HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED.
Pale and dazed, Beatrix gazed into the young physician's face. Could
it be possible? Were his words true? Was there a hope that she might,
after all escape the dreadful scourge, the awful curse, and be restored
to her rightful place in the world, no longer an outcast, no longer
looked upon as a thing of horror, an object of aversion? It seemed too
good to be true. She fell backward a little, trembling like a leaf.
Doctor Darrow caught her in his arms and placed her on a seat near by.
Keith, who had recovered from the swoon into which he had fallen after
his rescue from the burning building, could only gaze into her face,
not able to speak a word.
"Let us drive at once to Mr. Dane's," Doctor Darrow's voice broke the
silence which followed. "I will explain to Mr. Dane, and I see no
reason why you should not be restored to your old place there, Mrs.
Kenyon."
Her eyes met his with a look of gratitude. Then all at once it flashed
across her mind that the old house had a new ruler now. Serena was its
real head, its tyrannical mistress. Could she go back there? Would
Serena allow it? And could she be happy under the same roof which
Serena claimed as her own? In a few words she expressed her doubts and
fears. Keith's eyes flashed.
"If you do not accompany me, I shall not go there," he exclaimed;
"so that settles it! Where you go, Beatrix, I shall go. No one shall
separate us again. And if Doctor Darrow is right in his conjectures,
there is no longer the shadow of a reason for our separation. Beatrix,
darling wife, happy days are drawing near, thank God!"
A cab having arrived, Doctor Darrow helped the two into it, and took
his own seat opposite.
"I had better go with you," he said, "for I wish to explain to Mr.
Dane. It is time that this cloud should be lifted from Mrs. Kenyon's
life."
"We will be only too glad to have you accompany us," returned Keith,
heartily.
And so they drove away together--away from the ruins of the Home--the
funeral pyre of one of the noblest of women--and were soon in the
aristocratic portion of the city.
At last the cab halted before the door of the Dane mansion. A
dilapidated trio--hatless, soiled, and weary--they were ushered into
the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Dane.
At sight of the visitors, Serena arose majestically.
"Simons,"--in a commanding tone--"these people are not received here;
show them out."
"Serena!" Old Bernard Dane darted forward, his face pale, his form
trembling. "You are going a little too far. These are my adopted son
and daughter. I forbid you to insult or show them any rudeness. Doctor
Darrow is a highly prized friend. Be seated, all of you. Simons, bring
some wine and a little cold chicken or something to refresh us. We had
just read in the morning paper of the fire," he added, turning to Keith
as he spoke. "I was about to go and see what had become of you; but the
paper stated that no one was killed; no lives lost in the flames but
the good Sister of Charity and the little child; so I felt relieved
upon that score. Ah! here comes Simons. Now you all must eat and drink,
for I must confess you look pretty badly used up."
They needed no second invitation, and when the repast was over and they
felt strengthened and refreshed, Doctor Darrow proceeded to tell his
story, ending by expressing his opinion, professionally, that Beatrix
had escaped the awful scourge.
"I think that there is no room for doubt upon the subject," the
physician said, in conclusion. "I have never known the fire test to
fail."
"Doctor De Trobriand told me of it," intervened old Bernard Dane,
excitedly. "He said that if I could in any way expose Beatrix to
the action of fire, I would prove beyond a doubt if she were really
afflicted with leprosy. You understand my cruel treatment of you now,
Beatrix, do you not, that night, long ago, when I tried to induce you
to put your hand into the fire?"
"Yes, I remember, Uncle Bernard," she returned, "and I must confess
that at the time I was awfully frightened. I thought that you had
suddenly lost your reason."
"No wonder!"--the old man smiled grimly. "And now I suppose you all
need rest; and Beatrix certainly must have those burns dressed. Lucky
that her face has escaped injury. Go upstairs to the blue room,
Beatrix."
But Serena barred the way.
"I am mistress here!" she snarled, "and I say that no leprous person
shall remain under my roof. It was proved beyond a doubt that her
mother, Mildred Dane, was afflicted with the dreadful disease. How
then do you know how soon it will show itself in Beatrix, her child?
The parent always transmits the disease to the children. There is no
mistake upon that point; no avoiding the truth--"
"You are mistaken!"
Doctor Darrow's voice broke in upon Serena's angry tirade.
"I beg your pardon for the contradiction, Mrs. Dane, but you are
mistaken. Let me give you an instance of the truth, which proves that
the disease is not always transmitted to the children direct from the
parents. It may lie in abeyance for two or three generations, and then
appear in the next. The story that I am about to relate to you, with
your permission, is true, and I repeat it from the written notes of a
physician--a friend of mine--who was well acquainted with the parties
concerned:
"I used to know a Cuban hero--a revolutionist--who had been run out
of his native island by the government. He was the son of a rich
planter, had been well educated in France and Spain, and had many
accomplishments. He went to New York, and into the cigar business,
and soon became wealthy. He married a New York girl and had a family.
He had grown to be immensely rich, and lived in grand style, drove
blooded horses, and owned his own opera-box. One night he had a long
consultation with the family physician in a private room in his elegant
mansion. When the doctor left, the Cuban said to his wife in a careless
tone: 'Let us go down to Delmonico's, my dear, and have supper.' They
went, and the two passed the gayest, merriest evening imaginable.
"A little after midnight they returned home. She went to bed and fell
asleep, the lights still burning in the house. Just as the first faint
streaks of dawn began to appear in the eastern sky, she awoke with a
cold chill creeping over her. Some instinct warned her that evil had
occurred.
"She rose and sought her husband. She found him in his private room,
lying on the floor, stone dead, with a revolver still grasped in one
cold hand. He had spent the night arranging his affairs. He had left
her many tender messages, which told of his love for her and his
children, and tender kisses for the dear ones whose lips he dared not
press himself.
"That interview with his family physician had betrayed the secret
to him. Leprosy, which had occurred among his ancestors generations
before, had declared itself in him, and he had taken the shortest way
of doctoring it."