COMPLICATIONS.

For a moment Serena Lynne stood glaring down upon Beatrix with eyes full of blank astonishment, which Beatrix returned with interest. It was so strange, so sudden, so unexpected, that for the time they could only stand and stare into each other's faces. At last:

"Serena Lynne!"

The name fell from Beatrix's astonished lips like a groan. Serena's pale eyes flashed with the light of a wicked triumph.

"You!" she hissed vengefully. "So you are destined to cross my path wherever I go. How came you here?"

Beatrix's eyes met her wrathful gaze with a glance of cool disdain.

"I might ask you the same question!" she retorted. "I am here, Miss Serena Lynne, because this is my home now. Old Bernard Dane is my uncle, and I have a right beneath his roof. May I ask—what brought you here?"

Serena's eyes snapped.

"Yes; you may ask, if you like," she said, acidly. "I came here because my mother and I were taking a trip through the South, and I had a right to see my betrothed husband."

"Your—betrothed husband?" faltered Beatrix, too overcome with emotion to realize what she was saying. "What do you mean, Serena? You must be out of your senses!"

"Not at all!" returned Serena, curtly. "I should think you would understand the situation by this time, without any further explanation from me. I am engaged to be married to Keith Kenyon. Surely I have a right to come here with my mother when he is ill and anxious to see me. At all events, we are here, and I do not intend to leave. This is my room, Miss Beatrix Dane"—as Beatrix paused upon the threshold of the room which Mrs. Graves had assigned to Serena—"and I would thank you to leave it!"

Without a word, Beatrix turned and left Miss Lynne alone.

She flew like a wounded creature back to her own apartment, and closed and locked its door behind her.

For a time she stood in the center of the room, staring vacantly before her, not knowing what to think, her senses were in such a whirl.

What did this mean? Was Serena telling the truth? If so, then Keith had deceived her—Beatrix—in the most heartless manner; and there was nothing for her to hope for upon earth. She fell upon her knees beside the bed and burying her face in the pillows, wept bitterly. She realized that there was trouble—more trouble—great, black clouds of trouble, growing dark around her pathway. The very sight of Serena Lynne was enough to warn Beatrix of fresh cause for grief.

She arose from her knees at last and bathed her face and arranged her hair.

"I will go to Keith at once," she said, "and ask him frankly and openly why Serena is here, and what is she to him?"

But when Beatrix entered the drawing-room a little later for an interview with Keith, she found Bernard Dane there, and, of course, private conversation was impossible. The old man glanced up with a scowl as Beatrix entered the room.

"Who sent for you?" he demanded, brusquely.

The color arose to the girl's pale cheeks.

"No one, sir," she returned with spirit. "I was not aware that you intend to cut me off from communication with the rest of the household."

"That will come soon enough," chuckled the old man, half audibly; but Beatrix overheard the muttered words, and her heart sank with a bitter pang. What did he mean?

"I will ask him when I see him alone," she decided. "He shall tell me what this strange treatment of me signifies."

Aloud she said:

"Uncle Bernard, may I ask you what brings Serena Lynne to this house? She is my bitter enemy, my persecutor. I prefer to go to some other place while that woman is here!"

Old Bernard Dane's sunken eyes flashed.

"You've got the Dane grit and the Dane temper, my dear," he snarled. "But I advise you to keep it well in hand when you are with me. The ladies who are here—yes"—as he marked the sudden start with which Beatrix heard his words—"Mrs. Lynne is with her daughter, of course. Eminently proper, to be sure; you surely did not think that Miss Serena Lynne would come clear from the North all alone to visit Keith?"

"I don't know, I am sure. She is capable of a great deal," intervened Beatrix. Then she added softly: "Oh, forgive me, Uncle Bernard. I do not mean to be harsh, and ill-tempered, and spiteful; but the sight of that woman just stirs up every uncomfortable attribute of my nature. Uncle Bernard, did you ever know any one who affected you in that way—the very sight of whom would stir up all the worst dregs of your nature and tempt you to do deeds for which you were afterward sorry?"

A dull crimson dyed the old man's wrinkled cheeks for an instant.

"Did I? Humph! Yes; 'in my salad days, when I was green in judgment'—when I had good reason to shrink from the sight of my evil genius, Guy Kenyon."

"Guy Kenyon—my father!" interrupted Keith, excitedly. "Now, Uncle Bernard, you must tell me something about him; for you have never told me anything and I know so little of him."

"You will never learn any more from me," returned the old man, harshly, arising to his feet. "And now I must go and interview Simons. That rascally nigger is getting unmanageable. One would think that he was the master here from the way that he conducts himself lately."

He left the room and closed the door behind him. Out in the hall he came to a pause, clinching his shaking hands upon the head of his cane, his face pale and agitated, a look in the depths of his sunken dark eyes which was not pleasant to see.

"Guy Kenyon," he muttered, harshly, his bent form shaking visibly; "I would sooner cut off my right hand than tell Guy Kenyon's son what he once was to me. I had never thought of such a thing as learning to care for Guy Kenyon's boy. But somehow my heart is melting. I must be in my dotage, for I find my long-cherished hatred growing less bitter, and revenge does not seem one half so sweet and desirable as it once did. The time was when revenge was the only object for which I existed. Can that time be passing now? Am I growing weak and foolish as I grow old? There! Some one is ringing the door-bell. I wonder who it is?"

Simons made haste to admit the visitor, while Bernard Dane went slowly into the library. A woman closely veiled entered, and was shown into the reception-room—a woman dressed in black, and who spoke in a low, hurried tone to the servant. She inquired for Mrs. Lynne.

"Tell her that her sister, Mrs. Ray, wishes to see her," she said.

The words reached old Bernard Dane's ears, and a frown knit his brows.

"It is Celia!" he muttered, his face growing deathly pale; and he grasped the arm of a chair which stood near. "Celia Ray! After all those years she ventures to come here! I wish I could unravel the mystery which lies hidden in the past, for that there is something hidden—something wrong—I am certain."

He left the library and made his way straight to the reception-room. The woman was standing at a window, gazing out upon the green lawn, starred with gorgeous flower-beds even at this season of the year.

At sound of the closing of the door, she turned swiftly, but as her eyes fell upon Bernard Dane's face she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Bernard!" she cried, and her voice trembled perceptibly. "I did not expect to see you."

He bowed low, extending his hand.

"No? Well, I am here, you see. I have not met you in a long time, Celia, and I thought possibly you might be glad to see me once more."

"Glad?"

A swift light flashed into her pale eyes and illumined her features, and made her almost pretty. A younger edition of her sister, Mrs. Lynne; but her face was more refined, and she had a winning way, which contrasted strongly with Mrs. Lynne's awkward abruptness.

"Glad?" she repeated once more, softly. "You do not know how glad, Bernard!"

And in those few words one could read a whole volume of affection—affection for this cross-grained, unpleasant old man—that was truly wonderful. Celia Ray was the only woman who had ever loved Bernard Dane. And her love for him had been the bane of her life, the ruin of her happiness. For his sake she had lost everything on earth—all that the human heart prizes; all ties of home and friends; and all for naught. For Bernard Dane had not returned her affection; he had never loved any woman in all his long, hard life but Mildred Dane, who had not loved him.

Celia Ray stood gazing into the old man's face with an eager, rapt expression. To her he was young and handsome.

"You do not look well," she exclaimed. "I can see that you have been ill. And you would not let me know it! Oh, Bernard! why do you treat me with such hardness? Why have you doomed me to a lonely life? And yet you, too, are alone."

She sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands, while under her breath she murmured brokenly:

"Dare I tell him all at this late day? Would he not kill me if he knew what I have done?"

But at that moment Mrs. Lynne made her appearance, and then Bernard Dane withdrew. There was a perplexed expression upon his face, and as he went slowly back to the library he muttered to himself:

"I wonder if she played me false in that affair? Poor little fool! She did not dream that I could hear her whispered words just now. What idiots people are who indulge in soliloquy! I never was guilty of it in my life"—forgetting that at that very moment he was soliloquizing. "Oh, woman, lovely woman," with a satirical smile, "how exceedingly transparent you are after all!"

In the meantime, Beatrix was left alone with Keith; but once alone with him, she found, as is very often the case, that she could not introduce the subject upon which she wished to speak.

Keith broke the silence himself.

"Beatrix,"—in a wistful tone—"no doubt you are surprised that Serena has come here. You are no more surprised and annoyed than I am."

"Yes,"—her face full of wonder—"I thought that you were delighted."

Keith colored.

"Beatrix, darling, I ask you to trust me, and ask no questions for the present. I will explain all as soon as possible. Will you try to trust me, darling?"

His eyes were upon her face with a look of entreaty. What could she say but—yes?