"We must find her, Keith," he sobbed; "and I will devote my life, what is left of it, to her care. I am old, and my days will soon be ended here on earth; but I can devote the remnant of my life to no higher or better object than the care of this unfortunate child. And when that awful affliction falls upon her, I will be with her to help her to bear it. Oh, how wicked, how cruel, how sinful I have been to her—my Mildred's little child! Oh, will God ever forgive me?"
He wept like a weak woman, overcome with the full weight of his sorrow and remorse. And in the midst of his grief he found an unexpected comforter.
Keith having been summoned from his side, Serena slipped softly into the room, and came to the old man's bedside.
"Mr. Dane," she began, in a sympathetic tone, "let me try to cheer you a little. Do not grieve over poor lost Beatrix, poor child. We will find her and restore her to her home; or—or—if the awful curse must come upon her, we will do all in our power to alleviate her sufferings. Do not grieve so, Mr. Dane. Let me bathe your head with cologne water, and do try and sleep a little, will you not?"
The old man smiled grimly.
"You may do as you like," he made answer, "I am completely prostrated."
So Serena went to work and bathed the old man's throbbing temples, and made him comfortable. At last his eyes closed, and his slow, regular breathing announced that he was asleep. Serena's face wore a look of triumph, and her pale blue eyes flashed with exultation.
"Why not?" she muttered, low under her breath, "why not? He is very rich and very old, and—I must have money. And Keith will never care for me, and he is married to that wretched girl who will be a mill-stone about his neck while she lives, and she may live many years. I am not sure but that I have solved the problem for myself, and found a way—an unexpected way—out of my difficulties. Keith's love—the love of the only man on earth worth having—can never be mine—never! It is useless to aspire, to hope. But why should I spoil all my life for the sake of a love that can never be mine? I will not do it! I will put forth all efforts now to a special end, and live henceforth for that one purpose. I must have money. I will marry old Bernard Dane, and be rich, and"—her pale eyes shining like glass—"I will thus control the fortune which Keith Kenyon expects to inherit. Oh, it will be a game worth playing; and I will play it, even though I am destined to be beaten at the game!"
It was an idea worthy of the brain from which it emanated, and a scheme which would not have occurred to any one else. Serena was desperate. She had lost her game; but money she must have, and she had devised a scheme by which to secure it. It was not an original idea, but there was no reason why it should not succeed; for old Bernard Dane was completely broken down now—a perfect wreck—a mere ghost of the aggressive old man who had been guilty of plotting, as he had done, against the life and happiness of the two who, after all, he held most dear. Sorely he was being punished—severely, fearfully punished—for his wicked scheme to marry those two young people, when he believed that only ruin could come of the marriage. Ah! believe me, we who sin must suffer for our sins. I think that old Bernard Dane realized this truth at last.