"I am Beatrix Dane," said a soft voice, timidly.
The old man lifted his head, and his eyes fell upon the face before him. A strange change passed over his stern features, a look of slow horror froze his face down like an icy mask. He arose to his feet, tall, gaunt, grim; but in the presence of this slip of a girl, he was trembling as though he was afraid.
"Powers above!" he panted, brokenly. "When did you arrive? Where is—is—Surely you did not travel all this distance alone!"—his voice trembling with an inflection of surprise which was almost terror.
"Yes, sir; I came alone. There was no help for it. Oh, Mr. Dane, I have such dreadful news to tell you! Papa is dead; he died of heart disease while he was reading your last letters to him!"
"Papa!"—the scornful intonation in Bernard Dane's voice was a revelation. "Papa, indeed! Ha! ha! You have no father. No, I do not mean that you are not legitimate, but it is worse than that. You, upon whom the curse of God has fallen, can have no claim of near kinship with any one. It would be a fine thing to be the father of a creature like—like—Girl, do you know that you are accursed? That you have a destiny to fulfill, the very thought of which makes my heart stand still with horror? You have a dark inheritance in store, and may Heaven give you strength to bear your burden, for 'vain is the help of men.'
"No, I am not insane; there is no insanity in the Dane family. I am not idiotic; I am as sane and sound as you are, and more than you will be when you learn the truth concerning yourself. Don't shrink away and cower out of sight like that. Be a woman. Do you know what that means? It means to bear the burden of another's sin; to carry its consequences about in your heart—your tender, guiltless, woman's heart—until your life is darkened and ruined forever. It means to suffer in secret and silence, and to lie down and die, sooner than see the one punished for whom you suffer. This is to be a woman. There! I have no more to say tonight—No—wait a moment before you go to your own room which I have had prepared for you. Come here, and let me look at you. Yes, to be sure, you are fair. I thought that you would be. You are beautiful, indeed. Oh, heavens! what a fate—what a fate for one so young and fair! Now, Beatrix Dane, answer me: have you come here prepared to render strict obedience to my wishes? You do not know what right I have to direct you? Ah! so I thought. Well, you may call me uncle—Uncle Bernard. The first relative you have ever known? Humph. Well, pray Heaven it may be the last. Now, listen while I tell you why I have sent for you at this late day."
She came a little nearer and lifted her piteous, pleading eyes to his stern face.
"Uncle—Uncle Bernard," she faltered, timidly, "please don't speak such wild, harsh words to me tonight. Let me hear you say something kind. Remember, I have no one in the wide world but you. I promise to be good and obedient. I promise to obey you like a slave; to do anything you say. No one has ever loved me. Won't you try to love me a little—only a little? I promise to do whatever you may wish me to do."
"You promise?"
His wrinkled face lighted up with a swift gleam of triumph.