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.