The curse of gold

by Ann S. Stephens

It may injure Catharine, a deserted wife and childless mother, so young and so wronged, when I say that her life on the Island was one of tolerable happiness; but she was not an angel of suffering, only an earnest, hopeful, young creature, resolved to perform her duties honestly as they arose. Spite of everything, she was looking forward to the possibility of meeting her husband in the future, to rejoice over him if he was blameless, and to forgive him under any circumstances.

Here again some of her own sex may condemn her for want of pride, and exclaim of what female dignity demands from the sex. But as I have said, Catharine was no heroine, only a beautiful, high-minded and gentle-hearted woman full of feminine compassion, not only for the miseries, but for the weaknesses of mankind. She never thought of her husband so much as having sinned against herself, individually, as of the wrong done to his own manliness.

People who have never loved can talk of that implacable dignity so regal in the proud woman; but those who love know well that affection is stronger than pride, nay, stronger than death itself. The woman who boasts that she would be unforgiving to the man she loves, has very little of tenderness in her nature, or real dignity either. Never does the true Christian, or the true woman, which is much the same thing, appear more beautiful than with a feeling of charity warm at heart. The highest and purest charity is that which refuses to look with implacability on the wrongs from which we have suffered.

These gentle and forgiving feelings grew strong within the heart of the young woman, as she studied in that solitary room, solitary save for the pictured presence of her husband. Her character became fixed and noble, with the gradual expansion of a fine intellect, and it was not long before the frail, fair girl, so rich in all generous feeling, became deep-thoughted as she had hitherto been warmhearted.

For some time after her first discovery of the library, Catharine thought herself sure of solitude whenever she entered it. Once or twice she had heard soft footsteps creeping about the door, but after a moment’s attention forgot the circumstance.

But one morning, while busy at her easel, working desperately toward the one object—a copy of her husband’s portrait—she heard the heavy breathing of some object outside the door, followed by a suppressed murmur.

Catharine arose suddenly, and opened the door, holding her palette and brush in one hand. There in the hall, with her long, flowing night-dress lying around her like a snow-drift, sat Elsie, her dark, wild eyes turned wistfully toward the library, as Eve might have been supposed to crouch at the gates of Eden.

With a timid motion of the hand she beckoned Catharine toward her, uttering a low hush with her lips.

Catharine stepped out and bent over her, as she was seated on the floor.

“Hush! hist!” whispered Elsie, lifting her finger with a look of affright. “Is he there? are they together? does he suspect that I am here in the cold, waiting? don’t tell him. I won’t come nearer, but it seems so hard to sit here all alone, and they in there. Please don’t tell them. Is he speaking to her? Does she say anything about me? She shouldn’t, it’s cruel. I carried off all the gray hairs, and the disgrace, and the heart-burn. They might let me stay here, you know.”