SERENA'S GAME.

For a moment Keith Kenyon was so astonished, so utterly overwhelmed with amazement, that he could not find words to utter. Could it be true? Was it not an optical delusion? Surely it was a hideous nightmare—an ugly dream—it could not be real. Yet the tall, angular figure clad in stiff black silk was only too painfully real to his unwilling eyes; and the voice which called his name in gushing tones was really and truly the voice of Serena Lynne, his betrothed wife. A shiver crept over him; he half rose, then sank back into the easy-chair, and then at last he found voice.

"Serena! Good heavens! It is really you! What has happened? Is your mother dead, or—"

"Dead? No, thank Heaven—we are both living and well. The fact is, Keith, we—mamma and I—closed up the house the very day after you left us, and decided upon a little trip. We have been for some two weeks traveling about now—and that explains our unexpected appearance here, our trip being partly on business, partly for pleasure. Mamma received news from some of her relatives which made it advisable for us to come South—news which may prove of pecuniary benefit to us. So we placed our house in charge of Mrs. Rogers and started at once."

She told her falsehood glibly, her sallow cheek flushing, her pale eyes scintillating. It sounded very reasonable; and how could Keith Kenyon know that it was false, or detect the ring of untruth in her story? One of the most unsuspicious of natures, it was hard to believe that this woman had deliberately followed him, ignoring the letter that he had written her—that letter in which he had begged her to release him from a galling bond—because he loved another woman, and had never loved Serena Lynne, but had been led into an engagement while he was too sick and feeble to realize his own actions.

It was a bold stroke, but Serena Lynne was capable of this, and much more. At first she had found it somewhat difficult to induce her mother to co-operate with her in the scheme which she had concocted; but one part of her story to Keith was true—Mrs. Lynne had received a letter from her sister, the woman who had once been Keith's nurse when he was a child. She lived in an obscure town in Louisiana, and had not met Mrs. Lynne for years. She had to send for her sister, and Mrs. Lynne could not well refuse to aid her daughter in her scheme when her own private affairs called her into the vicinity of Keith Kenyon's home. And Serena was in dead earnest. She had sworn to marry this man—sworn upon bended knee that she would never give him up—this man whom she so madly, insanely loved. She had made this bold move—risked her all upon one cast of the die—and it would go hard with her before she would willingly resign all hope and give up the man who was bound to her in honor, though his chains were of iron, and galled and clanked so fearfully.

His eyes sought her face; the sallow, unlovely features looked more repulsive to him than ever before.

"But, Serena"—his voice trembling a little with sudden fear—"did you not receive my letter?"

"Your letter?" arching her pale brows with assumed surprise. "Why, how could I, when we left home the very day after you did? And so you did write to me, Keith? Thank you. I shall have my mail forwarded here, and will be pleased to read your first love letter to me, even though it is a little behind time."

She laughed, but the laugh had a disagreeable tone, and was a failure.

"'Better late than never,'" she added.

She had seated herself at his side, in the very chair that Beatrix had vacated. Keith felt a strange feeling of aversion creep over his heart at sight of her in Beatrix's place. It was the sort of feeling that one would experience to see a net closing slowly around one's head, and know that in a short time one will be securely imprisoned, with no way of making an escape.

"The servant informed me that you had been ill ever since your arrival," Serena observed, breaking the silence between them. "I am so glad to be here. I shall remain and nurse you."

Keith's face grew paler than before.

"Of course you are only jesting?" he returned. "I have the best of care, and, in fact, am all right now, except that I need rest and freedom from excitement. But first I must ease my mind. Serena, listen to me. Circumstances have rendered it absolutely imperative that I—that you—My letter contained the information—"

He stopped short, frozen into silence by the curious look in her gleaming eyes. She knew perfectly well what information that letter contained, but she would have bitten her tongue off before she would help him in the matter. And he, poor fellow, was so confused and embarrassed under the freezing gaze of her pale blue eyes, that he found himself unable to frame an intelligible sentence. But as this was just what Serena wished, she did not offer a helping hand, but allowed him to flounder among a sea of words only to come to grief.

He must not make an explanation. He must not refer to that fatal letter, and acquaint her with its contents. Her role was ignorance of the contents of the letter which he had written to her, asking her to release him from the undesired marriage engagement. And if he found opportunity to enlighten her in regard to what that letter contained, Serena knew that her game would be up.

"Don't speak of anything that may be annoying to you, Keith," she suggested. "I insist upon your having perfect rest and quiet. Mamma is at the St. Charles Hotel," she added, swiftly, as though to change the subject. "I suppose you will send for her to come here?"

"Serena, do not think me inhospitable, but you must remember that—"

"Oh, yes!—your uncle—the old gentleman. I will see him and explain my intrusion. By the way, what is his name? It is the funniest thing, Keith, but I do not know the name of your adopted uncle."

"His name is Dane—Bernard Dane," returned Keith.

The name acted like magic upon Serena. She started with a suppressed exclamation, and her eyes dilated with wild surprise which was almost terror. Why, that was the name—the very same name—of the old man who had sent for Beatrix; and was she not Beatrix Dane? A slow horror, an unspoken, scarcely tangible suspicion began to creep through her heart. Good heavens! was not fate leading her through devious ways? She shut her thin lips closely together in a straight, narrow line, and her pale eyes gleamed with an unpleasant light.

"I fancy that I am just in time," she muttered, fiercely. "Not a minute too soon, if my suspicions are correct."

Then turning to Keith, she said, imploringly:

"You will surely allow me to stay here for a time, Keith? If Mr. Dane will permit me, you will not object?"

He shook his head slowly. Under the peculiar circumstances what could he say? He could not turn her away, and the great old house was amply provided with accommodations.

"You will be welcome, I am sure," he returned; "and of course your mother will join you here at once. I think you need not ask Mr. Dane's permission to remain, for this is my home, and I am at liberty to invite my friends here. Only, of course, you will understand, Serena, that this is a very quiet old house. No company, no going out to places of amusement. You will have to be satisfied with an exceedingly quiet life."

"I shall be with you," she made answer, as though that argument covered all defects.

Keith sighed.

"I will send the carriage for your mother at once," he said.

Even as he spoke, something—a strange foreboding of some nameless evil—something which he could neither define nor understand, crept over his heart and made it cold and heavy as a stone. Had he dreamed the truth, and accepted the warning, and shaped his future conduct accordingly, Keith Kenyon might have been spared much suffering, and my story would be minus a plot. But he could not read the future or understand Serena Lynne's motives, and he was like a puppet in her hands. And an honorable, upright man, wholly in the power of an artful, designing woman, has a very poor chance of escape from her toils.

Keith rang the bell and dispatched Simons for his master. Old Bernard Dane soon put in an appearance. As he entered the drawing-room leaning on his cane, Keith rose.

"I beg your pardon, Uncle Bernard," he began, "for sending for you; but I knew you would not mind it, and I wish to present a lady friend—a lady from Massachusetts, Miss Serena Lynne—who with her mother will be our guest for a few days."

At sound of those last words Serena frowned and bit her lip. Low under her breath, she muttered firmly:

"A few days, indeed! I have made up my mind to stay here. I will give up my grand wedding festivities, and I will be Keith Kenyon's wife before many days."

Old Bernard Dane received Serena with old-fashioned courtesy, politely concealing his surprise at the unexpected addition to his family. The carriage was sent at once for Mrs. Lynne, and Serena was conducted to a room where she could arrange her dress.

"What a grand old house!" she murmured, covetously, as she followed Mrs. Graves upstairs to a luxurious sleeping apartment. "How I shall queen it here! It will not be long now."

As the thought flitted through her brain, there was the sound of light footsteps coming down the hall. Serena raised her eyes and paused aghast with wordless horror.

Coming down the long corridor, straight toward her, she saw Beatrix Dane!