IN DEADLY PERIL.
Beatrix felt a strange sensation as she stood alone at the midnight
hour beside the dead woman. It was not terror, it was not the natural
and instinctive shrinking from death--death in any form; for Beatrix
had seen so much of the dread messenger that she had grown inured to
such scenes since she had come to live at the Home. But still within
the girl's heart there lingered a strange feeling of sorrow, as though
she had lost a friend, a very dear friend.
She drew the sheet up over the calm, white face upon the pillow; but
first she kissed the cold cheek once more. Then she took the package of
papers and went swiftly up to her own room. The nurse who had been in
charge had already hastened to give due notice of Celia's death, and
the poor body was soon prepared for its last resting-place.
Beatrix locked the precious papers safely away in her own wardrobe,
then she threw herself upon her bed to try and get a little sleep. She
was very tired, and her eyes closed at once, and she was soon in the
land of dreams--strange land, whither we all stray at times, sometimes
with friends, and often with those whose faces we do not know, and
whom we meet only in the land of dreams. Beatrix dreamed that night of
Celia Ray. It seemed that the dead woman came to her and took her in
her arms, and held her close to her heart, whispering tender, loving
words, and calling her her baby and darling child. Beatrix awoke with
a feeling that she had been with spirits, for the presence of the dead
woman in her slumbers had seemed so real.
Early in the morning Beatrix dispatched a messenger to Bernard Dane
with the information of Celia's death. To her surprise, the old man
himself made his appearance at the Home and he came alone. He inquired
for Beatrix, and when she entered the reception room she found him
sitting with bowed gray head, looking the very picture of despair.
"Where is she?" he asked abruptly. "Beatrix, I will send a burial
casket, and I will have her body brought to my house; the funeral
services will be held there."
He would vouchsafe no explanation for his great interest in the dead
woman, and Beatrix concluded it was for the sake of old acquaintance
that he intended giving Celia Ray the grand, pompous funeral; and then
was she not Serena's aunt? Surely there was nothing very strange in it,
after all.
So everything was done as the old man directed. The funeral took place
from the old Dane mansion, and Celia Ray's broken heart was laid to
rest in the Howard Cemetery beneath a green mound with white marble
coping--a lovely spot.
Serena looked like a galvanized corpse during the funeral services, her
pale eyes full of a half-angry light. She hated the dead woman, and
began to believe that she had good reason to do so, for Bernard Dane
was mourning as one without hope over the death of Celia Ray. Strange
and unaccountable though it may seem, no sooner was she dead and gone
than Bernard Dane began to appreciate her great and unselfish affection
for his unworthy self.
And Serena was aware of his grief. She watched the old man as he moved
about, the very image of woe, his wrinkled face pale and worn, his form
trembling, and during the next four days he grew to look five years
older.
When the funeral was over and Mr. and Mrs. Dane had returned to their
great, solitary house, Serena marched straight into the library, where
her husband sat, his head--grayer than ever now--resting upon his hand,
his eyes full of sadness.
"Now Mr. Dane," she began at once, in her shrill, sharp voice, "I want
to know what this means. I have waited patiently for an explanation,
but I will wait no longer. I mean to get at the root of this mystery.
"What was Celia Ray to you? You can not deceive me. I know perfectly
well that no man would mourn over a woman's death as you are mourning
over hers, unless there had been something very serious between them.
Tell me, for I will know!"
"She was the only woman that ever really loved me!" groaned the old
man, desperately. "And I loved another, and turned from her. But
she repaid me by a life-time of devotion, and even when she died
would not send for me--so Beatrix tells me--because she would not
have me disturbed in the night. I have never appreciated her worth
before--never! I feel that I have acted the part of a fiend to the best
and truest of women. You need not look so angry, Serena. I am only
telling you the truth, which you demanded. I shall mourn for Celia as
long as I live, which, I trust will not be much longer. I wronged her
cruelly, and I fear that God will never forgive me."
Surely old Bernard Dane was a changed man. A few months before, such
words would not have passed his lips. Old age and the sorrows of his
life were crowding fast upon him now, and making him see the folly of
his past, and the blessings showered upon him which he surely had not
deserved. But Serena felt, in her bitter hatred, that she could reach
out and hurt the poor woman in her grave.
"No matter," she cried angrily, as she sat nursing her wrath to keep
it warm; "I am mistress here and Bernard Dane is old and feeble. It
will not take long, now that Aunt Celia is dead and out of the way, to
resume my old power over him. I must hold a tight rein, or my control
will be diminished. No more of those people shall be allowed here.
Beatrix must never show her face here again. She shall never enter
these gates while I live!"
That night Beatrix retired earlier than usual. She had attended Celia's
funeral and seen her laid to rest; then she had returned to Keith's
side for a long and loving conversation. She had not been assigned any
special task that night, and so it came to pass that she was able to
retire early, and was soon in a sound sleep.
She was aroused from sleep by a strange sensation--a fear of
approaching danger--a curious tightening about the muscles of the
throat, as though breath was about to leave her. She sat up in bed and
peered through the darkness, uttering a low cry of horror as she did
so. The room was filled with dense smoke. The house was on fire!
With a sickening horror creeping slowly over her, the girl rose and
hurriedly dressed herself. Then remembering the papers which Celia's
dying hand had intrusted to her care, she removed the package from
the wardrobe and hid it away in her bosom. She opened the door of her
room. Smoke--fire! Great, fiery tongues of flame met her on every side.
Choking, gasping for breath, she turned in the direction of Keith's
chamber, which was situated at the furthest end of the hall from her
own. Could she save him? His strength had not altogether returned to
him. Would he be able to make his escape, even with her help?
"Then I will perish with him!" she murmured, desperately. "Heaven help
me! Heavenly Father, have mercy, and direct me!"
Shouting wildly with all her strength the one word "Fire!" she fought
her way through the smoke and flame down the long hall, and paused at
last before the door of Keith's chamber.