Chapter 3

"I wonder what keeps Beatrix so late? I am getting very uneasy about
her. It is after dark, and snowing hard. I am very anxious, and besides
I've been thinking of the bridge over the river. I don't believe from
all accounts that it is half safe. Serena, go to the door and see if
she is coming."

Doctor Lynne had grown quite old and feeble in the years that had
elapsed since that night of mystery--that momentous tenth of November.
He leaned heavily upon his cane, without which he could not walk at
all, and turned from the window where he had been stationed for the
last half hour.

Serena Lynne glanced up from the depths of the big arm-chair where she
sat absorbed in a novel, and a frown disfigured her not very attractive
face.

"Why do you bother so about Trix, papa?" she asked, sharply. "The girl
is able to take care of herself. It is scarcely dark, and she will be
home directly. And she would go, you know, although mamma tried her
best to prevent her."

"Go to the door and see if she is coming," repeated Frederick Lynne
sternly. "Serena you are utterly devoid of heart. Trix is ten years
younger than you and but a child. Poor little thing! if anything has
happened to her I shall never forgive myself for permitting her to go."

Serena Lynne laid her book aside with a gesture of impatience, rising
to her feet slowly and unwillingly. A tall ungraceful young woman of
some six or seven-and-twenty with flaxen hair and pale blue eyes--not
a beauty by any means. And it was the sight of her adopted sister's
fair young beauty that made her invariably ill-tempered and unkind to
Beatrix. She moved slowly and ungraciously to the door, and opened it,
making an unlovely picture as she walked, trailing the folds of her
slatternly blue serge wrapper over the faded carpet, her feet thrust
into a pair of ragged slippers, her hair in an untidy little knot at
the back of her head. She wore no collar, none of the pretty little
devices which a neat woman always affects, but a soiled white Shetland
shawl was huddled about her shoulders, and her sharp, peevish face,
with its sallow complexion and wide mouth, did not make a pretty or
lovable picture. For a time she stood peering out into the darkness. At
last:

"Papa!"--in a tone of suppressed excitement--"I hear the sound of
wheels. I think--I believe--yes, it is a wagon, and it is stopping at
the gate. There, I suppose your pet Beatrix is home at last, and no
harm done."

Doctor Lynne hobbled slowly to the open door. His wife, the personal
counterpart of her daughter, glanced up from the pile of mending with
which she was occupying herself, and a disagreeable expression settled
down upon her hard features.

"Thank Heaven if she has really come at last!" she ejaculated; "that
girl is the curse of my life! I only wish that we could get rid of her!
I don't see how we are going to support her, now that the money has
ceased to come!"

"Silence!"

Doctor Lynne turned sharply upon his wife.

"I will hear no more of this!" he said, sternly. "Beatrix Dane shall
stay here as long as she sees fit. Poor child! I imagine that she would
not remain long if she had her own way in the matter. Serena,"--making
his way to the door as swiftly as he was able--"what is the matter?"

There was a slight bustle upon the broad veranda outside, where a group
of dark figures were outlined against the blackness of the sky. A
moment later and Beatrix flashed into the room, pale and excited, her
eyes shining like stars.

"Oh, papa! papa!"--kissing the old man's haggard face. "Such a strange
thing has happened! The river bridge broke just as a gentleman was
crossing on horseback. He fell into the water, and I--I helped him all
I could, and he got out. And oh, papa, just think! He was on his way to
this house--to you. He is outside."

Even as she spoke, the two men made their appearance in the doorway,
leading between them the faltering, swaying figure of the young man.
Beatrix hastily wheeled forward the easy-chair which Serena had
vacated, and the helpless man sank into its capacious depths. Then
the men who had brought Beatrix and the stranger hither took their
departure.

"Mrs. Lynne,"--Beatrix turned pleadingly to that lady--"will you not
do something for this gentleman? He is suffering greatly. His name is
Kenyon--Mr. Keith Kenyon."

"_Keith Kenyon_!" Mrs. Lynne started to her feet, pale with surprise.
"Why, so it is!" she cried, stooping to peer into the face of the
half-unconscious man. "Keith! Keith! look up. Thank Heaven you are safe
with us! Serena, go and light a fire in the spare chamber for your
cousin Keith."

Beatrix started in surprise. During all the years passed under that
roof she had never before heard of the existence of such a person.

"Your cousin?" she repeated, in a bewildered way, as Serena left the
room, in obedience to her mother's directions.

Mrs. Lynne's pale eyes flashed.

"To be sure. At least, he is not exactly a cousin, only by adoption;
which is all the better for Serena, as I do not approve of the marriage
of cousins."

A strange pang shot through Beatrix Dane's girlish heart--a pang which
was to her quite unaccountable. Why should she care whom Keith Kenyon
married? Surely, it was nothing to her. Poor little Beatrix! Although
she did not dream the truth, the spell of love was being woven about
her young heart.

"Out flew the web, and floated wide,
The mirror cracked from side to side;
'The curse is come upon me!' cried
The Lady of Shalott."

An hour later the young man was placed in bed in the warm "spare
chamber." Doctor Lynne having examined his injuries, found them not as
serious as had been feared; and once attended to, Keith slept the sleep
of exhaustion.

Twelve o'clock had struck before Beatrix retired to her own bare little
chamber, and seated herself before the fire which she had ventured
to kindle. No one had thought of her, or given her the slightest
attention; Doctor Lynne, because he had been absorbed in his patient
to the exclusion of every other object; the two women--mother and
daughter--simply because they did not care. Beatrix unfastened her
beautiful hair, and seating herself before the fire, wrapped a worsted
shawl about her shoulders. The door of her room was pushed slowly open,
and Serena appeared.

"Up yet?" she queried in a shrill, sharp voice. "Well, I would like to
ask you a few questions, Miss Beatrix Dane. By the way, I wonder if
your name is--really Dane?"

A swift flush crimsoned the girl's pure cheek.

"We will not discuss that question tonight, Serena," she said, gently.
"I am quite too tired and sleepy."

Serena came and stood before the fire, resting her sallow cheek against
the ugly wooden mantel.

"Tell me all about this thrilling adventure of yours," she began,
abruptly; "really, it is quite too romantic!"

In a few patient words Beatrix repeated all that had occurred.

"I did not dream that Mr. Kenyon was a friend of yours," she added, in
conclusion.

Serena's pale eyes sparkled.

"Friend? He is more than a mere friend!" she said, eagerly; "he is my
cousin by adoption, and--and, Beatrix, I have never told you before;
but I expect to be his wife some day!"

"_Impossible_!"

The word fell from Beatrix Dane's lips unawares. In an instant she
realized the mistake that she had made.

"I--I beg your pardon!" she faltered; "I did not mean to offend you,
Serena!"

"_Offend_?" Serena's thin lips parted in a disagreeable smile. "_You_
could not offend me if you tried; not _you_--a nameless nobody!"
she sneered. "And whatever you may say or think in regard to the
matter, the truth remains--I am engaged to marry Keith Kenyon. Are
you satisfied? What else, do you imagine, has brought him to this
out-of-the-way place? It seems that he telegraphed to papa that he was
coming; but the stupid idiots at the station neglected to send the
message out here. I shall be glad when I get away from this hateful,
dead-and-alive hole, and live in a large city, in an elegant house,
with everything that heart can wish. Keith's home is in New Orleans,
and I have always felt a great desire to visit the South."

New Orleans! The name aroused Beatrix with a little start. For the
first time since her arrival home she remembered the letter that had
come from New Orleans for Doctor Lynne. She searched hastily in the
pocket of her dress for the missive. Yes, it was there, all safe.

"I must see papa at once," she observed, rising to her feet.

"_Papa_, indeed!" mimicked Serena, contemptuously. "If I were you I
would wait until I could prove my right to call any one by that name
before I--"

"_Hush_! Not another word! I will hear no more of your insolence. Leave
my room, Serena Lynne, and never enter it again until you can treat me
with proper respect."

"Well, I declare! Good gracious! what next? How we _do_ put on airs!
For my part--I--"

"Very well. If you will not vacate, I shall leave the room myself,"
cried Beatrix, too indignant to endure any more. She was faint and
exhausted from fatigue and the exposures of the night. No one had
offered her even a cup of tea or the slightest refreshment after her
adventure in the cold night air, chilled and half clothed as she had
been; and she was not enough at home in the house, where she had lived
for sixteen years, to venture to suggest her need of refreshment. She
flashed swiftly past the discomfited Serena, and down the bare stairs
to Doctor Lynne's large cheerful sleeping apartment. Mrs. Lynne was
still with the patient, and peeping in at the open door of Doctor
Lynne's room, Beatrix was so fortunate as to find him there alone.

"Papa!"--hesitatingly--"may I speak with you?"

Frederick Lynne glanced up, and a glad light flashed over his worn
countenance.

"Certainly, my dear!" he returned. "Come in. Why, Beatrix,
child!"--with a startled glance into her white face--"you are ill,
exhausted. How thoughtless and selfish in me not to think of you
before. Here, drink a glass of wine!"

He filled a glass from the decanter of home-made wine upon the table,
and held it to her lips. Beatrix drained the contents of the glass;
then she sank wearily into the empty chair at his side.

"Papa, do you know anything concerning my parents--my real parents?"
she asked, abruptly.

His face grew pale.

"No, dear; you have heard all that I know in regard to your history. Do
not trouble yourself, Beatrix; it will all come right some time, I am
sure. Try to have faith that all is for the best."

"I wish I could. I am tired of this life--tired of living here with
Mrs. Lynne and Serena. I shall be glad to go out into the world and
earn my own living. Don't look so horrified, daddy, darling. And by the
way, I nearly forgot my errand here to you. I have a letter for you."

She drew the letter from her pocket and laid it in his hand.

At sight of the superscription his face grew pale as death. Breaking
the seal with a trembling hand, he drew forth two inclosures--two
separate letters.

"Go, my dear," he said, gently; "it is late, and you must retire now.
Besides, I would rather be alone. Kiss me good-night, Beatrix, my
little comfort."

She stooped, and putting her white arms about his neck, laid her warm,
red lips upon his.

"Good-night, papa, darling," she whispered.

At the door of the room she paused and looked back. He was sitting in a
dejected attitude, his white head resting upon one hand; the other held
the letters.

She went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs back to her own room, and,
retiring, was soon sound asleep.

She was aroused from slumber by a shrill shriek which resounded through
the silent house. Starting to her feet, Beatrix threw on a loose
wrapper, and thrusting her bare feet into a pair of slippers, left the
room and flew swiftly down-stairs. She made her way instinctively to
Doctor Lynne's room. He was seated in his arm-chair before the fire,
just as she had left him, while his wife, whose cry of horror had
aroused the house, stood near, pale and terrified. One of the letters
which he had received had been destroyed by fire--only a heap of
smoke-blackened fragments upon the hearth remained to tell the tale;
but one hand clutched the other letter in a convulsive grasp, as he sat
there, white, and still, and dead. Death had stolen in like a thief in
the night, and he was gone forever.

The letter which that cold, stiff hand clutched tenaciously, was found
to contain these words:

"DOCTOR LYNNE,--The time has come for you to know the truth
concerning the child of your adoption, Beatrix Dane. The accompanying
letter contains a full explanation. When you have read it, you will
see that it is best for you to send her to me now. Let her come to
New Orleans, to the inclosed address, as soon as possible. You will
receive a remittance for all her necessary expenses, by registered
mail, in a few days. When that arrives, send Beatrix Dane to me. The
time has come when she must learn the hideous secret connected with
her birth--when she must face her own future, and enter upon her
heritage of woe.

"BERNARD DANE."