Bacillus of Beauty: A Romance of To-day

by Harriet Stark

  CHAPTER III.

  "P. P. C."

  June 21, 19--.

  Helen and I were to have been married just a year ago. To-day I havebeen going over her own story of her life--of her meeting withDarmstetter, of the blight he cast upon her, of her growth inloveliness, her brief fluttering in the sunshine, her failure, hersupping with sorrow, her death.

  I must bring to a close the record of this miracle.

  This who was the most extraordinary woman that ever lived, was alsolittle Nellie Winship. Again as I remember her as she was--a thing ofsuch vital force that no man could be unmoved in her presence, of suchsupernal loveliness that words can never tell of it--again I feel thatI must be in an ugly dream. But this bit of paper, blotted with tearsand stained with wine and ashes, tells me that there was no mistake.

  She had seemed in high spirits that Sunday at the Bakers', though shewas tired when we returned to the studio. Mr. Winship and I made nostop. Pros. and Cadge were enjoying their brief honeymoon trip and soKitty and Helen were left together.

  Monday morning I went first to the rooms I had taken; Kitty was to bethere later, arranging our little furniture. She was to live with usfor a time and care for Nelly. But when I reached the office, there layon my desk a telegram.

  "Helen is ill; come," it read.

  Cadge met me at the studio door, white-faced, strangely, silentlygentle. From a tumbled heap among the cushions of the tepee came avoice like Kitty's, moaning. Cadge tried to speak, but could only pointto the little bedroom.

  There, in the straight white dress she wore at the wedding, Helen lay,as if sleeping, upon a couch. Floods of shining hair fell about hershoulders. In the white dignity of death her face was marvellous. Alltrace of stress and strain had left it, replaced by an enigmatic calm.She looked not merely beautiful, but Beauty's self vouchsafed to mortaleyes.

  I do not know how long I gazed. Vaguely, between Kitty's sobs, I heardthe ticking of a watch.

  "For another woman of such loveliness," at length said a reverent voicebehind me, "we must wait the final evolution of humanity."

  Dr. Upton, one of Reid's friends whom I had seen at the wedding, hadreached the house before me. He had been examining a glass, a spoon andsome other objects so quietly that I had not heard. He said that Helenhad been dead some hours.

  Mechanically I listened, but it was not until afterward that Iunderstood the full purport of his speech or of Kitty's story of thenight and morning. Their words reached me as if spoken from some greatdistance by the people who live in dreams.

  Kitty had come to us; she stood in the doorway, white and shaking.

  "Helen--Helen's head ached," she sobbed, "and she begged me to brushher hair, but when I began, she said it hurt, and told me to stop; thenshe fell to writing. I coaxed her to come to bed, for I thought she wasill; but she called me 'Kathryn' and then I knew I couldn't manage her.Oh, I was wicked, wicked; but I was afraid of her, always--you know. SoI--oh, how could I?--I fixed a screen against the light and lay down,meaning to try again in a few minutes; but the instant my head touchedthe pillow I must have dropped asleep. The last thing I said was:'Shall I tell Morphy you're coming?' I was so tired that I don't knowwhether she answered. And this morning--oh, I can't believe it; Oh,Helen, Helen!"

  "And this morning?" prompted Dr. Upton.

  "This morning when--when I waked and saw her on the couch, I wonderedwhy she hadn't come to bed; but I dropped a shawl over her and tiptoedout. It wasn't until half-past eight that I tried--oh, I can't! Ican't! Don't ask me!"

  Kitty's voice was lost in hysterical chokings.

  Dr. Upton handed me Helen's visiting card. Below the name was scrawled:"P. P. C."

  "It was found pinned to Miss Reid's bedspread," he said; "is that MissWinship's handwriting?"

  "Yes," I answered. The shaky letters were unrecognisable.

  "Don't you see! To say farewell," wailed Kitty. "She's done it ahundred times when she started for school before I was up. Barnard isso far. Oh, I can't bear it! How could you, Helen?"

  "Don't, Kitty," said Cadge, drawing her from the room.

  The doctor motioned me to a table behind the screen of which Kitty hadspoken. There Helen had sat, there lay her writing case, the key sealedin an envelope addressed to me. Picking up a slip of paper torn from aletter pad, he asked:--

  "Is this also Miss Winship's writing?"

  He held it out to me and I read the single line:--

  "Don't tell Father."

  Dazed, half-comprehending, I repeated: "Yes."

  Upton had found nothing else, except Helen's watch, open beside thewriting case, and a glass that still held a little sherry. At this helooked with sombre intelligence and set it carefully aside.

  Nothing in the room had been disturbed. Helen's chair had the look ofhaving been pushed from the table as she rose but a minute before. Nearit on an easel stood the Van Nostrand picture, smiling--smiling, as ifit had seen no tragedy. On the floor was a little ash as of charredpaper.

  In a few minutes Mrs. Reid and Kitty returned with Mr. Winship. Throughthe fog that enveloped me I saw with dull curiosity that they had toldhim something that he didn't understand.

  He could not believe Helen dead, but knelt by her side and coaxed herto wake, rubbing her fair, slender hands between his leathery palms andcalling her by every pet name of her childhood.

  "It's on'y your ol' Dad, Sis," he crooned. "Jes' come to fetch ye t'yer Ma; that's all. I know yer tired--plum tired out; but Ma 'n' me'lltake care on ye." It was pitiful to hear him.

  He desisted at last and looked back at us with a mien of anger.

  "Do suthin', some o' ye," he snarled, "'stid o' standin' round likegumps! Speak to me, Poppet; tell yer ol' Pap w'at ails ye. Fetch somehot water, you gals! Ain't ye got no sense? Rub her feet; an' herhands. Speak to me, Sissy--why don't ye?"

  As the truth slowly won over him, he straightened himself, one handstill clasping Helen's cold one.

  "It's sudden; sudden," he said. "Doctor, w'at ailed my little Nelly?"

  Still numbly inquisitive, I waited. The old man couldn't see the truth,the horrible truth. What would the doctor say?

  It was Cadge's voice that broke the silence; gentle, assured, yet witha note almost of defiance.

  "We think--in fact, Helen overstudied," she said. "We've been muchworried about her."

  Dr. Upton turned abruptly. Cadge's irregular, mobile face for once wasstill, its quiet demand bent full upon him. His answering look refusedher, but the effort was obvious with which he spoke to the broken manwaiting his verdict.

  "Miss Winship--your daughter--" he began.

  The words died. Cadge's steady black eyes controlled him.

  "Wa-al?"

  The doctor bowed his head over Helen. I was listening again to herwatch that ticked insistently. "Don't tell Father! Don't tell Father!"it said over and over, over and over, louder and louder, until thewords echoed from every corner of the room.

  They must hear! That was why she had left it!

  "I ast ye w'at ailed my little girl."

  "Cardiac asthenia--heart failure," said Dr. Upton, abruptly.

  Kitty threw herself upon Cadge, kissing her convulsively, while Mr.Winship persisted:--

  "Sis was first-rate yist'day; w'at fetched the attack on?"

  As gently as Cadge herself, Dr. Upton answered:--

  "Mr. Winship, your daughter wasn't so strong as she seemed. There wasmuch in her condition to cause anxiety. I'll be back in an hour," headded, moving hastily, as Reid entered, toward the door.

  Could I let him shoulder the responsibility of concealment? And if Irefused? Publicity--an inquest? At last I was alive to the situation;in silent gratitude I wrung Upton's hand, but he took no notice of me.As he passed Reid he growled:--

  "Your wife's a good woman to tie to, Pros. She's all right. Lucky shewas telegraphed for."

  Cadge had begun to talk in low tones to Mr. Winship. He did not seem tolisten, but the quiet voice soothed him. Gradually h
is gray, setfeatures relaxed, though he would not submit to be led from the bedside.

  "Ma was right," he said at last, broken and querulous. "We'd neverought to have let her come to the city. Ye say she'll be famous? Sissy,my poor little Poppet, w'at good to ye is fame; w'at good is all yourstudyin'?"

  * * * * *

  I did not open Helen's writing case for weeks; not until after myreturn from the dreary journey West with Mr. Winship.

  Stunned by the shock of her death, bearing not only my grief but theknowledge that her father and mother must hold me in part responsiblefor her fatal coming to New York, I could not face the secret of herchoice of death rather than marriage with me.

  It was a hot July night when I turned the key that guarded the secret.

  I found the story of the Bacillus, the curse that killed Darmstetter,that killed Helen. With it was a letter that I have read a thousandtimes--this letter that I am now reading. The scent of roses stillbreathes from it. On the last page there are splashes of wine.

  This is what it says:--

  JOHN: I cannot bear it. Prof. Darmstetter gave me death when he gave mebeauty.

  I am not a coward; but what is left? I am tired, wretched; there is noplace for me.

  The Bacillus has defeated every wish it has aroused. It has refused melove, ambition, honest work. From men it has compelled fear; from womenhate; it has cut me off from my kind.

  You saw Ned smiling into Milly's pale eyes. I should not have cared, Iwho was to marry you, but--I love him; you know it--you have known itsince my heart broke, since I tore it out and swore to reign, todazzle, to be Queen of the world.

  You know what came of my ambitions. The world treated my beauty as amenace; it struck me down. Then I asked to earn my bread; but withoutyou I might have starved. You were my refuge--and you--you love acripple!

  Why didn't I guess? I would have been glad, for Ethel is a dear child,and I had given you sorrow enough. I did not love you; I do not think Ihave pretended to love you. But can no man help seeming to care forme--help caring while he is with me? Ned told me he did not love; butyou, you I trusted; you would have married me, not letting me know--

  Ethel limps, she is plain. Plain as I was when you adored my ugly face,my freckles. Does beauty kill love, or do men see beauty only wherethey love? Little brown partridges, little brown partridges--

  The Bacillus is a cheat; every woman to her lover is the most beautiful!

  Ethel's good. You would have found me conspicuous, an annoyance amongpeople who shrink from the extraordinary. I have been fond of Ethel.

  I was marrying you to get my debts paid--you knew that--but there wasmore. You must believe--you know there was more. I thought you lovedme. Was that strange? How many times have you spoken to me of love? Iwanted to show my gratitude, to make you happy, since happiness was notfor me. I would have tried; I would have buried my own misery; buriedeverything but the sense of your goodness. I would have given you theco-operation of a clever woman. I would have given you the affectionyou know I have always felt. I would have worked, planned, compelledsuccess for you.

  But that's over. Ethel is a dear child. I will not stand between youand Ethel.

  Don't pity me. I need no pity. I would endure yesterday and to-day athousand times for the sake of the first hour of my beauty. Would Ichange now to be like Ethel, to be white putty like Milly--to have yourlove, or Ned's? Beauty--I can die with it sooner than drown it in tears.

  Don't tell Father. He will suffer; but less than if I went home to eatmy heart out in repinings, to grow old and ugly, cursing the world. Ihave lived too long. I am already less beautiful.

  If I could destroy the secret! Death, leaving that behind, iscrucifixion. But I was the first, I was the first! That dead face sogray and old--"Delilah!" it mows at me. I keep my promise! I haven'trobbed you, you shall have your fame! I, too, I shall never beforgotten!

  John, take the secret. Keep my word for me. If you doubt the discovery,try it on an enemy. If you think my sorrow could have been avoided,offer the Bacillus as a wedding gift to--.

  Give Milly, who has Ned's love, my beauty? Would it turn him from her?If I thought it--But even for that, there shall be no other! It shallgo first. Forever and forever my name, my face,--

  "Delilah!" It grins, it gibbers. Wait for no tests. Print quick!To-morrow, to-day--it's almost day. Give him what he wants,John--"Delilah!"

  Why do you come back, dead face, dead eyes? Haven't I promised? Youshall have print, type, a million circulation! Go away, you're dead!What's fame to youth, health, life? It's you who rob and kill. I won'tlook--I won't! If I wake Kitty, could she help? I won't look, I'm goingmad!

  Gone! I must hurry. He might come back. Shall I leave the secret? It'slife for life, we're even. If beauty were cheap, who'd care for it?It's death to be first, but afterwards--nothing! If I burned it--butno--I promised--.

  Why not?

  "Delilah!" Your health, dead eyes! I haf put t'e bacillus of perfectvine into t'e new grape juice, and I svear it's--Prosit, deadeyes!--here's a P.P.C.; quickest goodby--Poor Kitty! You'll be sorryfor the most beautiful woman in the--

  The Bacillus of Beauty has had its victim.

  Why do I keep the wine-splashed, rose-breathing letter? Why read overand over the fragments of Helen's journal? Better remember my littleschool-mate as she was before the poison stung her. Might she, withtime and contact with life, have reacted against the virus, or mustsuch loveliness be fatal to what is best in woman? Who can answer?Helen is dead, Darmstetter is dead, and the Bacillus--

  The Bacillus shall have no other victim.

  We who were near to Helen have been slow to recover from the shock andthe bitterness of her death. Her father and mother have nothing to holdthem to life; they are uprooted. Ned has grieved for her with bitterself-reproach, though he is happy with Milly. Ethel and I--

  But to-night I can think only of Helen.

  THE END.