The curse of gold

by Ann S. Stephens

At last she looked up fearfully and with a shudder. What she deemed the swarm of yellow wasps no longer flew across the light, for the feathers had settled upon the floor, and their absence seemed to give her relief.

As the drapery fell from her face, it was clasped again between her folded hands, while a dull stillness fell upon her. She was looking at her own picture.

Catharine held her breath, for she was awe-stricken by the changes that swept over that pale face. Never, in all the vagaries of her insanity, had she seen that expression on Elsie’s features till now.

At first the face took an expression of dull surprise, mingled with an undercurrent of contempt, as if she fancied that some one were attempting to impose upon her. She drew a step nearer, holding her breath, advancing timidly as if she expected it to fly away at her approach, as the bird had done. When she saw that it remained crowned with light and smiling upon her, the poor women stole closer, and at last touched it with her fingers.

A look of wild amazement swept over her face. It had not disappeared with her touch. It smiled upon her yet. No venomous thing had sprung from those parted and smiling lips. It was herself gazing upon herself. She was there—and it was there—oh! how that poor brain worked and toiled to solve the question of its double self. Was she, the creature of pain, with her temples full of fire, which had no power to melt the snow from her hair, an evil growth from the loveliness before her, and that perfect still? After wandering so many years, with age upon her limbs, and a curse at her heart, had she come back upon her own young self to be met with smiles and pleasant looks, as if no wickedness had ever crept between them?

How was it that this beautiful woman, Elsie Ford, Elsie,—no, no, she would not speak or think the name that would wound the beautiful young creature, for the world she wouldn’t do it,—she who knew so well what pain was, and how sharp a pang the sound of that name had been before her own heart became so clouded and heavy. No, she would be very kind to the poor young creature; it would be a pity to drive that smile away, and see those red lips growing pale and blue with such lurid words as she could utter, but would not.

But how came Elsie Ford there, surrounded by so many beautiful objects, and with the sunlight dancing and sparkling over her hair, as she had seen it playing upon the neck of a raven? She remembered well that these long tresses had been cut off, and the dress of amber brocade taken away. In its place—oh, she remembered that with a cry of anguish—in place of that robe they had bound her arms under a hempen garment, so strong, and scant, and coarse.

Oh! she remembered more, a thousand times more! but it was all so confused, flame, smoke, tears, cries breaking around her as she had seen (for Elsie had climbed the fiery mountain) Vesuvius, clad in ashes, and crowned with clouds of smoky flame.

But how was all this? How had Elsie Ford come out from this fiery furnace so beautiful, so pleasant to look upon? It troubled her poor brain to make it all out. Ah! now she had it once more: Elsie had not been into the valley and shadow of death. It was herself only, the evil growth cast off by the beautiful one, who had been so full of trouble. He had not killed Elsie, only herself; not even that. Death would have been very pleasant at his hands; that was perhaps why he had let her suffer so much, but not die.

Poor Elsie! Some gleams of reason were struggling through all this wild talk, and this confusion of thoughts, and every ray of consciousness was a pang.