HOW THE SECRET IS TOLD.

When Serena had left the house, Beatrix went straight to old Bernard Dane's room and rapped at the door.

"Come in!" cried a harsh voice; and Beatrix pushed the door open and entered the room. Bernard Dane was standing before a window, gazing out into the grounds, his wrinkled face looking grave and thoughtful. At sound of the girl's footsteps he turned slowly, and as his eyes fell upon her pale, troubled face, something like pity flashed into his own—but only for a moment.

"Well?" he demanded, sharply, as she paused before him.

"Uncle Bernard!"—Beatrix's voice was low and hurried. She shrank from the interview, yet she felt that she must go through with it—"I have intruded upon you to ask you a question. I am here to demand of you the secret of my mother's life and death. Why is her portrait hidden away in the round room, with its face turned to the wall? What is this secret which killed her, and which her own handwriting declares is destined to descend, like a curse, upon the head of her child? Uncle Bernard, I must have an answer! This silence is unjust; it is cruel; it is maddening! Tell me, what is this secret connected with my mother? I will know!"

The old man's face was a study as he stood listening to her eager outburst, his keen, dark eyes fixed upon her face with a penetrating look in their depths. He shook his gray head.

"My dear, I will not. Now, that is all, and it is quite useless to ask me any more questions. And there is no one else in the world who can enlighten you; so it will be useless to seek information elsewhere. Beatrix, my child, why torture yourself in this way? Be content as you are, and do not seek to look back upon the past, or trouble yourself in regard to the future. See here, child!"—the old man's voice softened insensibly—"you must believe that I am acting for your good. When you first came here I resolved upon a step, the very thought of which now fills my heart with horror. I had wished to see you and Keith married, but now—Oh, my God! I would sooner see you both in your graves."

"Uncle!"

"It is true—too true, Beatrix. I am going to send you away from this place. If you remain here, you and Keith will marry, even against my wishes—I feel it. And it would be better—much better for you to be dead and buried than to take such a step. Do you hear me, Beatrix?"

"Yes, sir," the sweet voice trembling, but in the great dark eyes a look of determination. Ah, Bernard Dane, your warning comes too late! You have sowed and you must reap. If a man sows tares he can not harvest wheat. She turned and left him alone without another word. Give up Keith Kenyon? Not if she knew it; on the contrary, the girl felt more determined than ever to become Keith's wife.

"He is the only creature in the wide world who loves me, and I love him with all my heart. My darling! I will be his wife, and we can not help being happy, even though Uncle Bernard should disinherit him."

She went to her own room and sat down to think over the situation. She did not wish to disobey her uncle; but Bernard Dane had no right to dispose of her as though she were a toy, a puppet in his hands. She would not endure it.

"Good heavens! how unjust!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "He did all in his power to make us care for each other, and now, when it is too late, he wants to separate us. He must be mad!"

As she sat there absorbed in reverie, a message came from Keith asking her to come out into the grounds. She made haste to obey the summons, and once out in the grounds together, they discussed the coming event.

"It is all arranged, my darling," he said, as he kissed the sweet red lips, "and in a few short hours you will belong to me, never to part on earth—never any more."

She had meant to tell him of her interview with Bernard Dane, and the old man's stern command that they should forget each other; but it seemed a pity to trouble him or cast a cloud upon his happiness. And, after all, Keith was his own master. So she held her peace and said nothing of her interview with her uncle; and thus she made a fatal mistake. Had she confided all to her lover, he would have demanded an explanation from Bernard Dane, and much unhappiness and suffering might have been prevented.

But what lover ever listened to reason? A vague uneasiness had stolen into Keith's heart; but he accounted for it by the peculiar circumstances in which they were placed, and resolved to say nothing that would trouble her.

He was happy—very happy—in the prospect of making Beatrix his wife so soon.

"Darling," he said softly, pressing the light form to his heart, "everything is arranged. We will drive out at three in the pony-carriage. We will go direct to Mr. Darrell's house—the clergyman who is a friend of mine—the license is already procured; nothing to wait for—not even the ring."

Drawing a tiny velvet case from his pocket he displayed a heavy gold band, and with it a glittering diamond.

"Here, sweetheart, let me put on the badge of your slavery," holding up the diamond as he spoke. Then with a swift glance into the lovely, downcast face he slipped the ring upon the third finger of her left hand. But Beatrix did not need a ring to remind her of her love for Keith.

Three o'clock found the two lovers seated in the carriage on their way to the clergyman's house. A little later Beatrix Dane came forth, Beatrix Dane no longer, but Mrs. Kenyon. How different everything seemed! the whole world was metamorphosed to her eyes. She glanced into Keith's face with a look of wordless love.

"Oh, Keith," she whispered, softly, "I am so happy!"

It was the last time that such words were destined to pass her lips for many a dark and dreadful day. They reached home, and Beatrix went straight to her room. She wanted to be alone and think over her new-found happiness. She gazed upon the wedding-ring on her finger as she hid the marriage-certificate away safely in her desk.

"My husband!" she whispered, softly. "Nothing can part us now—nothing but death! No one can come between us now—never while we live!"

Hark! what is that? The sound of voices—women's voices—fell upon her ears.

It was Serena and her mother in an empty room adjoining Beatrix's chamber. They had gone there for a private conference, and did not dream that she would overhear.

"Mamma,"—Beatrix heard Serena's sibilant voice, and a shudder passed over her—"I know all the whole fearful secret at last, and Beatrix Dane will never marry Keith Kenyon now. I know the nature of the awful curse which descends from Mildred Dane upon her child, which was originally transmitted from Mildred Dane's South American ancestors, and I no longer envy Beatrix her beauty. Better be the ugliest woman in the land than the thing she is! I would not exchange my plain face, were it ten times plainer, for Beatrix Dane's glorious beauty. Mother, listen, and do not faint or cry out. This is the bad, black secret: Mildred Dane inherited the awful plague of leprosy, and from her it descends to her child, Beatrix Dane!"