BEATRIX HEARS THE SECRET.
Silence--awful silence! Beatrix could hear her own heart beat as she
stood there alone in the silence and darkness of her own chamber, the
hand that wears Keith Kenyon's wedding-ring pressed against her madly
throbbing heart.
The full significance of the words to which she has just listened does
not reach her understanding. She does not fully realize their awful
meaning. Not now; time enough for that later, when the numbness is gone
from her brain and she has the courage to stand face to face with the
bitter--the awful truth.
She stands staring straight before her into the darkness, her hand
pressing against her heart convulsively, holding her breath to hear
what may come next.
Serena's voice breaks the awful silence, low and hissing like some
venomous serpent.
"It is true--all true--true as gospel, mamma!" she cried, exultantly.
"There is no reason to doubt it--no possibility of a mistake. It was
the shock of discovering the horrible truth that killed my father. You
know he just idolized Beatrix; and to find out that for all these years
he had been harboring an accursed creature like that, whose very touch
may be pollution--for no one can tell when the disease may break out
in the system--simply killed him. Mamma, the story is true; there is
no doubt of it. This frightful disease is transmitted from generation
to generation, and is incurable. But perhaps I had better read you the
letter. Mr. Demorest says that it is a terrible revelation, which ought
to be placed in the hands of the authorities, for no leper should be
allowed to go at large in the streets of a city."
There was a ring of satisfaction in Serena's cold voice. Truly, if
"love is as strong as death," "jealousy is as hard as hell," and knows
no pity.
"But, Serena," Mrs. Lynne interposes, feebly, "there is nothing to
prove that this terrible disease has developed in Beatrix. Her skin is
as fair as a lily--a wonderful complexion--"
Serena groaned. Complexion was her _bete noire_. Hers was the color of
a weak solution of coffee. Mrs. Lynne went on:
"There is, in fact, as yet, nothing in the world to make one put faith
in the statement concerning Beatrix. Don't let your jealous hatred of
the girl lead you astray. It will merely precipitate matters; and you
will have to prove all these things, you know, Serena."
"Mamma you must think me an idiot. Of course, I expect to prove all
that I assert--at least, as much as any one possibly can. We can only
prove that Mildred Dane--this girl's mother--was a victim of the
plague of leprosy; and any physician will tell you that no child of a
leper--especially when the leper is a woman--can possibly escape the
dark inheritance. Sit down there in that arm-chair, mamma, and let me
read you the letter, the very letter that killed my father. When he
tossed it upon the fire, fate decreed that it should not be consumed.
Fortunately, the fire was low, and papa must have been nearly dead
when he attempted to destroy the letter, and with it all evidence of
the awful curse which is Beatrix Dane's inheritance. But I found the
scorched fragments of the letter--it was only torn in four pieces--and
I put them safely away in a little tin box. When we came down here to
New Orleans some impulse prompted me to bring the box and contents
with me. I had heard papa speak of a Mr. Demorest in this city who was
wonderfully ingenious and successful in deciphering and restoring old
papers. I found his address upon a card among papa's private papers,
and I brought the card with me when we came to this city. I had no
difficulty in finding the man. I knew that it would cost me a pretty
penny; so it did. It has taken every dollar that I had in the world,
but it is well invested. I am more than repaid for the outlay; for, oh,
mamma, Keith Kenyon will never make Beatrix Dane his wife now--never!
Listen to me while I read you the letter. It is from old Bernard Dane
to my father, and this is what it says."
Silence once more, broken by the rustling of paper as Serena unfolds
the fresh sheet upon which Mr. Demorest has transcribed the contents of
the mutilated letter--the silence of the very grave reigns throughout
the old house. The girl in the other room has thrown herself into a
low seat, and crouches there like some hunted creature brought to bay,
her heart overflowing with awful and bitter anguish--a suffering so
intense that no words have ever been framed in any language capable of
expressing it. A cloud of horrible darkness and despair envelopes her;
she can see no ray of light; she is groping in the gloom, still unable
to fully comprehend the nature of this wondrous horror that has come
into her life. She will realize it to its full extent by and by.
Loud and clear, and with a ring of triumph in it, Serena's voice falls
upon the silence once more as she reads that fatal letter aloud--reads
to the bitter end.
"DOCTOR FREDERICK LYNNE,--I feel it is my duty, now that Beatrix is
grown and the time is coming for me to remove her from your care, to
reveal to you the nature of the terrible future in store for her--the
dark inheritance which must inevitably descend upon her sooner or
later. You are a physician and a scientific scholar, and you will
comprehend and no doubt feel intense interest in this strange and
peculiar case. Let me go back a generation or two. Mildred Dane,
the mother of Beatrix, was a Miss Baretta; her parents were South
Americans, and very strange and eccentric people. They reared
Mildred, who was an only child, in the strictest privacy, and the
girl grew up in ignorance of the blight which was destined to be cast
upon her life. She was very beautiful, and very sweet-tempered--too
easily yielding to others. She was forced by her parents into a
distasteful marriage with Godfrey Dane, an old man, but very wealthy.
One child was born, and Godfrey Dane died when it was a few months
old. That child was Beatrix--little Beatrix who has lived with you
all her life.
"I pass over Mildred's tragic death, and all other events which do
not bear directly upon the fate of this child; it is with her alone
I wish to deal. Dr. Lynne, I am going to tell you all in as few
words as possible. Before her death, poor Mildred became a victim of
leprosy, and while her child was drawing from its mother's breast the
awful, incurable plague into its system. That Beatrix will escape the
scourge is simply impossible.
"But it seldom makes its appearance before the age of eighteen--it
may be a little later or a little earlier, but somewhere in the
neighborhood of that age.
"So until she reaches eighteen there is no reason to fear contagion
to your family. I wish you to send Beatrix to me at once; I would
place her under the care of an eminent physician, but all efforts
will prove unavailing; there is no hope for her; it is only a
question of time before the dread disease will develop in her system.
Send her to me at once. You will find a letter accompanying this
which will be explanation enough for your family; but keep this
letter as secret as the grave. Never let Beatrix Dane catch a glimpse
of its contents, or the knowledge of what this letter contains may
kill her outright. And now I have made a full explanation, I have
no more to say. Send the girl to me, and your responsibility ceases
forever.
"Yours respectfully,
"BERNARD DANE."
Serena's voice rang out clear and distinct to the very last. Then
silence settled down, broken by Mrs. Lynne.
"Good heavens!"--in an awe-stricken voice--"Serena, this is horrible!
Do you think there was any danger while she was with us? Oh! what if
we have been exposed to this dreadful thing! I wish that girl was
dead--dead and buried and forgotten. I hate to think of her."
And not a word of pity for the hopeless wretch who was doomed to
suffer from this awful curse; the heart-broken, wild-eyed creature in
the adjoining room, who crouched in the depths of the arm-chair and
listened--listened eagerly, intently, to every word that Serena had
read in the fatal letter. Not a word, or a cry, or a groan, passed
Beatrix Dane's lips as she crouched there, and over her a great
darkness settled; life drifted away from her grasp; the graceful head
fell forward, and she lost consciousness. It was merciful oblivion; but
it was destined not to last.
She lifted her head at length, and gazed wildly about her in the
darkness. No sound reached her ears; the next room was as silent as the
grave. Mrs. Lynne and Serena had gone to their own apartments to talk
over the horrible story which had come into their possession. Beatrix
was left alone--alone!
Alas! she felt that she was fated to be alone henceforth and
forever--to grope among dead men's bones--to live like the lepers of
old in deserted tombs--to be an outcast forever--accursed, shunned!
In olden times the leper was compelled to announce his own approach,
veiling his face from the gaze of those not like himself accursed, and
to cry aloud, "Unclean! Unclean!"
Some faint fragments of history strayed through the girl's brain as
she sat there, unable to realize as yet the full depths of her own woe.
She had read of leprosy--the most horrible of all known diseases, and
which can never be cured. When once the plague had appeared in her
system, even her very touch would be pollution.
Good God! she had kissed Keith's lips over and over. What if--what if
she had transmitted the curse to him? Better for her to die than to
bring this horrible curse upon the man she loved!
She knew now, at last, the reason for her own isolation in Bernard
Dane's house. She must not mix too intimately with other uncursed
people, or they, too, would become accursed.
Slowly, wearily, she arose to her feet and lighted the lamp in her
room. Then she went over to the mirror and stood gazing upon her own
face, her eyes full of bitter woe. She could see no change there as
yet. The pearly skin was as fair and lovely as ever, the beautiful dark
eyes just as bright. She held up one little hand and let the lamp-light
gleam across it. It was fair, and soft, and untainted. Yet all the same
the evil might lurk unseen, like a poisonous serpent, in her blood,
and when it became known it would be too late--too late! And--oh, God
in Heaven! was there ever such a fate?--she was Keith Kenyon's wedded
wife. She had cursed his life; she had brought ruin black and sure upon
him; all his future happiness was wrecked and destroyed.
"God pity me, I am lost--lost!" she moaned, bleakly. And then with a
low cry of anguish, the slight form tottering weakly, she fell to the
floor like one dead.