The curse of gold

by Ann S. Stephens

Still, these pure souls did not entirely read that young heart; they could not hear the words, “his mother,” which always trembled, unspoken, on her lips, when she looked at Elsie. They could not understand the tender light, that forever brooded in her eyes, nor feel the thrill that ran through her nerves, at the touch of their caressing hands, or the glances of Elsie’s midnight eyes. It was enough for her that their blood ran through his veins; that Elsie, poor insane Elsie, was his own mother.

These thoughts and feelings were uppermost for some days. Catharine would not reflect that the man, whose unknown relatives were so dear to her, had abandoned her to poverty and death; that he had never inquired about her fate at the hospital, or if so, had avoided seeking her out. She would not remember that this man was, even now, about to unite himself to another, whom he had vainly loved before, taking compassion on her perhaps too evident affection. Above all, her pure soul revolted at the thought that another of his victims had perished by her own couch of pain, and that his child was left to wander alone, into any shelter that Providence might provide for the orphan.

But the heart cannot always silence a clear understanding. After a time, Catharine began to feel that a poison still lay in the cup of peace, so unexpectedly presented to her. Again her step grew slow, and her eyes sad. The love with which she regarded the household was full of yearning pain. She had lost all power to unite her thoughts of George De Marke with these good old people. He was all a De Marke, the son of that domestic traitor, the evil of his nature was an inheritance. That man had nothing in common with the Fords; the blood might be in his veins; but it was poisoned, every drop, by that of the De Markes.

Catharine rejoiced that Mrs. Oakley had been informed, regarding the falsehood of De Marke, without her agency. It seemed to her impossible to speak of his faults to any one. His treason to herself was so deeply buried in the depths of her heart, that it would be death to drag the secret forth, even to prevent further wrong. She thanked God again and again, that this terrible duty had been spared her. The very thoughts of appearing as his accuser, filled her with dismay.

But she avoided Mrs. Oakley. A feeling of vague pain, half jealousy, half compassion, kept her away from the cottage. More than this, she shrunk from looking at the child again. His child and not hers. Poor, poor Catharine! In every way how wickedly she had been wronged, how cruelly bereaved! No wonder she shrunk from looking on the handsome widow, his beloved, and the beautiful boy, his son. Her husband, yes! he was her husband, though she might never have the power to prove it.

Thus Catharine avoided the cottage and the sea-shore, and her walks all turned to an opposite direction. She shrunk even from looking toward the house. Thus weeks went on, and the two families never met. The widow was too happy for any thought of her neighbors, and after seeking Catharine in her usual haunts awhile, always in vain, she went up to her mother’s house in town; for her wedding-day had been privately fixed, and there were papers to sign and bridal garments to order.

One day, a servant-woman from Mrs. Oakley’s house came abruptly up to where Catharine was standing, and told her this, in a blunt, rude way, that brought a sudden cry from the poor girl, thus taken by surprise.

The woman looked at her keenly, and a strange smile broke over her face, as she heard this cry. “I thought so,” she muttered, turning away abruptly, as she had advanced, “I knew it, now we’ll see.”

Catharine followed her. “When, when does this take place?” she said, pale and wild, like one who had suddenly received sentence of death.

“To-night. A crowd of guests came with them in a steamer hired expressly for the wedding-party. Mrs. Townsend Oakley sent particular word that you were to be invited to meet them. Of course you will come?”