in addressing me!" she snarled. "I
will not bear your insults. I have come here to see Keith. Am I to see
him or not?"
"You can not!" returned the young wife, bravely. "He is very ill, and I
am his nurse. I would not permit any one for whom he cared to come to
his bedside; I most certainly, then, will not admit you!"
Her voice rang out clear and determined. Serena's face grew ghastly
white, and her pale eyes scintillated.
"I will make you sorry for that!" she stormed. "How came you here? Who
constituted you Keith Kenyon's nurse?"
"I have a right to nurse him; I, and I alone!" returned Beatrix,
calmly. "And, besides that, I am a nurse--or, rather, an assistant
here--and it would be my duty to nurse him. This is my refuge, my home."
A scornful sneer curled Serena's thin lip.
"And do not the sick people here risk contagion from such as you?" she
cried.
It was a cruel question, but the hard heart of the jealous woman was
capable of any cruelty to this girl who was her rival--who, no matter
what Serena did, or how she planned and schemed, somehow always seemed
to get ahead of her without an effort. Even now, accursed as she was,
with this hideous inheritance hanging over her head like a two-edged
sword, she was more blessed than Serena, for was she not allowed to
nurse this man whom they both loved, while Serena was shut out even
from a sight of his face?
"I will see him!" she cried, angrily. "I will find the matron of this
institution, and demand to see Keith Kenyon. I have as much right to
him as you."
Beatrix's large dark eyes met the gaze of the angry woman with a slow,
calm scorn.
"He is my husband," she said, quietly.
Serena's eyes blazed.
"And you--what are you?" she demanded. "Accursed! According to the law
of the land he is not your husband, because a creature like you is an
accursed thing, set aside and apart from other human beings, something
too dreadful to contemplate. You must be mad to think that your
marriage to Keith Kenyon is, or can be, lawful. Any court in the land
will give him freedom from such as you."
Beatrix could not speak; she could not utter a word; she could only sit
staring blankly before her, hearing Serena's terrible words, yet not
heeding them apparently. But all the same every word, every syllable,
sank into her heart like a branding iron, and stayed there. Perhaps it
was true. Doubtless the courts of law would give Keith his freedom, if
there was any law to fit this special and unusual case.
She would try. For his sake she would give him back his freedom. All
this flashed through her brain as she sat there under Serena's scathing
words, saying nothing, but hearing all. Old Bernard Dane intervened at
length.
"Serena," he said, in his dictatorial way, "this is quite enough; you
have no right to annoy and trouble poor Beatrix in this fashion. My
child," turning to Beatrix with a deprecating air, "tell me, do you
discover any symptoms of--of that awful trouble? How is your health, my
dear?"
Beatrix's eyes--full of mournful protest--met his gaze.
"I am very well," she returned, gently; "never was better in my life.
And I find no trace of anything that could ever so remotely resemble
that awful thing to which you refer. It may be in my system, but so far
I see nothing--"
She choked down the emotion which overpowered her, and turned aside.
"Never mind, child. Don't trouble yourself to explain to me," cried the
old man, hastily. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I only wanted
to know. Now, Serena, if you are satisfied, I think we had better take
our departure. Then we can not see Keith?"
Beatrix shook her head.
"He will recover, I feel sure," she returned; "but his recovery rests
entirely upon his being kept quiet. Doctor Darrow says that it will
take time. Several of his ribs are broken, and he has sustained other
injuries. I will let you know every day how he is, Uncle Bernard."
"Thank you, my dear; thank you!" he cried, as he rose to go.
Serena said nothing, but her plain face wore a look that was not good
to see. She only bowed coldly to Beatrix, and followed her liege lord
from the room. A little later the sound of wheels going down the street
told Beatrix that they were gone. She bowed her head upon her hands and
gave vent to a storm of tears which she had been bravely choking back.
"Heaven help me to bear my burden," she murmured, softly. "Heaven give
me strength."
In the meantime the Dane carriage drove homeward. Once arrived there,
Bernard Dane went straight to the library. He opened the door, then
started back with an exclamation of surprise. The room was occupied.
A slight figure, all in black, sat at the escritoire, with bowed head
resting upon one hand. He drew near and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Celia!" he exclaimed. "Celia Ray, what brings you here?"
She lifted her head, and her ghastly face--ghastly from mental
suffering--met his gaze. She rose slowly to her feet and faced him,
like a forgotten sin come back from its grave to reproach him; and so
she was.
"Bernard!"--her voice was low and tremulous--"I have only just heard
of your marriage--your mad, insane marriage to Serena, my niece--my
niece, remember--and so I came to see you at once. Now, answer me one
question. What did you mean by promising me never to marry? You refused
to make me your wife--to atone for the wrong you had done me, but you
did promise not to marry any one else. You have broken your word, as
all men do. False! false! false! Now, listen to me, Bernard Dane."
She drew herself up to an erect position, and her eyes glared into his
face with a look of utter hatred, and the worst hatred in the world
is that which is born of a slighted love. Her voice sounded like the
hissing of a serpent as she went on:
"I can tell you something which would alter all your life, and make you
happy, but I refuse to do it. I intend to punish you for what you have
done. Go on in your fool's life, Bernard Dane; the day is coming when
you will remember me, and curse the hour in which you first deceived
me!"