"In the name of God," she groaned, desperately, "what is this secret—this maddening, tantalizing secret—the curse which has ruined my mother's life, and which I firmly believe brought her to her death? Oh, God, have pity, and deliver me from this awful curse! But if I must suffer—if I can not get free—let me know—in pity and mercy let me know the nature of the awful blight which hangs over my life like a curse!"
Alas! poor Beatrix—poor, unhappy child—she is destined to learn soon enough; and when that hour of darkness comes, prone upon her face in the dust, she will cry aloud in bitter anguish, "Oh, God!—my God!—why hast Thou forsaken me?"
But at last, worn out with her bitter thoughts, and faint and exhausted, the girl crept into bed once more; and her last thoughts, as her head rested upon the pillow, were of Keith Kenyon, and the morrow, which was to be her wedding-day, and, although she dreamed it not, a day of doom.
Morning dawned fair and clear, with the sunshine glinting over the smooth lawn, where even in this wintry season the grass was green, and with birds chirping in the branches of the trees—quite a holiday time. Beatrix arose early, and the first object upon which her eyes fell was the letter which she had so strangely discovered the night before.
At least that was no dream.
She dressed herself and made her way at once to the round room in the western tower; she wished to restore the portrait to its former position. But when she entered the round room there was no trace of a portrait to be seen; even the brass knob had disappeared. Dazed and bewildered, the girl left the room and went down-stairs and out into the grounds. She felt restless and uneasy; her heart was weighed down with a strange foreboding. Yet today was to be her wedding-day.
Directly after breakfast Serena announced her intention of going out. She and Mrs. Lynne were to take their departure in a day or two, and Serena declared that she had important business to attend to which might occupy her all day. There was an unnatural glitter in her pale eyes as they rested upon Beatrix's face; and Beatrix fancied that there was something like concealed triumph in the tones of her shrill voice. The girl's heart sank like lead in spite of her efforts to be brave, for well she knew that that look upon Serena Lynne's face boded evil to somebody.
"No matter," she whispered softly under her breath; "after today they can not harm me. I shall be Keith's wife—Keith's own beloved wife. He will protect me from all ill."
Serena donned a street dress and set forth, her veil drawn closely over her face, as though to conceal her features, one gloved hand holding tightly, as though it was precious, a small tin box. Her pale eyes glittered with exultation behind the folds of her tissue veil; she seemed eager and anxious.
So she was. Just as eager and impatient to begin her dreadful work as the vulture which waits greedily for the corpse to putrefy upon which it expects to make its horrid feast.