Her Dark Inheritance

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW THE SECRET IS TOLD.

When Serena had left the house, Beatrix went straight to old Bernard Dane's room and rapped at the door.

"Come in!" cried a harsh voice; and Beatrix pushed the door open and entered the room. Bernard Dane was standing before a window, gazing out into the grounds, his wrinkled face looking grave and thoughtful. At sound of the girl's footsteps he turned slowly, and as his eyes fell upon her pale, troubled face, something like pity flashed into his own—but only for a moment.

"Well?" he demanded, sharply, as she paused before him.

"Uncle Bernard!"—Beatrix's voice was low and hurried. She shrank from the interview, yet she felt that she must go through with it—"I have intruded upon you to ask you a question. I am here to demand of you the secret of my mother's life and death. Why is her portrait hidden away in the round room, with its face turned to the wall? What is this secret which killed her, and which her own handwriting declares is destined to descend, like a curse, upon the head of her child? Uncle Bernard, I must have an answer! This silence is unjust; it is cruel; it is maddening! Tell me, what is this secret connected with my mother? I will know!"

The old man's face was a study as he stood listening to her eager outburst, his keen, dark eyes fixed upon her face with a penetrating look in their depths. He shook his gray head.

"My dear, I will not. Now, that is all, and it is quite useless to ask me any more questions. And there is no one else in the world who can enlighten you; so it will be useless to seek information elsewhere. Beatrix, my child, why torture yourself in this way? Be content as you are, and do not seek to look back upon the past, or trouble yourself in regard to the future. See here, child!"—the old man's voice softened insensibly—"you must believe that I am acting for your good. When you first came here I resolved upon a step, the very thought of which now fills my heart with horror. I had wished to see you and Keith married, but now—Oh, my God! I would sooner see you both in your graves."

"Uncle!"

"It is true—too true, Beatrix. I am going to send you away from this place. If you remain here, you and Keith will marry, even against my wishes—I feel it. And it would be better—much better for you to be dead and buried than to take such a step. Do you hear me, Beatrix?"

"Yes, sir," the sweet voice trembling, but in the great dark eyes a look of determination. Ah, Bernard Dane, your warning comes too late! You have sowed and you must reap. If a man sows tares he can not harvest wheat. She turned and left him alone without another word. Give up Keith Kenyon? Not if she knew it; on the contrary, the girl felt more determined than ever to become Keith's wife.

"He is the only creature in the wide world who loves me, and I love him with all my heart. My darling! I will be his wife, and we can not help being happy, even though Uncle Bernard should disinherit him."

She went to her own room and sat down to think over the situation. She did not wish to disobey her uncle; but Bernard Dane had no right to dispose of her as though she were a toy, a puppet in his hands. She would not endure it.

"Good heavens! how unjust!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "He did all in his power to make us care for each other, and now, when it is too late, he wants to separate us. He must be mad!"

As she sat there absorbed in reverie, a message came from Keith asking her to come out into the grounds. She made haste to obey the summons, and once out in the grounds together, they discussed the coming event.

"It is all arranged, my darling," he said, as he kissed the sweet red lips, "and in a few short hours you will belong to me, never to part on earth—never any more."

She had meant to tell him of her interview with Bernard Dane, and the old man's stern command that they should forget each other; but it seemed a pity to trouble him or cast a cloud upon his happiness. And, after all, Keith was his own master. So she held her peace and said nothing of her interview with her uncle; and thus she made a fatal mistake. Had she confided all to her lover, he would have demanded an explanation from Bernard Dane, and much unhappiness and suffering might have been prevented.

But what lover ever listened to reason? A vague uneasiness had stolen into Keith's heart; but he accounted for it by the peculiar circumstances in which they were placed, and resolved to say nothing that would trouble her.

He was happy—very happy—in the prospect of making Beatrix his wife so soon.

"Darling," he said softly, pressing the light form to his heart, "everything is arranged. We will drive out at three in the pony-carriage. We will go direct to Mr. Darrell's house—the clergyman who is a friend of mine—the license is already procured; nothing to wait for—not even the ring."

Drawing a tiny velvet case from his pocket he displayed a heavy gold band, and with it a glittering diamond.

"Here, sweetheart, let me put on the badge of your slavery," holding up the diamond as he spoke. Then with a swift glance into the lovely, downcast face he slipped the ring upon the third finger of her left hand. But Beatrix did not need a ring to remind her of her love for Keith.

Three o'clock found the two lovers seated in the carriage on their way to the clergyman's house. A little later Beatrix Dane came forth, Beatrix Dane no longer, but Mrs. Kenyon. How different everything seemed! the whole world was metamorphosed to her eyes. She glanced into Keith's face with a look of wordless love.

"Oh, Keith," she whispered, softly, "I am so happy!"

It was the last time that such words were destined to pass her lips for many a dark and dreadful day. They reached home, and Beatrix went straight to her room. She wanted to be alone and think over her new-found happiness. She gazed upon the wedding-ring on her finger as she hid the marriage-certificate away safely in her desk.

"My husband!" she whispered, softly. "Nothing can part us now—nothing but death! No one can come between us now—never while we live!"

Hark! what is that? The sound of voices—women's voices—fell upon her ears.

It was Serena and her mother in an empty room adjoining Beatrix's chamber. They had gone there for a private conference, and did not dream that she would overhear.

"Mamma,"—Beatrix heard Serena's sibilant voice, and a shudder passed over her—"I know all the whole fearful secret at last, and Beatrix Dane will never marry Keith Kenyon now. I know the nature of the awful curse which descends from Mildred Dane upon her child, which was originally transmitted from Mildred Dane's South American ancestors, and I no longer envy Beatrix her beauty. Better be the ugliest woman in the land than the thing she is! I would not exchange my plain face, were it ten times plainer, for Beatrix Dane's glorious beauty. Mother, listen, and do not faint or cry out. This is the bad, black secret: Mildred Dane inherited the awful plague of leprosy, and from her it descends to her child, Beatrix Dane!"

CHAPTER XIX.

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.

CHAPTER XX.

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.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE NEXT DAY.

Keith awoke the next morning with a strange feeling of peace and quiet in his heart—a sensation as though he had anchored at last, and all his life would henceforth lie through pleasant ways.

"My little wife!" he murmured, fondly. "I shall go to Uncle Bernard this morning and tell him of the step I have taken. I shall break the news of my marriage to him at once and have it all over. Surely he can not in his heart object, since that was once his dearest wish—his pet scheme. I wonder why he changed his mind in regard to the projected marriage between Beatrix and myself," the young man went on thoughtfully as he performed his toilet. "It is a mystery to me. Yet Uncle Bernard is very eccentric, and I need not be surprised at anything that he may do or say. Oh! how happy we shall be—my darling and I! And if Uncle Bernard is really displeased, I will take her away, and we will find some pretty little cottage down-town, and I will get a position somewhere and work for my darling—my little wife!"

As the last words passed his lips his eyes fell upon an object, the sight of which made him frown. He was standing near the window, and the object which had attracted his attention was Serena Lynne walking in the grounds outside. She was dressed in black—all in deep black—and her face was very pale, and wore upon it a look which Keith Kenyon had never seen there before.

"I wonder when those women are going to leave?" he exclaimed, half aloud. "I am tired of the sight of them, and Serena is a bitter enemy of my darling; I feel sure of that. Dear little Beatrix, how can any one dislike her? She is the sweetest-tempered, gentlest little girl in the whole round world!"

At breakfast he looked anxiously for Beatrix; but there was no sign of her; she did not make her appearance. Old Bernard Dane looked uneasy. He rang the bell, and Mrs. Graves appeared.

"Send to Miss Dane's room," he commanded, "and see if she is ill, or why she does not come to breakfast. Beatrix is an early riser," he added, glancing at Keith.

"A very good trait," observed that young man, promptly.

"Oh, yes, to be sure," intervened Serena, with a sneer in her voice which she could not repress to save her life. "Everything Beatrix does is perfection. She has not a single fault!"

"Very true," responded Keith, gravely, looking the irate lady directly in the face. "She certainly has never been guilty of sneering over the absent or traducing people behind their backs!"

Serena's face grew crimson over the reproof, which was certainly well merited. She turned to Bernard Dane.

"My mother and I expect to start for the North to-morrow," she announced. "You have been very kind to us, Mr. Dane, and we are very grateful. Our business here is ended, and—"

She did not finish. The door of the breakfast-room was thrown open, and Mrs. Graves crossed the threshold, looking as pale as if she had just seen a ghost.

"Mr. Dane, oh, Mr. Dane, Miss Beatrix is not here and her bed was not slept in last night! Everything in the room is as usual, only a small hand-bag and some of her plainer clothing are missing. And, if you please, sir, I found this upon the dressing-table."

This was the letter which poor Beatrix had left there addressed to Keith Kenyon.

Pale and trembling with indefinable horror, Keith broke the seal and read these words:

"Keith,—My own, I am going to leave you. With all my heart and soul I love you, but I am going to leave you forever. There is a reason—a bad, black, bitter reason. I can not—dare not write or speak of that now. You will know all too soon, and when you know, your heart will break, as mine has. Do not seek me; I shall be in the very last place that you will think of searching for me. You would as soon think of looking for me alive in the dark and dreary tomb as in the place that is to be my hiding-place hereafter. I have done no wrong, my darling, only in becoming your wife. If I could I would devote all my life, every moment of it, to you, and to making you happy; but fate, cruel and relentless fate, has decreed otherwise, and we must part, never to meet again on earth. I love you with all my heart, but—good-bye. Yours,

"Beatrix."

He read the letter over and over until he knew it by heart, his face as white as the face of a dead man, his eyes full of piteous suffering. Then he arose from the table, the letter clinched in one cold hand, his form shaking like a leaf.

"Uncle Bernard,"—in a low, tremulous voice—"may I see you alone in the library?"

Old Bernard Dane went straight over to the buffet and poured a wine-glassful of brandy from a cut-glass decanter which stood there. He held it to Keith's lips.

"Drink that, my boy," he said, in a kindly tone. "You look done up. Now come to the library. I am at your service."

As the door of the breakfast-room closed behind the two, Serena's eyes met her mother's gaze, and a smile of triumph coiled her thin lips.

"He leaves us out of the private conference," she said in a cold, metallic voice, "and the foolish boy does not dream that we know more about this mysterious flitting than he does. Mamma, you look surprised. Why, did you not know that when I read that letter aloud to you last night, Beatrix Dane was in the next room and heard every word? It is her sleeping-room, and she was there, and heard every word that I read. I meant that she should."

"Serena!"

Even Mrs. Lynne was horrified at this heartless announcement.

"It is true, mamma—as true as gospel!" she returned, harshly. "It was the best way to let her know; and it is quite time that she should know. I have been sharp and shrewd, for I have nipped this affair between her and Keith in the bud. The day will come when Keith will be grateful to me that he found out everything before it was too late. He is awfully cut up now, but he is a man, and men get over such things in the course of time—some of them in an exceedingly short time—and then he will come back to me—back to the woman who has sympathized with him through all his sorrows. One thing troubles me, however. I would like to know what she wrote him, how much she has told him, and all about it. I must know!"

An hour later Serena encountered Keith Kenyon in the entrance hall. At sight of his face she fell back with a cry of horror. It was awfully ghastly, white, and drawn and convulsed with suffering; his eyes were dark and dilated; he shook like a decrepit old man.

"Oh, Keith!" she cried, pausing and laying her hand on his arm, "what, in Heaven's name, is the matter? Are you grieving over poor Beatrix? Well, she has gone away, and it was all that she could do, poor child! One can not help pitying her from the depths of one's heart. Tell me, Keith, have you heard all? Has Mr. Dane told you all the awful truth concerning poor Beatrix?"

Keith bowed his head slowly, and a look of heart-break crept into his eyes.

"He has told me all," he moaned, "and I—Oh, I can not speak of it now!"

"But, Keith,"—her voice full of triumph which she can not restrain—"you should be glad that you found it out in time to prevent future sorrow to you both."

His eyes rested upon the woman's hard, cold face, and he covered his own with his hands.

"You are mistaken," he said in a voice which did not sound like his own, "the warning came too late. Beatrix and I were married yesterday, Serena; she is my own dear wife."

CHAPTER XXII.

SISTER ANGELA.

The moments came and went, and still that slight figure lay upon the hospital steps, the small face as white and rigid as though she were dead. It was very early, and the old physician in charge had not yet made his appearance at the hospital, and the wretched inmates dared not venture forth into the street where Beatrix Dane had fallen in that death-like swoon.

Six o'clock chimed forth from a distant steeple, and the sun was lying warm and bright across the girl's pallid face, when a light footstep sounded upon the path, and a woman bent over the girl's prostrate figure—a Sister of Charity—one of those good and holy women who spend their lives in working for others in His holy name, and who alone of all others keep themselves "unspotted from the world."

The sister passing by, on her way to a certain charitable institution, had caught sight of the girl lying upon the hospital steps, and her gentle heart had prompted her to stop and inquire what was the matter. She stooped and peered eagerly into the girl's beautiful white face. The great dark eyes were closed, and she was, to all appearances, dead.

But Sister Angela had seen too much suffering in her life—too many cases similar in some respects to Beatrix Dane's, but not exactly like hers, for surely there was never another such experience in the world.

Sister Angela uttered a cry of dismay.

"The poor child! She is young and fair. She has fainted from exhaustion, or what is more likely, she is in deep trouble. Oh, yes, it is trouble that breaks us down sooner than anything else! It is far worse and more fatal in its effects than the most severe illness. Sickness of the heart—ah, that is incurable!"

Sister Angela lifted the girl's head upon her breast, and pushed aside the veil from the white face to give her air. A faint sigh passed the poor girl's lips, and consciousness seemed slowly struggling back to her. She opened her sad, dark eyes, and they met the pitying gaze of Sister Angela's blue ones.

"Where am I?" moaned the girl, lifting her head. "Uncle Bernard—Keith—oh, my God!"

And the dreadful truth rushed over her memory like a flood, and the golden head drooped once more, and an awful pallor overspread the girlish face. Sister Angela thought she was going to faint again.

"My dear," she said in her soft, persuasive voice, "you are ill and in trouble. Tell me where to take you. I will see you safely to your home and friends."

"Home?"—her voice full of bitterness—"I have no home. Friends? Is there such a thing as a friend—a real friend—in the whole world?"

"If we find none here on earth, there is always One above us, my child," the sister answered, softly. "We must turn to Him for comfort in our sorrow. Nobody else can help us, believe me, dear."

"Who are you?"

"I am Sister Angela; a Sister of Mercy, you know."

"Mercy?" The girl's voice rang out in a bitter cry. "There is no mercy, none, for such as I. Oh, sister—sister, tell me what to do. I am a lost wretch, lost forever. Not in the sense that you think," she added, swiftly, noticing the expression which dawned upon the calm face of the sister. "I have done no intentional wrong, committed no crime; but I have married a good man, and have brought ruin upon his whole life. Listen to my story. It is brief. I married him, and then afterward, when it was too late, I learned that a dreadful fate is in store for me; that I am by inheritance—a dark inheritance, indeed—tainted with leprosy."

"My child!"

The sister's voice trembled perceptibly.

"Surely you do not realize what you are saying!"

"It is true—all true," Beatrix went on swiftly. "I heard the truth, the awful truth, under such circumstances that I can not doubt it. And all the surroundings of my daily life prove that my only relative knew all the time the evil that threatened me, but for some reason—perhaps through mistaken kindness, he failed to let me know the worst. Sister, I am accursed!"

Sister Angela shook her head slowly.

"My dear, nobody is so accursed that the love and pity of the Father of all can not reach them. But I have had experience with this loathsome disease, and I see no indications of it in you as yet. Suppose that you come with me? My child, I do not advise you to enter this hospital, if that was your intention. And Doctor Davis will probably refuse to receive you, since there are no signs of the disease visible upon you. He would refuse you admittance; and, besides, the daily sight of these poor wretches in this pest-house would drive you mad. My dear, be advised by me. I am used to suffering of all kinds, and I say come with me, under my protection. I am attached to an institution for the sick and suffering. You are far from well; I will have you cared for, and when you feel better you may assist me in the sick wards. There is always work for willing hands and a strong young body. And all the time we will watch you narrowly, and when the dark day comes—if God sees fit that it should come to you—and we discover that this awful affliction has really befallen you, we will help you to bear it. And then—not until then, you shall be sent to this refuge. Will you take my advice?"

Beatrix lifted her tear-filled eyes to the saint-like face.

"God must have sent you to me, sister," she sobbed. "I will go with you, and may God forever bless you!"

She arose with some difficulty, for she was very weak. The sister put her strong arm about the slender waist, and taking Beatrix's hand-bag in the other hand, led the girl away. As they turned their backs upon the gloomy old building, Beatrix shuddered.

"I think it is no sin to pray that God will take me away before I am doomed to enter there," she said, softly.

Sister Angela sighed.

"We will hope for the best," she returned, "and—"

The words died on her lips.

Beatrix had come to a sudden pause, grasping the sister's arm in a fierce grip, her eyes dilated with horror.

"See!" she panted, brokenly. "Must I—oh, pitying Father!—must I ever be like that?"

They were passing the grounds that surrounded the lepers' hospital, unkempt and straggling, with a mournful air of melancholy pervading them. Of what use to furnish pleasing sights to attract these doomed wretches?

Accursed, accursed, with nothing to live for, and small hope in the afterward! Peering at them with curious eyes from behind a ragged clump of shrubbery, a wild-looking creature stood, not many feet away from them. It was a sight to be remembered while Beatrix Dane had life. Good heavens! was that horrible caricature of a human being alive? And yet, this woman—for the creature resembled a woman—might have been pretty some day, even as she had once been young.

For a moment Beatrix stood like one petrified, an awful horror in her eyes, which were riveted upon the dreadful sight, her limbs shaking like an old person with the palsy.

Sister Angela spoke at last in a low, trembling voice.

"My dear, I would not look at—at it," she said, gently. "Do not fear. You will never be like that; I am sure of it. That woman is old, and you, my poor child! will not live to be old, I am sure of it, after that affliction comes upon you. And, dear, only think, God may have pity and take you away before that time comes."

Beatrix started, and a little hope flashed into her eyes.

"Sister, do you think that it would be very, very wrong, under my peculiar circumstances, to—to take my own life? I have nothing to live for."

"My dear!" Sister Angela's voice rang out in wild distress. "Never think of such a thing again," she cried. "Oh, believe me, my dear, you had better suffer all the sorrows of this life, and bear all its burdens in patience, knowing that, after the cross, the crown. But suicide is an unpardonable sin in the eyes of God. Never think of it again, my dear, I beg of you. Now, lean on me and I will take you to the car; we will go straight to the home to which I am taking you—a home that God has provided for you. There you will find rest for the present and work for the future, and God will help you to bear your burden, my poor child."

CHAPTER XXIII.

SERENA'S NEW SCHEME.

If ever a man lived in the world with a broken heart, Keith Kenyon was the man. He was utterly prostrated; life seemed at an end to him; he had no hope, no ambition. The woman he loved—his own dear wife—was gone from him forever, and with an awful curse resting upon her life, an inheritance of woe which was liable to descend upon her head at any moment. And she had gone from him, gone in all the bitterness of her awful anguish out into the cold world—where? He could not, dared not think. Suppose that she had taken her life into her own hands? That she was even now lying at the bottom of the Mississippi, that great and mighty stream which has borne away upon its ceaseless current so many of the heart-broken creatures of this world, who, weary of life, and tired of its heavy burdens, cast themselves into the murky waters of the river, and their souls are hurried before their Maker, there to account for the wrong-doing of their lives.

At first Keith was in a sort of lethargy of despair. He sat for hours in his room, never moving, never looking up—sitting with his head upon his hand, buried in deep thought, awful, anguish-stricken. To all appearances he was dead to the things of this world, and oblivious of all that was taking place.

In his own room old Bernard Dane lay upon a sick-bed; he had given up and taken to his bed when the news of Beatrix's disappearance was first announced, and he seemed likely never to arise. The days went by, and Mrs. Lynne and Serena still lingered at the Dane mansion, which was in reality a house of mourning now.

Poor Mrs. Graves was quite at her wits' end in all this trouble, and she had begged the Lynnes to remain. As this was just what Serena fully intended doing, it was, of course, easily arranged.

On the morning of the day after Beatrix's flight from the Dane mansion, Keith came into his uncle's room, and sat down beside the bed.

"Uncle Bernard," he began, "I must try to find her. The shock of her disappearance has been so great—so overwhelming—that I have been benumbed. I feel like one groping in the dark, but now I am awake, and I see that the child may be in great danger. I must search for her, and find her, if she is living; if not—if she is dead—I will go away—away from Louisiana forever."

The old man uttered a cry of distress.

"Keith! Keith, my boy!" he moaned. "You will surely not do that? You would not go, and leave the old man to die alone? Oh, Heaven! what have I done that I should be punished so, and deserted in my old age?"

The words touched Keith's heart, and made it ache. He seized the old man's wrinkled hand and pressed it warmly.

"No, Uncle Bernard," he said, slowly, "I will not go and leave you—I will never leave you while you live. But I must search for Beatrix—I must know whether she is living or dead. If she is still alive, I must know where she is, and she must be provided for. You will help me, Uncle Bernard?"

"I will, my boy—I will, indeed. We will devote our lives to that end. We have wasted precious time already. Go at once, Keith. Ah, if I were well, and able to accompany you!"

Keith left the house, his mind absorbed with the one hope of finding his lost darling, poor, heart-broken child! His first step was to insert advertisements in all the daily papers—a few words.

"Beatrix, come home. No matter what may come, I will protect you.

K."

But, alas! poor Beatrix was destined never to see the advertisements; and even had she seen them she would not have obeyed the request, for she dared not risk the lives of other people in that reckless fashion. Keith's next step was to place the matter in the hands of a skilled detective. Then, impelled by a strange intuition, he visited the lepers' hospital. For well he knew Beatrix Dane and her high-strung, sensitive nature; and the conviction had crept into his heart that she would fly to this refuge, believing herself accursed, and intuition, as is apt to be the case, was correct in this instance. Yet, as we already know, Keith was destined to fail in his search.

The old physician in attendance at the hospital was, of course, in perfect ignorance of the existence of Beatrix, and so relieved Keith's anxiety upon that score, for it seemed to him that the knowledge that Beatrix was incarcerated in that horrible place would kill him outright.

He returned home heartsick and despairing, yet conscious of a feeling of gratitude and relief that he had not found her there. He repeated to old Bernard Dane the result of his search, and the old man wept bitter tears. He was very weak and childish now; all the old harshness had disappeared forever, and he was not at all like the hard-hearted old man he had been so short a time ago.

"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.

And so Serena laid her plot, and went to work with a will. She must have money, for her funds were nearly exhausted, and her mother was not much better off. Real poverty stared them in the face. And here, right before her, was the possibility of retrieving her fallen fortunes and securing a grand home for herself and her mother.

And better than all else—to a narrow nature like hers—it would be opening a road to the ruin of Keith Kenyon, and to wreak upon him a dire and speedy vengeance. He would not love her; he would not make her his wife; he had discarded her for the pretty face of another woman; had cast her off coldly. Well, she would marry old Bernard Dane and possess the great Dane fortune. Then Mr. Keith Kenyon might look out for himself. To a nature like Serena Lynne's, this was a glorious triumph.

She little dreamed how, in the dark days to come, she would bitterly regret having ever made this decision.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN UNEXPECTED DECLARATION.

In a white bed in a darkened room at the institution to which Sister Angela belonged, poor Beatrix lay moaning and tossing in pain. For she was stricken down with brain fever, and there seemed to be small hope of her recovery.

She had not told Sister Angela her name, therefore no one at the institution was able to identify her; and although the physician in charge of Beatrix saw the advertisement which Keith had inserted in the newspapers, how could he guess that the Beatrix who was implored to return to K was the very patient in whom the physician was becoming strangely interested? All that he did know concerning her history was what Sister Angela had repeated to him; and of course the information was meager enough; for in her misery poor Beatrix had not felt inclined to confide absolutely. But the physician saw for himself how beautiful the girl was, and that she was a refined and delicate lady, and his interest grew and flourished.

Sister Angela confided in Doctor Darrow the outlines of the girl's case as far as she herself knew, that is, in regard to her strange inheritance. Doctor Darrow's face grew pale as death, and his gray eyes dilated with horror until they were as dark as night.

"It can not be possible!" he exclaimed. "It seems incredible! We will keep her secluded from every one else here, and I will study her case in my spare moments. You are aware that I am devoting myself to the study of this horrible disease, and this will be a grand opportunity to test some of my theories in regard to the matter. Heaven help her, poor child! And she is so young and beautiful. I wonder where her home is, and who she is?"

But Beatrix, in her delirium, raved in such incoherent phrases that no one could find a clew to her identity, her name, or former home. It was all about the sorrow of a parting—a parting from some loved one—which she expressed in her wild ravings; and although Douglas Darrow passed nearly all his time at her bedside, he could find nothing tangible to guide him in a search for the friends of the unfortunate girl. Douglas Darrow was young and handsome—an enthusiast in his profession; he was all alone in the world, and the possessor of a fair fortune. He grew deeply interested in his mysterious patient, and ere he had realized the truth he found himself crossing the boundary that separates friendly interest from the fatal passion of love. But poor Beatrix, tossing in wild delirium upon her white bed, was deaf and blind to everything around her. To human eyes it seemed better for her to pass away now, and drift down the dark river of death into the great unknown. But the Father, who guides and directs us, had His own plans for her future, and so poor Beatrix did not die.

She struggled back to consciousness one day, and as the great dark eyes opened slowly they fell upon the face of Doctor Darrow, who was seated at her bedside.

"Keith!" she faltered, trying to arise, but the effort was too much, and her head fell back upon the pillow and she fainted away. Her constitution seemed entirely broken down, and her long illness, preceded by that awful shock which had ruined her whole life, had left her weak to bear the heavy burden. Douglas Darrow soon restored her to consciousness, and administered a sleeping potion. She sank, at last, into a refreshing slumber, and the young physician began to hope that she might be saved.

"If she awakens in her senses, with her reason unclouded," he said to Sister Angela, who stood gazing sadly down upon the weak little sufferer, "she will recover, I think—I am positive. But she must not have the least excitement; no questions must be asked her; she must not be annoyed in any way, or we will not be able to save her. Yet, after all," he went on tremulously, "it seems better that she should go now. Only think of the future in store for her!"

"Our Father in Heaven knows best," returned Sister Angela, softly; "we can afford to leave it all in His hands."

The young man turned aside with something like a sob.

"You are an angel!" he cried. "The world would be purer and better if there were more women like you."

When one looks about and sees the women of the world—the fashion-plates and simpering dolls of society—then turns to the pure white lives of those like Sister Angela, one can not fail to echo Douglas Darrow's words: "To visit the fatherless and the widow in their affliction, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." This was Sister Angela.

But with all her prudence and forethought, Sister Angela had forgotten to mention to the young physician the fact of Beatrix's marriage. And looking at the girl so young and childish, no one would be surprised that the fact had escaped her memory. And Sister Angela never once, in her unworldliness, remembered the proneness of young men to fall in love, and that love comes when least expected, and is as speedy of growth, ofttimes, as was Jonah's gourd, and, alas! sometimes withers as soon.

Beautiful, ephemeral love! Well, without it, life would be dreary enough, and surely it is given to mortals as a foretaste of Paradise, only there love will live without "the immeasurable sadness which it too often has on earth."

Slowly Beatrix recovered. She felt no desire to live, for what was there to live for on earth? But as is so often the case when a sick person cares little for life, she grew daily stronger and better. Sister Angela was a devoted nurse, and Doctor Darrow seemed only to exist in Beatrix's presence, yet all that he knew of her history was that her name was Beatrix.

When at last she was able to sit up and amuse herself, one of the attendants brought her some magazines, wrapped in a copy of one of the daily papers—now a month old. Beatrix turned the paper over with listless fingers, and was about to lay it aside when her eyes fell upon a notice—the very advertisement which Keith had inserted. With wild, dilated eyes Beatrix read the advertisement to the end; then, with a low cry, she bowed her head upon her hands and burst into tears. There was the sound of a firm footstep; a moment later Douglas Darrow bent over her and took her wasted form in his arms.

"Beatrix, Beatrix!" he whispered, "look up and hear what I have to say. You must not shed tears, my beautiful darling! Oh, Beatrix, I love you so! Come to me, and be my wife. I can not live without you! I will shield you from all ill, and if suffering must come upon you, I will devote my life trying to alleviate your suffering. Tell me, Beatrix, will you try to care for me? I am twenty-eight years old, but I have never really loved any woman before; and I would lay down my life to call you mine. Answer me, darling; will you try to love me a little?"