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.