SERENA'S FAILURE.

As Serena's announcement was made, and the words fell upon the silence with a clear note of triumph pealing through her voice, Beatrix fell back faint and stunned. She realized the truth at once; she saw Serena's game, and knew that she had won. She saw that Serena—stung by the fact that Keith Kenyon's love would never be hers, and that he had allowed himself to be led into an engagement which he had not desired, and of which he soon grew weary, and so had repudiated her—all this had made Serena a very devil. And then added to it was the fact of her own poverty. And here, right within her grasp, was the chance to retrieve herself, to gain a grand home and a fortune, and at the same time ruin Keith Kenyon forever. For the young man had been reared to believe himself to be Bernard Dane's prospective heir; and, of course, with such a rearing he was utterly unfitted for any position in life where he could earn his own bread. Surely the future looming up before him was pitiful to contemplate.

It was a revenge worthy of a woman—of a hard-hearted woman—one who has the fires of baleful jealousy burning in her heart.

It is said that a jealous woman is fit to reign in hell, and it is easy to believe it. Serena was half insane with jealous wrath, and would hesitate at nothing in the way of her scheme to punish Keith Kenyon for not loving her. As though it were possible for Keith to control and direct his own heart! For love is not a matter of our own volition. It must go where it is sent by fate; we can not steer its course. And so Serena, with her mad determination to revolutionize nature, must needs attempt to wreck two lives already saddened by the darkest and most bitter of sorrows—a sorrow more cruel than death.

All this had flashed through Beatrix's brain as she stood there, her eyes upon Serena's pale, triumphant face, her heart sinking slowly into the very depths of dark despair. Keith's life was ruined—ruined irretrievably, his fortune gone, and the heavy, clanking chains of a marriage which could never be a real marriage, after all, fettering his every movement. And she was to blame for it all. In loving him and giving herself to him she had signed Keith Kenyon's death-warrant—a fearful, living death in life. She shuddered convulsively and sank into a seat.

"I cannot congratulate you, Serena," she returned, at last, forcing her white lips to speak, "because this marriage of yours is unnatural and wrong. No marriage will ever be sanctified without love—true love—and you have wedded this old man for his money."

Serena started angrily, and the red blood suffused her cheek for a moment.

"You had better choose your words in addressing me!" she snarled. "I will not bear your insults. I have come here to see Keith. Am I to see him or not?"

"You can not!" returned the young wife, bravely. "He is very ill, and I am his nurse. I would not permit any one for whom he cared to come to his bedside; I most certainly, then, will not admit you!"

Her voice rang out clear and determined. Serena's face grew ghastly white, and her pale eyes scintillated.

"I will make you sorry for that!" she stormed. "How came you here? Who constituted you Keith Kenyon's nurse?"

"I have a right to nurse him; I, and I alone!" returned Beatrix, calmly. "And, besides that, I am a nurse—or, rather, an assistant here—and it would be my duty to nurse him. This is my refuge, my home."

A scornful sneer curled Serena's thin lip.

"And do not the sick people here risk contagion from such as you?" she cried.

It was a cruel question, but the hard heart of the jealous woman was capable of any cruelty to this girl who was her rival—who, no matter what Serena did, or how she planned and schemed, somehow always seemed to get ahead of her without an effort. Even now, accursed as she was, with this hideous inheritance hanging over her head like a two-edged sword, she was more blessed than Serena, for was she not allowed to nurse this man whom they both loved, while Serena was shut out even from a sight of his face?

"I will see him!" she cried, angrily. "I will find the matron of this institution, and demand to see Keith Kenyon. I have as much right to him as you."

Beatrix's large dark eyes met the gaze of the angry woman with a slow, calm scorn.

"He is my husband," she said, quietly.

Serena's eyes blazed.

"And you—what are you?" she demanded. "Accursed! According to the law of the land he is not your husband, because a creature like you is an accursed thing, set aside and apart from other human beings, something too dreadful to contemplate. You must be mad to think that your marriage to Keith Kenyon is, or can be, lawful. Any court in the land will give him freedom from such as you."

Beatrix could not speak; she could not utter a word; she could only sit staring blankly before her, hearing Serena's terrible words, yet not heeding them apparently. But all the same every word, every syllable, sank into her heart like a branding iron, and stayed there. Perhaps it was true. Doubtless the courts of law would give Keith his freedom, if there was any law to fit this special and unusual case.

She would try. For his sake she would give him back his freedom. All this flashed through her brain as she sat there under Serena's scathing words, saying nothing, but hearing all. Old Bernard Dane intervened at length.

"Serena," he said, in his dictatorial way, "this is quite enough; you have no right to annoy and trouble poor Beatrix in this fashion. My child," turning to Beatrix with a deprecating air, "tell me, do you discover any symptoms of—of that awful trouble? How is your health, my dear?"

Beatrix's eyes—full of mournful protest—met his gaze.

"I am very well," she returned, gently; "never was better in my life. And I find no trace of anything that could ever so remotely resemble that awful thing to which you refer. It may be in my system, but so far I see nothing—"

She choked down the emotion which overpowered her, and turned aside.

"Never mind, child. Don't trouble yourself to explain to me," cried the old man, hastily. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I only wanted to know. Now, Serena, if you are satisfied, I think we had better take our departure. Then we can not see Keith?"

Beatrix shook her head.

"He will recover, I feel sure," she returned; "but his recovery rests entirely upon his being kept quiet. Doctor Darrow says that it will take time. Several of his ribs are broken, and he has sustained other injuries. I will let you know every day how he is, Uncle Bernard."

"Thank you, my dear; thank you!" he cried, as he rose to go.

Serena said nothing, but her plain face wore a look that was not good to see. She only bowed coldly to Beatrix, and followed her liege lord from the room. A little later the sound of wheels going down the street told Beatrix that they were gone. She bowed her head upon her hands and gave vent to a storm of tears which she had been bravely choking back.

"Heaven help me to bear my burden," she murmured, softly. "Heaven give me strength."

In the meantime the Dane carriage drove homeward. Once arrived there, Bernard Dane went straight to the library. He opened the door, then started back with an exclamation of surprise. The room was occupied. A slight figure, all in black, sat at the escritoire, with bowed head resting upon one hand. He drew near and laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Celia!" he exclaimed. "Celia Ray, what brings you here?"

She lifted her head, and her ghastly face—ghastly from mental suffering—met his gaze. She rose slowly to her feet and faced him, like a forgotten sin come back from its grave to reproach him; and so she was.

"Bernard!"—her voice was low and tremulous—"I have only just heard of your marriage—your mad, insane marriage to Serena, my niece—my niece, remember—and so I came to see you at once. Now, answer me one question. What did you mean by promising me never to marry? You refused to make me your wife—to atone for the wrong you had done me, but you did promise not to marry any one else. You have broken your word, as all men do. False! false! false! Now, listen to me, Bernard Dane."

She drew herself up to an erect position, and her eyes glared into his face with a look of utter hatred, and the worst hatred in the world is that which is born of a slighted love. Her voice sounded like the hissing of a serpent as she went on:

"I can tell you something which would alter all your life, and make you happy, but I refuse to do it. I intend to punish you for what you have done. Go on in your fool's life, Bernard Dane; the day is coming when you will remember me, and curse the hour in which you first deceived me!"