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.