The curse of gold

by Ann S. Stephens

“Oh! ha. So you have been in the institution. I thought so—I thought so!” cried the woman, with cold exultation. “In what ward did they place you?”

Catharine did not shrink or tremble now. There was nothing in the remembrance of her maternal anguish and bereavement, to burn her cheek with shame, though it might be blanched with sorrow. She answered firmly, but in a low voice,—

“I was a wife, and they put me among those who had become mothers in their poverty.”

“A wife—a mother—and no certificate—that seems strange;—and you even say it to me, me—a lady whose life has been one series of the most perfect rectitude—me, President of this Board, a person who has passed through the very dregs of sin in her pious search after objects of charity, and kept herself white as snow all the time. Are you not afraid that these uncontaminated boards will shrink apart beneath your feet, as they witness this attempt to impose on us?”

Catharine had learned “to suffer and grow strong.” Child as she was in all worldly things, there lay a power in her nature that rose to defend the innocence thus coarsely arraigned. She was pale, but it was a proud, calm pallor, which told how powerfully the blood had flowed back upon her heart, as an army gathers around a citadel when fiercely assailed.

“I have not attempted to impose on you, madam. Circumstances may be against me; still, you know in your innermost heart that what I have said is the truth. But why do you ask these questions? Who gives you authority to tear out the secrets from a human soul, before you will extend help to a fellow-creature who only asks the means of earning her own bread in humble peace? What if I were all that you think me, a weak, betrayed, or, if you will, a wicked young creature—am I the less an object of charity, or of kindness? Have I ceased to be a human being with human wants? Was it thus that our Saviour received the erring and the sinful? Is it thus that our God deals with them here, and at this day? Does he forbid them to earn their bread by honest labor, because of sins that may have been repented of? Does he withhold the sunshine, the rain, and the blossoms of the earth from their enjoyment? I ask you again, would it be a just reason for withholding food and shelter from me, if I had done all the wrong you suspect?”

The Lady-Philanthropist really seemed a little moved. A vague speculation came into her eyes, and the yellowish-white of her complexion became ashen; but it was with rage at this unheard-of audacity, not with any gentle acknowledgment of the truth in that young creature’s words.

As Catharine ceased speaking, the woman of many virtues folded the skirt of her dress closer about her person, as if to shield herself from the contagion of such sinful audacity, and sunk into a cold, Pharisaical attitude again.

“Oh,” she said, with her eyes lifted devoutly to the cornice, “I sometimes wonder that these sacred walls—yes, I may be excused for calling them sacred, for are they not consecrated to charity?—I sometimes wonder that these walls do not fall down and crush the audacious wickedness that sometimes intrudes itself here. Young person, it is not that you have committed this heinous wrong which offends me. Our society is founded in sin, and established in iniquity. Our mission is more particularly to the sinful, and from them is derived our chief glory; but every one who comes here must contribute something to the cause. Are you willing to become an example, to confess your manifold sins, and give the particulars of your dissolute life, that they can be advertised in the public prints, and embodied in our own annual reports, setting forth the repentance which our kindness and prayers have wrought in you, and the heroism with which you published your crimes that others may take warning? By this means, my dear child, you will not only be snatched as a brand from the burning, but the cause will be strengthened, and means will flow in to secure other cases like your own; by this confession, our country friends, who have done so much for the regeneration of this vile city, will be satisfied that we are up and doing, in season and out of season.”

The woman had arisen and taken Catharine’s hand in both hers, during the latter portion of this speech. The cold tears dropped, one by one, from her eyes, and rolled with sanctimonious slowness down her cheeks.