WORSE THAN DEATH.
Hours passed before Beatrix Dane returned to consciousness and a
realization of the truth. She lifted her head and sat staring into the
darkness, trying to comprehend this awful thing that had come upon her
with all the force and harshness of a blow.
"Oh, my God! what am I?" she groaned, in her bitter anguish; "accursed!
accursed!"
She arose and went over to the window and stood there, with her burning
cheek pressed against the pane, her eyes fixed upon the darkness
without. A dreary scene. The wind had arisen, and went moaning around
the old mansion with a shrill, complaining cry which sounded like
some human creature in distress and made the blood run cold in the
poor girl's veins as she listened. It sounded like a death-knell--the
death-knell of all hope for her. It seemed to say over and over in a
voice of dreary, mournful melody:
"Gone! hope, happiness, all gone! There is nothing in life for you,
poor wretch!"
She was Keith Kenyon's wife, and she had brought a curse upon him--a
curse which could never be lightened or lifted. She was dead to him
henceforth and forever, even as she must now be dead to all hope in
life. One thought was ever before her, one duty was plain to her: she
must go away--go away out of his life forever--even though it should
kill her to give him up.
Where could she go? She thought of the cold world to which she was
comparatively a stranger, and a shudder passed over her slender frame.
"I cannot stay here," she said, resolutely, trying to be very brave and
calm. "I must not expose other people to possible contagion. I will
go away and leave Keith, and he will be free once more. But, oh, if
I had only learned this hideous secret before our marriage, how much
suffering we might have been spared!"
She thought it all over--thought until her brain reeled and her heart
beat with great suffocating throbs which nearly strangled her. Where
could she go? What door was open to receive such as she? Had the
awful plague really appeared, and declared itself in her system, then
she could find shelter in the hospital where such poor wretches take
refuge. She had heard of such a place; the very thought of it was
enough to make her feel faint. But as yet there was no trace of the
terrible disease--no proof that she had really become a victim to its
horrors--there was only the fact that her mother had transmitted to
her offspring the hideous plague which must sooner or later manifest
itself; and then horrible suffering, and at last inevitable death. She
wrung her hands with a moan of bitter anguish.
"Was any one ever so accursed as I?" she cried, desperately. "Oh,
pitying Heaven! it is more than I can bear!"
At last she made up her mind what to do. She would leave Bernard
Dane's house early in the morning. She must not remain another day
beneath this roof. She would go direct to the hospital where that
hideous plague was treated--to the old physician who had it in
charge--and tell her pitiful story. Then she would ask permission
to remain there, and wait upon the unfortunate creatures whose
companionship she must one day share. She would shut herself up in
this living tomb and wait for death to release her, because there was
no other shelter for such as she. No one would dare to give her a home
or extend a helping hand to a wretch like Beatrix Dane. I suppose that
there never was another case like this in the world. Young, beautiful,
and accursed, wedded to the man she idolized, and who in turn worshiped
her as the devotee worships the saint upon a shrine; all the world
before her, yet she must be set aside as a pariah, a horrible thing to
be shunned. Truly, "the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the
children." The world would be better and cleaner if that truth would be
remembered and taken to heart.
All night long the poor girl crouched in the darkness, thinking,
brooding over her unhappy fate. All night long! What a night it was! It
will never be forgotten while poor Beatrix lives. How could she go away
like that, without a word of good-bye or a farewell kiss to the husband
so dearly loved? Oh, it was horrible, horrible! Yet she must not risk
his life by touching his lips with hers. Perchance her own were already
polluted with the fiery wrath of the coming plague, that curse which
might be even now about to declare itself, which must be, according to
the theory of all authority upon that subject, even now dormant in
her system. She must not give way to woman's weakness. She must go--go
without a word or a look or a touch. She must go out of Keith's life
forever; and in the days to come, perhaps when she was dead, he would
learn the hideous truth and pity her a little. No matter though it
killed her, she must not risk his safety by a kiss. She must go--go
alone; it was all that was left for her to do.
She gathered together a few necessary garments and packed them in a
small hand-bag. Then she wrote a few lines to Keith--to Keith, her
love--this man for whose dear sake she would gladly have laid down
her life, yet whom she was leaving forever--leaving him, never again
expecting to see him on earth. She was as dead to him as though the
coffin-lid had closed over her and shut her out from the light of
day--as though she lay at rest under the sod. Surely no woman ever had
a harder task--an almost impossible task like this to go through with!
When the first faint streaks of day began to appear in the eastern sky,
Beatrix took her small baggage and stole from the room. On the table
she left the letter for Keith, sealed, and addressed to his name.
She stole noiselessly down-stairs and softly unfastened the outer door.
She passed forth, and Beatrix Dane was homeless!
She glanced up at the old house lying hushed and still under the shadow
of the magnolias.
"Good-bye, my husband," she moaned; "good-bye forever! It is worse
than death, the parting that divides us; but it must be borne. I am
accursed--accursed!"
She pressed her lips against the hard oaken panel of the door in a
mute farewell. She had not dared to go to the door of Keith's chamber,
for fear that he would hear her and all would be discovered. How could
she bear to tell him all just yet? How could she tell him her sad,
heart-breaking story, and see the light die out of his eyes and the
handsome face grow pallid with suffering? No, she was not strong enough
yet to bear the ordeal. Better for her to go away without seeing his
face, perhaps never to see it again while she lived. Yet she would have
given her life willingly for just one kiss from his dear lips. But that
can never be now. Never again can she look into his dear eyes and hear
him speak sweet, loving words to her. Life was over and done with now,
and nothing was left but the darkness of the grave. And she was so
young to have all hope killed in her heart like that!
She hastened away without another backward glance, making a brave
effort to be calm and face the ordeal before her. The hospital was a
long distance away. She could not wait for the hour when the cars would
begin to run. She must walk it.
So she did. Faint and weary, not having eaten anything since dinner
the previous day, she walked all that distance, and when at last she
reached the hospital, at its very door she fell to the ground in a dead
swoon.