The very dishes upon which she ate were used by no one else. She had seen Mrs. Graves actually strike the little maid-servant who one day was about to raise to her lips the half-empty goblet of milk from which Beatrix had been drinking.
It was strange and mysterious.
The girl turned away from the sight of the wild, distorted face of the old man before her with a hopeless feeling tearing at her heart-strings. She went slowly back to her own room and sat down at the window.
"There must be some awful curse hanging over me!" she murmured, brokenly. "I can not imagine what this strange mystery means. I wish I could find out. I wish I might know. Anything is better than suspense!"
Alas! poor Beatrix! ignorance was certainly bliss in her case, if only she could have known it. The day would come when she would look back upon this blissful ignorance and curse the hour when first she had heard the mystery explained.
That very night old Bernard Dane sent for Beatrix to come to his room. She obeyed the summons, and found him crouching over the fire, looking like some weird priest of old performing an incantation.
"Come here!" he commanded, harshly, lifting his head and transfixing her with wild eyes as the girl entered the room—"come here, Beatrix Dane! Put your hand into that fire—right into the flame, I say. Yes; you must do it. You swore to be obedient to me, and it is for a good reason that I wish to put you to a test. I wish to prove the truth. Of course you think me mad for desiring this, but I am as sane as you are. This is a test, I tell you. The day may come when you will see the wisdom of my words. Come; you must obey me. Don't stand staring at me in that helpless way. I mean what I say, and I will be obeyed. Put your hand in the fire, and hold it there quietly for a moment!"