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Her Dark Inheritance

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<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> IN DEADLY PERIL. Beatrix felt a strange sensation as she stood alone at the midnight hour beside the dead woman. It was not terror, it was not the natural and instinctive shrinking from death—death in any form; for Beatrix had seen so much of the dread messenger that she had grown inured to such scenes since she had come to live at the Home. But still within the girl's heart there lingered a strange feeling of sorrow, as though she had lost a friend, a very dear friend. She drew the sheet up over the calm, white face upon the pillow; but first she kissed the cold cheek once more. Then she took the package of papers and went swiftly up to her own room. The nurse who had been in charge had already hastened to give due notice of Celia's death, and the poor body was soon prepared for its last resting-place. Beatrix locked the precious papers safely away in her own wardrobe, then she threw herself upon her bed to try and get a little sleep. She was very tired, and her eyes closed at once, and she was soon in the land of dreams—strange land, whither we all stray at times, sometimes with friends, and often with those whose faces we do not know, and whom we meet only in the land of dreams. Beatrix dreamed that night of Celia Ray. It seemed that the dead woman came to her and[Pg 219] took her in her arms, and held her close to her heart, whispering tender, loving words, and calling her her baby and darling child. Beatrix awoke with a feeling that she had been with spirits, for the presence of the dead woman in her slumbers had seemed so real. Early in the morning Beatrix dispatched a messenger to Bernard Dane with the information of Celia's death. To her surprise, the old man himself made his appearance at the Home and he came alone. He inquired for Beatrix, and when she entered the reception room she found him sitting with bowed gray head, looking the very picture of despair. "Where is she?" he asked abruptly. "Beatrix, I will send a burial casket, and I will have her body brought to my house; the funeral services will be held there." He would vouchsafe no explanation for his great interest in the dead woman, and Beatrix concluded it was for the sake of old acquaintance that he intended giving Celia Ray the grand, pompous funeral; and then was she not Serena's aunt? Surely there was nothing very strange in it, after all. So everything was done as the old man directed. The funeral took place from the old Dane mansion, and Celia Ray's broken heart was laid to rest in the Howard Cemetery beneath a green mound with white marble coping—a lovely spot. Serena looked like a galvanized corpse during the funeral services, her pale eyes full of a half-angry light. She hated the dead woman, and began to believe that she had good reason to do so, for Bernard Dane was mourning as one without hope over the death of[Pg 220] Celia Ray. Strange and unaccountable though it may seem, no sooner was she dead and gone than Bernard Dane began to appreciate her great and unselfish affection for his unworthy self. And Serena was aware of his grief. She watched the old man as he moved about, the very image of woe, his wrinkled face pale and worn, his form trembling, and during the next four days he grew to look five years older. When the funeral was over and Mr. and Mrs. Dane had returned to their great, solitary house, Serena marched straight into the library, where her husband sat, his head—grayer than ever now—resting upon his hand, his eyes full of sadness. "Now Mr. Dane," she began at once, in her shrill, sharp voice, "I want to know what this means. I have waited patiently for an explanation, but I will wait no longer. I mean to get at the root of this mystery. "What was Celia Ray to you? You can not deceive me. I know perfectly well that no man would mourn over a woman's death as you are mourning over hers, unless there had been something very serious between them. Tell me, for I will know!" "She was the only woman that ever really loved me!" groaned the old man, desperately. "And I loved another, and turned from her. But she repaid me by a life-time of devotion, and even when she died would not send for me—so Beatrix tells me—because she would not have me disturbed in the night. I have never appreciated her worth before—never! I feel that I have acted the part of a fiend to the best and truest of women. You need not look so angry, Serena.[Pg 221] I am only telling you the truth, which you demanded. I shall mourn for Celia as long as I live, which, I trust will not be much longer. I wronged her cruelly, and I fear that God will never forgive me." Surely old Bernard Dane was a changed man. A few months before, such words would not have passed his lips. Old age and the sorrows of his life were crowding fast upon him now, and making him see the folly of his past, and the blessings showered upon him which he surely had not deserved. But Serena felt, in her bitter hatred, that she could reach out and hurt the poor woman in her grave. "No matter," she cried angrily, as she sat nursing her wrath to keep it warm; "I am mistress here and Bernard Dane is old and feeble. It will not take long, now that Aunt Celia is dead and out of the way, to resume my old power over him. I must hold a tight rein, or my control will be diminished. No more of those people shall be allowed here. Beatrix must never show her face here again. She shall never enter these gates while I live!" That night Beatrix retired earlier than usual. She had attended Celia's funeral and seen her laid to rest; then she had returned to Keith's side for a long and loving conversation. She had not been assigned any special task that night, and so it came to pass that she was able to retire early, and was soon in a sound sleep. She was aroused from sleep by a strange sensation—a fear of approaching danger—a curious tightening about the muscles of the throat, as though breath was about to leave her. She sat up in bed and peered through the darkness, uttering a low cry of horror[Pg 222] as she did so. The room was filled with dense smoke. The house was on fire! With a sickening horror creeping slowly over her, the girl rose and hurriedly dressed herself. Then remembering the papers which Celia's dying hand had intrusted to her care, she removed the package from the wardrobe and hid it away in her bosom. She opened the door of her room. Smoke—fire! Great, fiery tongues of flame met her on every side. Choking, gasping for breath, she turned in the direction of Keith's chamber, which was situated at the furthest end of the hall from her own. Could she save him? His strength had not altogether returned to him. Would he be able to make his escape, even with her help? "Then I will perish with him!" she murmured, desperately. "Heaven help me! Heavenly Father, have mercy, and direct me!" Shouting wildly with all her strength the one word "Fire!" she fought her way through the smoke and flame down the long hall, and paused at last before the door of Keith's chamber. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 223] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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