CHAPTER XXXII.
A DEATH BED.
Beatrix rose from her seat at her husband's side and left the room in obedience to Doctor Darrow. Entering the ward where Mrs. Ray was lying, she went to the bedside and seated herself in a chair that stood near. The sick woman's eyes were wide open and fixed upon her face with an eager look of inquiry, as though longing to ask a question which, after all, she feared to put into words. Beatrix bent over the woman's pillow, and her eyes rested kindly upon the white, pain-distorted face.
"You wished to see me, Doctor Darrow says," Beatrix began at once.
A look of eager interest flashed over the sunken features, and one cold hand grasped the girl's arm in a vise-like grip. Her eyes glowed with a wild, supernatural light, her breath came and went in feeble, fitful gasps pitiful to witness.
"Yes—yes; I want to see you. I always want to see you," she panted, brokenly. "Come—come here. There, child, kneel down beside me where I can see your dear face; and—and take me in your arms, Beatrix, won't you? You will surely not refuse my last request?"
"No, indeed. If I can ease your pain in any way, or do anything for you, I will be so glad."
Beatrix had fallen upon her knees, and pillowed the poor head upon her breast. Something—a strange, unaccountable feeling of something like affection crept into the girl's heart as the worn cheek came in contact with her own.
"What is it?" she asked, softly; "tell me."
Celia Ray's eyes studied the beautiful face.
"It seems strange," she said, softly, after a long survey of every feature, "that you should be so beautiful. Your father is—was, I mean—anything but handsome; and your mother—"
"My mother was a beautiful woman," interrupted Beatrix, hastily. "I have seen her portrait. She was far too lovely to have been my mother."
A strange expression crept over Celia Ray's worn face. She opened her lips as though to speak, but no words passed them.
"Beatrix," she said, softly, after a slight pause, "I have sent for you to ask you to do me a favor. I—I have something serious—of the greatest importance—to say, a confession to make. Will you see that I have a notary and necessary witnesses? This that I wish to say is most important; it must be placed upon paper."
"But"—Beatrix strove to be cheerful—"you will get well, Mrs. Ray. Doctor Darrow says that—"
"Doctor Darrow has acknowledged to me that my chances are small," interrupted Celia, hastily. "And, in any case, I must make this confession. It should have been made long ago, to try and set right a deadly wrong. Beatrix,"—wistfully—"you do not despise or dislike me, do you? You have nothing against me, have you, dear?"
Beatrix looked the surprise which she could not speak.
"I? Good heavens, no! I scarcely know you."
A look of disappointment and pain, which was not all physical, crept over the white, sunken face.
"Small wonder!" she muttered, under her breath; "and whose fault is it, after all?" Then, aloud, she added, eagerly, "I—I wanted to talk to you about this; that was the reason why I did not send for Doctor Darrow. He is good, but, then, he is nothing to me, after all. I am, of course, only one of his patients to him; he feels no personal interest in me or my fate. Beatrix, you will care, you will have some affection for me? Don't look so surprised. I—I knew your mother. I saw you when you were a babe. Many a time I have held you in my arms, for I was your nurse, you know. I was selected to rear you, and also Keith—dear Keith! And now you are his wife? Well, that is as it should be. You did not know that I had nursed you," she went on swiftly, smiling feebly at the look of astonishment upon Beatrix's face; "but Bernard Dane knew, and he will tell you that I am speaking truly. You will send a notary to me, will you not?" she cried, her voice rising shrill and troubled.
Beatrix rose.
"You shall have whatever you wish," she returned. "I will go at once and attend to it."
"Beatrix."
"Yes, dear."
"Will you kiss me?"
No answer; Beatrix turned away. Even though this woman was dying, the girl shrank in her own sensitive way from pressing her lips to those which contagion was powerless now to injure.
"I—can not," she responded. "Mrs. Ray, you do not know—I—am forbidden to kiss any living creature, even my own."
A strange light flared into the sunken eyes.
"God forgive me!" she muttered; "for I alone am responsible for all this."
But before Beatrix could speak an awful spasm of pain seized the woman, and for a few moments it seemed as though the life would leave the frail, pain-racked frame. But after a time the paroxysm passed, and very still and pale, Celia Ray lay back upon the pillow, her eyes closed, her breath coming and going in panting gasps. She opened her eyes at last and fixed them upon Beatrix's face with an eager look, a devouring expression that made the girl's heart throb with a strange sensation which she had never before experienced.
"I have never before felt so strange an influence," Beatrix said to herself, as she met the look of hungry affection from the sunken eyes.
Celia lifted one feeble hand with a gesture toward the door. Beatrix understood.
"I am going now for the notary," she responded at once. "Do you think that you are strong enough to attend—to—see him?"
"Yes, yes. I must be, I will be. It is a matter of vital importance, life or death. Go at once, my child."
There was a strange note of wistful tenderness in the poor, feeble voice—something which touched an answering chord in Beatrix's breast and made her feel strangely sad. She left the room at once, and finding Doctor Darrow, told him of Mrs. Ray's wish to see a notary. The physician looked grave.
"That there is something of great and serious importance upon her mind, I have no doubt," he said, "for I have watched her closely. I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that it is that which retards her recovery. Yet, after all, her recovery is very uncertain; I fear it is out of the question for her, poor soul! I will send a notary and two witnesses," he added, hastening away.
Half an hour later a grave, elderly man entered the ward where Celia Ray lay still and weak, waiting for him to come.
Writing materials were soon brought, and the work began. In a low but perfectly distinct voice, Celia Ray repeated the statement which she wished the notary to transcribe. It took some time, and it was late in the evening before it was concluded, and the paper signed, witnessed, and properly sealed. Then the notary arose to go. The sick woman sighed wearily.
"Give me the document!" she cried, eagerly.
It was placed in her hand.
"Now send for Beatrix!" she demanded, in a loud, shrill tone. "And in the morning—the first thing in the morning—I must see Bernard Dane. I will not have him disturbed tonight, for he is old and does not sleep well. I will wait until morning."
Even in dying, the poor creature studied, first of all the comfort of this man so dearly loved, and who had wrecked her life. But alas! when morning came, poor Celia was gone, and Bernard Dane would never look into her eyes or hear her voice again. She passed away quietly about midnight. The trained nurse sat at her bedside.
"I want Beatrix!" she cried, lifting her head from the pillow. "Send her to me; I need her. It is so dark—so dark and cold! I will hold her hand, and then I shall not be so lonely."
So Beatrix was summoned from her bed, where she had gone, for Doctor Darrow had insisted upon her taking a good night's rest, as it did not seem likely that she would be needed that night.
She came to the bedside of the dying woman. As soon as her eyes fell on the gray, pinched face, Beatrix knew that Celia Ray's journey here was nearly done.
"What can I do for you?" she cried eagerly.
Celia opened her feeble arms.
"Come to me, my baby!" she cried. "Come to the one who has loved you so! Beatrix the clouds are lifting from your life; you will soon be very happy. Tell me, do you hate Serena?"
Beatrix shuddered.
"No; I hate no one," she returned gravely. "It is very wrong to do so. Let us hope that Serena will be sorry for what she has done."
"She will never be sorry—never, until she dies!" panted the dying woman, wildly. "I know her; she is a wicked, cruel woman. She has tried to break your heart, my darling; for she hated you for your beauty, and because Keith Kenyon loved you. She is hard and heartless, cruel and vindictive—a wicked woman—and she deserves her downfall. Beatrix, here is the paper that the notary executed to-night, also some other papers of great importance. I leave all with you. You will open them one month after I am dead. By that time, so Doctor Darrow says, Keith will be fully restored to his former strength and health, and I—shall be forgotten in my lonely grave."
"No, no!" sobbed Beatrix, a strange, desolate feeling touching her tender heart with a pang of suffering, a curious sensation that in some way this woman's life, sad, lonely, ever reaching out for something, one thing unattainable, was in some way connected with her own, "you shall not be forgotten. I will do all that I can."
"I understand. Then my baby will go to see the lonely grave sometimes where poor Celia sleeps—even the name upon the stone a false one. Listen, child; I am not poor, and what I have is all for you."
"But your sister, Mrs. Lynne—" began Beatrix, hurriedly.
"She has never been a sister to me," panted the dying woman, wildly; "and I have carefully concealed from her the secret of my life, because she was not fit to share it. But no matter now; the papers will tell you all. Now I am tired and must sleep. Kiss me, Beatrix; I am dying, and I am—your—"
She strove hard with a mighty struggle to speak another word, but the rigid lips refused to give it utterance. The word which was not spoken in life could never be spoken in death. Beatrix stooped and kissed her. She smiled sweetly and so, smiling, died.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
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 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 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. 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 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.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A MARTYR.
"Fire! fire! fire!"
The ominous cry rang forth through the silence of the night, and instantly there was a response. Close to Beatrix's side a slight form glided swiftly through the thick black smoke, with red-hot tongues of flame licking hungrily at her as she passed. A hand caught Beatrix's arm, and a voice cried wildly:
"Child! child! where are you going?"
Beatrix turned to meet the frightened eyes of Sister Angela.
"I am going to Keith—to my husband," she answered, trying to calm her voice so that the sister could hear her above the roar of the flames. "Ah, there is Doctor Darrow! Doctor, save those poor people below, if possible!" she went on wildly.
"My work is here!"
Douglas Darrow came to her side, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. There was a strange expression upon his face, and his lips moved slowly, as though he were speaking in a whisper; but the words reached her ears.
"God bless and help you!" he said, hastily; and then he moved rapidly away, and Beatrix threw open the door of her husband's chamber.
Over the threshold she darted to the bedside, and stooping, she shook the sleeping man with all her strength.
"Keith! Keith!" she cried, wildly. "Wake up, my darling! The house is on fire, and I have come to save you!"
His dark eyes flew open with a dazed expression.
"Yes—yes," he faltered.
"Come, Keith, come!" She lifted him in her arms and drew him up to a sitting position. "See!" she cried; "the flames are approaching us, and we shall be cut off from all hope of safety. Come, my darling!"
He arose and dressed himself in a moment. The fire was making fearful headway. How it had originated no one could say; but it had the whole building in its awful clutches, and it was evident that it must be consumed.
Below stairs, Doctor Darrow worked like a hero, doing all within his power to save the lives of the unfortunate sick people.
At last, after an hour's hard labor, aided by the gallant firemen and the assistants belonging to the Home, all the sick were safely removed to a neighboring house which happened to be vacant, and whose doors were burst open for the purpose by Doctor Darrow.
In the midst of the bustle and confusion, the din and uproar, the shrieks of the terrified patients, the shouts of the firemen, and cheers from the crowd gathered outside, assisting with all the ardor of a New Orleans crowd, warm-hearted and sympathetic, ready to do anything for their suffering fellow-creatures, Doctor Darrow forgot even Beatrix, and knew not what had taken place.
Sister Angela, too, was fully occupied. She flitted through the smoke-filled rooms like an angel of light, helping, cheering—a very angel, indeed. The good spirits were ever with her; the sweet, pale face looked like the face of a saint.
One by one, she brought down and out into safety the children connected with the institution, for there was a large ward set apart for little ones; and of all the sufferers, old and young, not one perished from that night's awful work. None were called from this life to the life to come but one who was well prepared—even Sister Angela.
When the children were all carried forth, as was believed, it occurred to her that there was one still left within the burning building—a poor, puny little creature who had been removed from the children's ward to Sister Angela's own room—a tiny little closet at the very top of the house. In the excitement of that awful night, Sister Angela had rushed to the rescue of the little ones, and had quite forgotten the sickly little babe sleeping soundly in its cradle away up in the attic.
When all the children had been removed and the little creatures marshaled together in the big empty house opposite, one alone was found to be missing—the little one placed under the care of Sister Angela.
"The baby!" she cried, aghast. "Oh, what shall I do? It is up in my room!"
"My dear," returned the elderly sister who shared Sister Angela's labors, "I fear that it is too late, that nothing can be done. See, the whole house is wrapped in flames. I am sorry, Heaven knows, but I fear that we can do nothing."
"I must—I must at least try!" Sister Angela was wringing her hands frantically. "Oh, sister, I could not live and know that—that the child was intrusted to my care. God forbid that I should be the cause of a little child—one of Christ's little ones—losing its life!"
It seemed fanatical, for the babe was a sickly little creature, and could not live long at best; but the face of Sister Angela—white as marble—was set with a resolute look. It was evident that she would not be persuaded from her purpose.
"I must go!" she cried, wildly; "I dare not stay behind. Let me go, sister, and if—if I never come back, remember that I died in doing my duty!"
"May God and the saints have you in their holy keeping!" said the sister, solemnly. And the martyr disappeared within the flame-wrapped building. For a moment the sister gazed after the vanishing figure, then, white and horror-stricken, she started to follow her.
"I can not stand here quietly and see her go to certain death," she cried—"I can not do it."
But as she entered the burning house the black smoke engulfed her, and the fiery flames drove her back. Gasping, smothering, suffocating, she fought her way out into the open air once more, and fell in a huddled heap upon the ground in a dead swoon.
Through the horrible smoke and flames the heroic sister made her way. It seemed as if she would never reach the attic.
The stairs had not burned away; the fire seemed not to have reached them yet, and so she was able to toil slowly and painfully through the smoke up to the attic. It was a long and weary task, for the black smoke was thick and awful, and the red hot flames scorched her as she went. On—on! Was it hours or days since she started? On—on! The attic was reached at last, and blinded by the smoke, and gasping feebly for breath, Sister Angela threw open the door of her room.
The child was lying in its little cradle; it had just awakened, and was crying bitterly. The good sister flew to its side and lifted it in her arms. It was only a little babe—a sickly little creature, born of poor and unknown parents—but it was one of Christ's little ones, and this holy woman was about to die for its sake. She flew to the door of the room with the babe in her arms, held close to her breast, full of the divine mother-love which forms a part of the nature of all good women, and upon the threshold she came to a frightened halt. The smoke and flames filled the corridor, and beyond—beyond there loomed up a solid wall of fire, while smoke and flames wound around the doomed staircase and wrapped it in crimson folds.
For a moment the heroic woman stood, still holding the child in her arms—the child for whom and with whom she was about to die—her eyes fixed helplessly upon the flame-wreathed staircase, cut off from all hope. Then she went swiftly back to the room and over to the one window. She flung it open, and still clasping the child, stood there uttering piercing shrieks.
Some one heard her, and a ladder was swung up at once. Sister Angela drew forth her rosary, and with the child held close to her breast, began to pray, her face like the face of a saint reflected in the lurid light from the conflagration. The ladder was adjusted, but too late; the flames darted forth and seized it in deadly embrace. The whole house tottered now upon its foundations. Only the white face of the sister at the upper window, with the child in her arms. That picture will be remembered by those who saw it to their dying day. Only a poor, obscure Sister of Charity—a lowly life lived out amid the poor and the fallen and suffering. But who shall say that it was lived in vain?
And now another ladder was swung, but just as one of the brave and heroic firemen was about to step upon it and risk his own life, in a mad attempt to save the heroic woman above, the structure trembled violently, and the burning house gave way, the entire wing of the building falling with a horrible crash, and the white, saintly face at the upper window, with the babe upon her breast, the pale lips framing prayers, while the enraptured eyes gazed far above at that Heaven which she was so soon to enter, was seen no more—will never be seen again in this world.
Out in the cool night air Beatrix had managed to drag Keith, but at last he had fallen, faint and exhausted, to the ground, and Beatrix fell upon her knees at his side.
The first faint gleam of the early morning began to creep into the eastern sky, and still the crowd lingered about the smoking ruins, though there seemed no more to be done.
Beatrix was making up her mind to send for a cab in which to convey Keith to his home at old Bernard Dane's. It was the place for him to go, but she—she—must she seek refuge in that horrible place, the lepers' hospital, after all?
It was a grewsome thought, and as she realized what it meant to her and to Keith—the endless separation, the death in life—for the first time since she had learned of this awful sorrow, her own dark inheritance, the poor girl felt that she "could curse God and die!" And how could she know of the great good in store, the wonderful and unexpected blessing which God was about to bestow upon her? So it often is with us poor mortals. Just at the darkest hours of our lives the light is breaking, though hidden from our eyes.
At last Doctor Darrow, smoke-blackened and burned in several places, made his way to Beatrix's side. He gazed full into her face with a strange, intent look, as though seeking to read her very heart. From his lips there issued a low cry, which sounded like a cry of joy.
"God be praised!" he ejaculated. "Beatrix, listen to me: out of all this evil some good has come. You have been unconsciously subjected to the fire test, and you are burned, severely burned. Get down on your knees, and thank God for those scars, dear Beatrix, for they prove a glorious truth. Had you escaped from the fire uninjured, there would have been no doubt that the horrible scourge of leprosy existed in your system. But, Beatrix, Beatrix! you are badly burned, and—look up, dear friend—you are free from the taint of leprosy; there is no mistake!"
CHAPTER XXXV.
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."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
"ALL'S WELL."
There was silence in the room when Doctor Darrow finished his story—silence broken at length by Serena's cold, harsh voice.
"But that does not prove that Beatrix is exempt from the curse entailed upon her," she said, coarsely. "I consider her unfit to associate with other people until the exact truth is proved, and I decline to receive her here in my house. I will not expose myself and others to possible contagion. And, besides, the very thought of having such a horror under one's roof is not agreeable, I can tell you. I think, Doctor Darrow, that you, as a physician, would be better employed with something else, than in trying to impose a case like this upon Mr. Dane and myself!"
Doctor Darrow colored.
"I assure you, Mrs. Dane," he began, coldly, "that Mrs. Kenyon is free from the awful taint. You need not be uneasy."
But Serena only tossed her head with a sneer.
"I do not intend to be!" she cried. "Mrs. Kenyon is nothing to me. It does not matter to me what becomes of her. She has made trouble always where-ever she went. But she shall certainly not remain under my roof!"
"Mrs. Dane!"
Keith Kenyon came to Serena's side and gazed into her angry face with eyes full of calm contempt.
"You need say no more. My wife shall not trouble you, or infringe upon your hospitality any longer than is absolutely necessary, for she is not altogether penniless. Mrs. Ray bequeathed her little property to Beatrix."
"Aunt Celia!" Serena's voice rang out shrill and sharp. "Oh, no, Keith, that is impossible. She has always intended mamma to have her property; and mamma is her only relative, and according to law is entitled to the estate."
"Mrs. Ray's will says differently," returned Keith, coldly. "It matters little to us, however; we can exist without the legacy; but these are cold facts, Mrs. Dane, as I will prove to you at any time. But we will not trouble you now, or remain as unwelcome guests. Come Beatrix."
Bernard Dane sprang forward, pale and excited.
"No, you shall not go!" he cried. "This is my house; nay, more—it is yours, Beatrix. You shall not go. Do not mind what Serena says; you have more right here than she has!"
"Mr. Dane!" Serena's voice trembled with suppressed anger. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this!"
Old Bernard Dane faced the angry woman with unflinching eyes.
At that very moment Beatrix's slight form began to sway unsteadily, and she fell to the floor in a dead faint.
"Good heavens!" cried Bernard Dane, excitedly, "here we stand dickering over a foolish matter, and poor Beatrix is suffering. Doctor, her burns must be attended to at once. Mrs. Graves will help her to bed; she must be taken care of."
Doctor Darrow was already busily engaged in removing the scorched and tattered bodice of Beatrix's dress from about the beautiful white neck and arms. As he did so, a package of papers fell from the bosom of her dress to the floor. Bernard Dane stooped and picked them up. It was the package of papers which Celia Ray had intrusted to the care of Beatrix. As his eyes fell upon these papers the old man uttered a cry of surprise. Drawing his spectacles from his pocket, he put them on, and eagerly opened the package.
"Good heavens!" he ejaculated; then turning aside he sank into a seat and began to read the papers carefully.
He started up and faced Serena, pale and trembling.
"Listen!" he cried, in an awful voice, "and before you enact the rôle of grand lady and turn your betters from your doors, first find out if they are your doors. Serena Lynne, go home to your mother as soon as you see fit. You have no right here. You are not my wife!"
A horrible silence fell over the room, and over the astonished group. Unable to speak, Serena stood glaring into the old man's angry face.
"Explain, Uncle Bernard!" said Keith.
"I will. In the first place, I must confess my own crime. Years ago Celia Ray first began to care for me, but I was madly in love with Mildred Dane, and would not think of any other woman. Still, Celia continued to care for me, and her love lived as long as she did. It was the only unselfish affection ever bestowed upon me. But I was a villain; and although at last seeing that my love for Mildred was vain, I consented to make Celia my wife, secretly resolved that the marriage should not be legally solemnized. I have nothing to say in extenuation of my own villainy, only I have suffered since that time more pangs of conscience than enough to atone. Well, the marriage was gone through with, and she believed herself my wife. One child was born to us—a girl—who died in infancy. After a time I told her the truth—that we were not legally married, and that we had better separate. She went away, and for years we did not meet. And now she is dead, and it is too late to atone! But these papers prove, beyond a doubt, a surprising truth, which she knew for years, but was too proud to break to me. She only begged me never to marry, and trusted to my honor to keep my word. But here is the truth. Our marriage was legal! Here is every proof. Serena, you have never been my wife. The fortune for which you married me could not be yours, anyway, for the wealth in my possession was willed to me by Mildred Dane, as she inherited it from my relative, Godfrey Dane, and it was long ago given to Keith Kenyon by deed of gift."
Doctor Darrow was eagerly glancing over the papers in his hand. All at once he uttered a cry of surprise.
"Listen!" he panted, breathlessly. "Why, it is miraculous!"
And then he went on to read Celia Ray's dying confession. When Bernard Dane had taken poor Mildred and her child to the distant North, hoping to prolong her life for a time, Celia had followed them. It was Mildred's child that had died, and Celia had substituted her own in place of it. For she had falsely represented that it was dead, with the hope of bringing about a substitution some day.
So the truth dawned upon the group, and Beatrix, recovered from her swoon, listened with bated breath, and it seemed more than Bernard Dane could bear—this sudden change from grief to happiness. Beatrix was his own child—Celia Ray's little child! The tainted blood of Mildred Dane's ancestors did not flow in her veins. Every necessary proof accompanied Mrs. Ray's deposition—there was no room for doubt.
And so the black clouds rolled away from the lives of Beatrix and Keith, the two who had loved each other so devotedly, and who had so nearly been parted by an awful fate; and Beatrix thanked God that she had been permitted to cheer her dying mother's pathway to the grave.
Serena and Mrs. Lynne left New Orleans forever and returned to the North; but first Beatrix nobly settled upon them the little fortune which Celia Ray, her own mother—how strange it all seemed!—had bequeathed to her.
And now, as happy as mortals can be, Beatrix and Keith Kenyon live in the grand old Dane mansion with the old man whose wickedness had so nearly wrecked both their lives. He is a repentant old man now—good and kind to everybody. Doctor Darrow is a welcome visitor there, and a bonny boy with soft, dark eyes and golden hair is called Douglas Darrow Kenyon, while a golden-haired tot of three years—a veritable sunbeam—is named Angela. And every day of her life Beatrix Kenyon thanks God from the depths of her grateful heart for saving her from that fearful curse—her dark inheritance.
THE END.
Transcriber's Notes:
The original edition contained several pages of advertising at the end; these have not been reproduced here.
Retained some inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. bedside vs. bed-side).
Retained some inconsistent accents (e.g. role vs. rôle).
Page 146, changed "intervenes" to "intervened."
Page 155, changed "unkept" to "unkempt."
Page 214, changed "srange" to "strange."
Page 217, changed "wildy" to "wildly."