AN OLD MAN'S SECRET.

Yes, he was Serena Lynne's betrothed husband, and bound in honor to make her his wife. The sharp remembrance cut him to the heart like a sword. He fell back with a cry of anguish, and the love-words died upon his lips.

"May Heaven have pity!" he groaned. "I had forgotten—forgotten. Don't look at me with such piteous eyes. Beatrix! oh, Beatrix, my love, I have done wrong! I have made a mistake, and my happiness is wrecked. All my life is ruined and darkened forever!"

Old Bernard Dane hobbled over to Keith's side and laid a trembling hand upon his arm.

"Keith, my boy, I—I can't explain this to you," he mumbled, brokenly.

He had not observed the scene which had just taken place between Keith and the shrinking, trembling girl who stood there, pale as a lily, before them. He had not listened to Keith's impassioned avowal; he had been deaf and unseeing to all that had taken place. Keith's dark eyes flashed with an angry light.

"I wish no explanation," he returned, harshly; "there is no excuse, no palliation of your conduct possible. You have acted the part of an inhuman monster—a madman! Yes, let us hope that temporary aberration is responsible for your strange conduct. Uncle Bernard, I warn you that if your attempt to torture this poor girl should be repeated, I will appeal to the authorities. You shall be confined in a retreat for the insane. You are a dangerous person to go at large."

The old man seemed strangely weakened and unmanned. He uttered no word; no sound escaped his dry, parched lips; but upon his wrinkled face there was a look of abject terror.

Trembling like a leaf, he turned, and leaning heavily upon his cane, passed from the room and closed the door behind him. He went straight to the library—a great solemn-looking apartment filled with well-laden book-shelves, and with a huge escritoire standing beside a window. The old man hobbled over to the desk, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the desk and turned to a small drawer at the right. From this drawer he removed a small package of old letters tied with a narrow black ribbon. Removing the ribbon, he began to examine the letters, reading them over hastily, one by one, the frown upon his brow growing deeper, his dark, deep-set eyes flashing with an angry light. When he had read the last of the letters he replaced the somber ribbon and returned the package to the drawer. Then bowing his head upon his hand, Bernard Dane sat buried in profound thought.

Whatever the subject that engrossed his thoughts, it was not a pleasant one. That could be easily seen by the lines of care upon his brow, the furrows of anxiety—the evidence of a great trouble—that were plainly written upon his face. A look of intense anger settled down upon it. He clinched his white hands fiercely, and the deep, dark eyes gleamed like fire.

"To think of it all!" he muttered, harshly—"all that I have borne for long years! The horror—the agony of it! To think of her—the woman I loved, who duped me, deceived me, made a mock of me! But I canceled the account between us and wiped out the score!" he went on, with a fiendish chuckle, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. "I paid her back, word for word, blow for blow! When I remember all—when I think of that death-scene—I—I feel amply satisfied. For all the suffering she caused me, she suffered fourfold. And was it not almost miraculous that the man who won her away from me—the man who had been my best friend, who had deceived me and fooled me to the top of my bent—in short, Guy Kenyon himself—should have been placed in my hands—at my mercy! He never realized the bliss that would have been his. His cup of happiness was snatched from his grasp before he could raise it to his lips, for she—she died—ha! ha!—died! and no one knows—no one but old Bernard Dane will ever know—how and where she died. Poor child! After all these long years, can it be that pity has come to life within this hardened old heart of mine? But I can not help it, when I remember how they forced her into an unholy marriage with that old man. But still there were compensations, for when her babe was six months old he departed this life, leaving all his worldly possessions to his beautiful young widow and her infant child. Then Guy Kenyon, a widower with one son, came to the fore with his handsome face and winning ways. She had known him and cared for him previous to her ill-starred marriage with old Godfrey Dane, and it did not take long to revive old feeling, to warm over the ashes of the old love, from which the new arose like a phenix.

"Married or single, bound or free, it was all the same, she never cared for me. And Guy Kenyon would have wedded her if fate had not interfered—fate in the person of old Bernard Dane. Ha! ha! Bernard Dane—but not so old and ugly then as he is now. He appeared, and in his possession proof positive of the awful curse which rested upon her—upon Mildred Dane. He loved her—there was no doubt upon that score—he loved her, and the knowledge of this fearful curse which rested upon the woman he loved killed him. He did not long survive the fearful knowledge of her secret. Then came the grand finale. I placed his child Keith, then a boy of ten or eleven, in the care of respectable people, after which I turned my attention to her—to Mildred. I had sworn that she should be my wife or nobody's. But even I, with all my great love for her, could not, dared not, make her my wife with the knowledge of that fearful, that hideous curse hanging over her like a pall. I do not like to recall that time," the old man went on, wearily, pushing back the scanty locks from his wrinkled brow. "She was like a mad creature when she learned the truth, when I told her all. Poor, heartbroken Mildred! She swore that she would take her own life, and—she kept her oath. Ah, well!"—a fearful shudder convulsing his frame—"it is an awful thing to reflect upon. But I could not blame any living creature, and, above all, a young and beautiful woman, for committing suicide under those circumstances. I risked my own life in keeping near her as I did; but my heart was heavy for her sake, and I could not leave her to meet her awful doom alone. And in return for my self-sacrifices, she hated me, defied me, died without one word of kindness to me. His name—Guy Kenyon's—was the last upon her lips. Was it not enough to harden a man's heart against a woman to whom he had given all, to whom he had dedicated his whole life? Her cruelty to me hardened my heart against her, living and dead. Ay, I even grew to hate her memory. I fell upon my knees and swore by every thing holy that I would be avenged.

"After that, as the years rolled by, and I hated Mildred Dane's very memory—even as I had long hated Guy Kenyon; hated him living, hated him dead—I finally planned this marriage between the two descendants of the man and the woman whom I hated. It is a fiendish plot. I look upon him in his noble, manly beauty, his true, warm heart and honorable nature; I look upon her with her beautiful face, so like that other face once loved, but now in death hated, and something in the girl's piteous eyes makes my heart quail. I am not altogether a demon, and I am sick—sick of the whole plot. That girl's eyes! They are Mildred's own—just as she used to look when she was a sweet young girl, before they sold her to Godfrey Dane for money. I can not shut out the look of appeal in Beatrix's eyes; it makes my heart ache, hard, and cruel, and bitter though it is. I pity her, I pity him! I see my own error now, when, oh, God! it is too late; for they love each other. I would do anything in my power to prevent the marriage between them now; but they are young, headstrong, and I shall fail in my attempt. Then, oh, heavens above! the very thought of what must come, of what looms up before them in the dark future, makes me sick and faint. I have sought the best medical advice in the country. Doctor De Trobriand, whose specialty is this particular horror that threatens poor Beatrix's life, has told me that the fire test is the only possible test of which he knows. He advised me to attempt it, but the girl refused. I could not explain to her and tell her why I made so seemingly absurd and cruel a request of her. I dared not tell her my suspicions—my reasons for making this request; the knowledge would drive her mad. And I have failed in the attempt, as I have failed in everything else all my life long. Curses upon it!"

He rose slowly to his feet and relocked the escritoire, and then, with slow, unsteady steps, he returned to his own room. Beatrix had gone, but Keith was sitting alone before the fire, his face pale and stern, his eyes full of sadness. The old man crept to his side like a penitent.

"Keith, my boy, you will forgive me?" he quavered. "What I did was for your good—and hers. Listen to me, Keith. You will give up this marriage—this mad marriage? I—I had always intended you two to wed each other. For that purpose I have brought you together; but since—since I have lived under the same roof with that child, my heart is melted somehow, and I can not consent to the awful sacrifice. You don't know—Keith, you don't know—what a fearful fate is in store for you if you persist in this mad marriage. Forget that I had ever planned it—forget Beatrix Dane!"

"I can not—I will not! I love her. Your warning comes too late, Uncle Bernard."

The old man bowed his head upon his clasped hands, and a fearful shudder crept over his gaunt frame. It was all his own fault—all the result of his own mad folly. His own hands would now overthrow the fabric which he had patiently reared; but it was too late, and only desolation remained. Surely Bernard Dane was undergoing a strange transformation—the result of contact with a pure young being like Beatrix Dane; the great, sad, dark eyes which gazed so pleadingly into his face had made the old sinner ashamed of himself. He saw for the first time in the clear light of reason his own wickedness, and his soul shrank back ashamed. How could he ever have formed so vile a plot—such a diabolical scheme to entrap two innocent people—to wreck and destroy two young lives? Keith Kenyon felt no pity for him. He never dreamed the full iniquity of that which Bernard Dane had plotted to do; but the fact that he had plotted in some way—that he had thrown Keith himself and Beatrix together only to sever the ties between them now, seemingly to gratify a foolish whim of his own, made the young man's heart grow hard as steel within his breast, and a cold chill of horror crept over him. He felt disgusted with the whole world, and with old Bernard Dane in particular. Had he known the worst—the full extent of Bernard Dane's crime—he would have fled from the house that very night in horror, and would never willingly have looked upon the old man's face again. He rose and stood leaning against the carved marble mantel.

"I am very sorry, Uncle Bernard," he said in a low, resolute tone; "but I love Beatrix, and I intend to make her my wife. I will surmount every obstacle in the way; but she shall be my wife! Good-night, sir."

He turned swiftly and left the room in haste, as though determined to prevent any further remonstrance. Up in his own chamber, he walked straight over to his writing-desk.

He had made up his mind what to do, and the sooner the disagreeable task was performed—was over and done with—the better.

"I will do it at once," he muttered, resolutely. "Delays are dangerous; and, besides, I shall be in a fever of impatience for the answer. How terrible it will be to wait for it! Two whole weeks—fourteen endless days—before I can hope to hear from her in reply! I will write to her at once—write to Serena Lynne—and confess all, and beg her to release me. It was an absurd engagement at best—a wrong—a wicked engagement, for I do not love her; I have never cared for her! I shall never care for her, though I live to be one hundred. Love! Good heavens! the very idea in connection with her is ridiculous, grotesque! Once broken off, the engagement will soon fade from her memory, and she will turn her attention to some more suitable and worthy object than your humble servant. She will not—dare not—refuse to release me!" he cried, softly, an awful thought crossing his heart like a cold, slimy serpent. "She would not be a woman, with a woman's heart, if she refuses to grant it."

Alas, poor Keith! He did not know—he did not realize—that when a woman like Serena Lynne loves, her heart hardens against all other women—the very love in her heart crystallizes. She will fight for that love, sin for it, die for it, but she will never give it up—never—while she lives.