Once decided in his course, old Bernard Dane was not the man to turn back, or to express regret for what he had done. The die was cast. He had asked Serena Lynne to be his wife, and he would make her Mrs. Dane, no matter what obstacles stood in the way. Keith wandered about the house, looking like a ghost, his mind so absorbed in the disappearance of Beatrix that he had no thought for anything else, and did not, therefore, perceive the state of affairs between Bernard Dane and Serena. Mrs. Graves would have attempted to put him on the track of that which the good old lady saw was about to take place, for she alone had kept her eyes open and seen the true state of affairs, but she shrank from being the one to call Keith's attention to the fact, and so no one spoke, and Keith remained in utter ignorance.
Serena at once began preparations for the marriage. She had decided that it must be soon—at once.
Bernard Dane allowed himself to be persuaded; and so, all preliminaries having been gone through with, a clergyman was engaged to perform the ceremony one April eve. But first there remained the task of breaking the news to Keith.
"I can't do it, Serena," the old man declared, childishly. "He will be so surprised—so shocked! You must tell him yourself."
Serena's pale eyes flashed. That was just what she wished to do. She felt a strange satisfaction in wounding this man who had scorned her, and whose fortune she was now about to usurp.
"Very well," she made answer, her pale face growing livid as she spoke; "I will break the news to Keith Kenyon."
She left the room at once, and went up to her own apartment, there to stand for a few moments before the mirror, while she scanned, with true feminine criticism, the details of her own toilet.
She was looking very well in pale lavender muslin—she had discarded mourning—with a bunch of pansies in the yellow lace which covered the corsage. Her dull flaxen hair was in a Psyche knot, and fell in a fringe upon her brow. There was a glitter of cruel triumph in her eyes, and she caught her breath with a low cry of exultation.
"Serena, you are a trump!" she exclaimed, apostrophizing her own reflection. "Beauty is well enough to possess, but a clever woman can overreach mere beauty any day. Well, I will go now to the library—Simons says that Keith is there—and break my important news to that gentleman. But—oh! Keith! Keith!"
She covered her face with her hands for a moment. Not another word passed her lips, but that one wild, agonized cry revealed the bitter truth that, come what would, she had not forgotten Keith Kenyon, and had not ceased to love him. It was the one mad passion of her narrow, empty life.