AN OLD MAN'S SECRET.
Yes, he was Serena Lynne's betrothed husband, and bound in honor to make her his wife. The sharp remembrance cut him to the heart like a sword. He fell back with a cry of anguish, and the love-words died upon his lips.
"May Heaven have pity!" he groaned. "I had forgotten—forgotten. Don't look at me with such piteous eyes. Beatrix! oh, Beatrix, my love, I have done wrong! I have made a mistake, and my happiness is wrecked. All my life is ruined and darkened forever!"
Old Bernard Dane hobbled over to Keith's side and laid a trembling hand upon his arm.
"Keith, my boy, I—I can't explain this to you," he mumbled, brokenly.
He had not observed the scene which had just taken place between Keith and the shrinking, trembling girl who stood there, pale as a lily, before them. He had not listened to Keith's impassioned avowal; he had been deaf and unseeing to all that had taken place. Keith's dark eyes flashed with an angry light.
"I wish no explanation," he returned, harshly; "there is no excuse, no palliation of your conduct possible. You have acted the part of an inhuman monster—a madman! Yes, let us hope that temporary aberration is responsible for your strange conduct. Uncle Bernard, I warn you that if your attempt to torture this poor girl should be repeated, I will appeal to the authorities. You shall be confined in a retreat for the insane. You are a dangerous person to go at large."
The old man seemed strangely weakened and unmanned. He uttered no word; no sound escaped his dry, parched lips; but upon his wrinkled face there was a look of abject terror.
Trembling like a leaf, he turned, and leaning heavily upon his cane, passed from the room and closed the door behind him. He went straight to the library—a great solemn-looking apartment filled with well-laden book-shelves, and with a huge escritoire standing beside a window. The old man hobbled over to the desk, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the desk and turned to a small drawer at the right. From this drawer he removed a small package of old letters tied with a narrow black ribbon. Removing the ribbon, he began to examine the letters, reading them over hastily, one by one, the frown upon his brow growing deeper, his dark, deep-set eyes flashing with an angry light. When he had read the last of the letters he replaced the somber ribbon and returned the package to the drawer. Then bowing his head upon his hand, Bernard Dane sat buried in profound thought.
Whatever the subject that engrossed his thoughts, it was not a pleasant one. That could be easily seen by the lines of care upon his brow, the furrows of anxiety—the evidence of a great trouble—that were plainly written upon his face. A look of intense anger settled down upon it. He clinched his white hands fiercely, and the deep, dark eyes gleamed like fire.