Her Dark Inheritance

by Mrs. E. Burke Collins

"Where is she?" he asked abruptly. "Beatrix, I will send a burial casket, and I will have her body brought to my house; the funeral services will be held there."

He would vouchsafe no explanation for his great interest in the dead woman, and Beatrix concluded it was for the sake of old acquaintance that he intended giving Celia Ray the grand, pompous funeral; and then was she not Serena's aunt? Surely there was nothing very strange in it, after all.

So everything was done as the old man directed. The funeral took place from the old Dane mansion, and Celia Ray's broken heart was laid to rest in the Howard Cemetery beneath a green mound with white marble coping—a lovely spot.

Serena looked like a galvanized corpse during the funeral services, her pale eyes full of a half-angry light. She hated the dead woman, and began to believe that she had good reason to do so, for Bernard Dane was mourning as one without hope over the death of Celia Ray. Strange and unaccountable though it may seem, no sooner was she dead and gone than Bernard Dane began to appreciate her great and unselfish affection for his unworthy self.

And Serena was aware of his grief. She watched the old man as he moved about, the very image of woe, his wrinkled face pale and worn, his form trembling, and during the next four days he grew to look five years older.

When the funeral was over and Mr. and Mrs. Dane had returned to their great, solitary house, Serena marched straight into the library, where her husband sat, his head—grayer than ever now—resting upon his hand, his eyes full of sadness.

"Now Mr. Dane," she began at once, in her shrill, sharp voice, "I want to know what this means. I have waited patiently for an explanation, but I will wait no longer. I mean to get at the root of this mystery.

"What was Celia Ray to you? You can not deceive me. I know perfectly well that no man would mourn over a woman's death as you are mourning over hers, unless there had been something very serious between them. Tell me, for I will know!"

"She was the only woman that ever really loved me!" groaned the old man, desperately. "And I loved another, and turned from her. But she repaid me by a life-time of devotion, and even when she died would not send for me—so Beatrix tells me—because she would not have me disturbed in the night. I have never appreciated her worth before—never! I feel that I have acted the part of a fiend to the best and truest of women. You need not look so angry, Serena. I am only telling you the truth, which you demanded. I shall mourn for Celia as long as I live, which, I trust will not be much longer. I wronged her cruelly, and I fear that God will never forgive me."

Surely old Bernard Dane was a changed man. A few months before, such words would not have passed his lips. Old age and the sorrows of his life were crowding fast upon him now, and making him see the folly of his past, and the blessings showered upon him which he surely had not deserved. But Serena felt, in her bitter hatred, that she could reach out and hurt the poor woman in her grave.