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.