HER OATH.

In a spacious chamber of a great, gloomy mansion, an old man sat alone, his gray head bowed upon his trembling hands, which rested upon a cane. A few blocks away the hum and traffic of the Crescent City filled the air; but here all was still and quiet. An up-town mansion, embowered in huge live-oaks—a shady, silent place, the sight of which made one feel gloomy, and caused a slight chill to pass involuntarily over the frame. The great house looked like an enchanted palace, with old Bernard Dane the presiding genii, all alone and lonely like the last leaf upon the tree.

The moments came and went, and still he sat there silent and alone; once in awhile a few muttered words would pass his grim lips, and the wrinkled hands upon the cane-head would clinch each other savagely. At last he lifted his head, and turning slowly in his arm-chair, pressed the electric button in the wall at his side. A moment later, an obsequious servant entered—a black servitor in the Dane family for years.

"Any news, Simons?" asked Bernard Dane, eagerly.

The man shook his head.

"No, sah; nothing—nothing 'tall, sah—not yet. We only got de tellygram from Marse Ken sayin' dat he done arrive safe—dat's all, sah. Kin I do anything for you, Marse Bernard?"

"No—no; nothing. Of course not. I want nothing in the wide world but to see that boy back again, with his errand done as I directed him. It was a wise thought of mine—a wise thought to send him. Ha! ha! Throw two young fools together, under the circumstances, and they'll fall in love with each other as sure as they live! Love? Bah! if I had my way, that word should be stricken from the lexicon. It is the cause of all the trouble, all the sin, all the sorrow in the world—Confound it, Simons! are you there yet? Do I employ you to stand listening to me in this way? Do I? Answer me, sir!"

"No, sah—no, sah; in course not," stammered Simons, in confusion. "I beg pardon, sah; but, you see, Marse Bernard, I—I thought—"

"Thought! Never think, Simons. Don't let me ever hear again that you indulge in the pernicious habit of thinking! Great Heaven! what would I not give to drown thought—to bury it out of sight—deep, deep—so deep that nothing on earth would ever have the power to resurrect it! Thought—memory! Bah! a regular Old Man of the Sea—like that story of Anstey's, 'The Fallen Idol.' (Deuced clever fellow is Anstey!) Some artist fellow owned the idol, and he could not get rid of the thing, no matter what he did. He hid it—gave it away—lost it—drowned it—buried it—left no stone unturned to be rid of its cursed presence. It was ruining his life, and making him contemplate suicide. But all his efforts were in vain. Even theosophy itself was of no avail—and, to my way of thinking, theosophy can do much. And so the poor fellow was cursed by the presence of this idol—a black, evil shadow upon his life—until a bolt of thunder and a flash of lightning shivered the thing to fragments. Direct interposition of Providence! Ah, yes; to be sure—Simons!"—flashing about swiftly, as his eyes fell upon the unfortunate darky—"what on earth are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to go?"

"No, sah; I never heard you, sah!"

"Then hear me now—Go!"

And the heavy cane came down upon the floor with emphasis.

Outside, a night of storm and tempest. The roar of the wind, the beating rain, or roar of the elements, which, after all, is no more fierce and bitter than that which often rages within a human breast. The wind shrieked shrilly down the chimney, the trees swayed in the blast, and tapped upon the crystal window-panes with bare, ghostly fingers. Old Bernard Dane drew a little nearer the fire, and wrapped his silken dressing-gown about his gaunt frame.

"What o'clock is it?" he demanded, as Simons was about to withdraw.

"Jes' nine, sah. De church clock jes' struck."

"Humph! Very well; do go. No—stop! was not that the gate bell? Can it be Ken at last? Wish to mercy it may be. Go and see who has come, Simons, and make haste!"

The negro obeyed in silence, and the door closed behind him.

Bernard Dane's head drooped once more upon his clasped hands, and save for his slow, labored breathing, there was no sound to break the dreary silence of the room. The moments came and went until five—twice five—three times five—were ticked away. Then the chamber door opened noiselessly, so noiselessly that Bernard Dane did not hear it, and a slight, black-robed figure stole softly into the room and stood beside the hearth. A forlorn little figure in an old-fashioned, dingy black gown, with a dowdyish hat pushed back from the pale little face, with its tired, drooping mouth, and great, glorious dark eyes full of a weary light.

"I am Beatrix Dane," said a soft voice, timidly.

The old man lifted his head, and his eyes fell upon the face before him. A strange change passed over his stern features, a look of slow horror froze his face down like an icy mask. He arose to his feet, tall, gaunt, grim; but in the presence of this slip of a girl, he was trembling as though he was afraid.

"Powers above!" he panted, brokenly. "When did you arrive? Where is—is—Surely you did not travel all this distance alone!"—his voice trembling with an inflection of surprise which was almost terror.

"Yes, sir; I came alone. There was no help for it. Oh, Mr. Dane, I have such dreadful news to tell you! Papa is dead; he died of heart disease while he was reading your last letters to him!"

"Papa!"—the scornful intonation in Bernard Dane's voice was a revelation. "Papa, indeed! Ha! ha! You have no father. No, I do not mean that you are not legitimate, but it is worse than that. You, upon whom the curse of God has fallen, can have no claim of near kinship with any one. It would be a fine thing to be the father of a creature like—like—Girl, do you know that you are accursed? That you have a destiny to fulfill, the very thought of which makes my heart stand still with horror? You have a dark inheritance in store, and may Heaven give you strength to bear your burden, for 'vain is the help of men.'

"No, I am not insane; there is no insanity in the Dane family. I am not idiotic; I am as sane and sound as you are, and more than you will be when you learn the truth concerning yourself. Don't shrink away and cower out of sight like that. Be a woman. Do you know what that means? It means to bear the burden of another's sin; to carry its consequences about in your heart—your tender, guiltless, woman's heart—until your life is darkened and ruined forever. It means to suffer in secret and silence, and to lie down and die, sooner than see the one punished for whom you suffer. This is to be a woman. There! I have no more to say tonight—No—wait a moment before you go to your own room which I have had prepared for you. Come here, and let me look at you. Yes, to be sure, you are fair. I thought that you would be. You are beautiful, indeed. Oh, heavens! what a fate—what a fate for one so young and fair! Now, Beatrix Dane, answer me: have you come here prepared to render strict obedience to my wishes? You do not know what right I have to direct you? Ah! so I thought. Well, you may call me uncle—Uncle Bernard. The first relative you have ever known? Humph. Well, pray Heaven it may be the last. Now, listen while I tell you why I have sent for you at this late day."

She came a little nearer and lifted her piteous, pleading eyes to his stern face.

"Uncle—Uncle Bernard," she faltered, timidly, "please don't speak such wild, harsh words to me tonight. Let me hear you say something kind. Remember, I have no one in the wide world but you. I promise to be good and obedient. I promise to obey you like a slave; to do anything you say. No one has ever loved me. Won't you try to love me a little—only a little? I promise to do whatever you may wish me to do."

"You promise?"

His wrinkled face lighted up with a swift gleam of triumph.

"Swear to do as I wish!" he panted, desperately. "I demand that you do so. Swear to obey me implicitly, Beatrix Dane."

The beautiful eyes drooped for an instant. Surely he would exact no promise of her beyond her power to fulfill? Could a man—an old man—be so hard upon a poor, weak, timid creature—utterly defenseless—like herself? For she had yet to learn, poor ignorant child, that with some men "might makes right."

"I swear it, Uncle Bernard!" she said, slowly. "Now, kiss me, and say that you will love me a little!"

And she ventured to lay one small hand timidly upon his arm. With a hoarse, inarticulate cry he struck the little hand aside and started to his feet.

"Don't touch me!" he panted, wildly; "don't dare to touch me! Kiss you? I would sooner cut my own throat. Get away—away—out of my sight! Do you hear? No! Wait until I have told you what I wish you to do, and remember, Beatrix Dane, you have sworn to obey me. I have sent for you for a particular object; for that object I have had you reared and educated. The time has come to carry out my plan; it is this: I have sent for you, Beatrix Dane, to marry the man whom I have chosen for you—the son of my adoption. You must become his wife at the time I have appointed, or—you will wish that you had never been born!"