Her Dark Inheritance

by Mrs. E. Burke Collins

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.