THE CURSE OF GOLD.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF “WIVES AND WIDOWS,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “THE SOLDIER’S
ORPHANS,” “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “THE OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE WIFE’S SECRET,”
“MABEL’S MISTAKE,” “THE GOLD BRICK,” “SILENT STRUGGLES,” “MARY DERWENT,”
“DOUBLY FALSE,” “THE HEIRESS.”
Earth teems with good and evil: from her breast
The rooted corn springs vigorous to the sun;
While summer breezes toss its bearded crest
Until a glorious ripening work is done.
Thus men are amply fed and doubly blessed.
Deep from the caverns of her stony heart,
Toil drags the yellow gold, which, burning there,
Is innocent of harm,—but once apart
From its dark motherhood, fell hate, and care,
Curse half its uses in life’s stormy mart.
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
ANN S. STEPHENS’ WORKS.
Each Work complete in one vol., 12mo.
_THE CURSE OF GOLD._
_WIVES AND WIDOWS._
_THE HEIRESS._
_THE REJECTED WIFE._
_FASHION AND FAMINE._
_THE GOLD BRICK._
_SILENT STRUGGLES._
_THE OLD HOMESTEAD._
_MARY DERWENT._
_THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS._
_THE WIFE’S SECRET._
_MABEL’S MISTAKE._
_DOUBLY FALSE._
Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage prepaid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
TO
MRS. DUDLEY S. GREGORY,
OF JERSEY CITY,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED,
WITH
THE SINCERE FRIENDSHIP
AND RESPECT OF THE AUTHOR,
ANN S. STEPHENS.
PREFACE.
It has happened of late that several of my books have been more or less
criticised for improbabilities attached either to a character, or some
event selected from the rest of the book as too extravagant for belief
or for the harmonies of true art. Now, singular enough, in every
instance, the events or characters selected for these criticisms have
been facts in themselves, or portraits drawn from persons well known to
myself and others. If such criticism should fall on the character of
Madame De Marke, I may perhaps be permitted to state that this woman has
lived within the last fifteen years, and was well known in a certain
neighborhood in the city of New York for her wealth, her eccentricity,
and her avaricious habits. Her person, her manner of life, and her
extreme parsimony, are in no respect overdrawn. The room in which she
lived and died is described exactly as she inhabited it in 1849. Of
course, the events of the story which runs through this volume are not
absolute facts, but the character of the woman, improbable as it may
seem, is the _vraisemblance_ of a real individual.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— A WARD IN BELLEVUE 25
II.— MARY MARGARET DILLON 31
III.— THE HOSPITAL NURSE 35
IV.— MADAME DE MARKE 39
V.— THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE 44
VI.— THE DIAMOND EAR-RINGS 48
VII.— THE TWO INFANTS 54
VIII.— THE VIAL OF WHITE MEDICINE 57
IX.— EARLY IN THE MORNING 62
X.— THE VELVET PRAYER-BOOK AND ITS CONTENTS 66
XI.— JANE KELLY FINDS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 73
XII.— THE CONFERENCE IN MRS. JUDSON’S CHAMBER 78
XIII.— MRS. JUDSON DISTRIBUTES THE FUNDS 82
XIV.— THE SAINT AND THE SINNER 91
XV.— PREPARING FOR THE FUNERAL 98
XVI.— PARTING WITH THE CHILD 105
XVII.— WHERE COULD SHE GO? 110
XVIII.— TURNED OUT-OF-DOORS 118
XIX.— MEMORIES AND RESOLUTIONS 122
XX.— ALL ALONE 126
XXI.— DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND 130
XXII.— THE ODD EAR-RING 133
XXIII.— A FRIEND IN NEED 138
XXIV.— MARY MARGARET DILLON’S SHANTY 142
XXV.— SEEKING FOR HELP 150
XXVI.— THE PROFESSED PHILANTHROPIST 155
XXVII.— A CHARITABLE CROSS-EXAMINATION 161
XXVIII.— JANE KELLY ON HER TRIAL 167
XXIX.— SHELTERED AT LAST 171
XXX.— MADAME DE MARKE AND HER PET 175
XXXI.— THE YOUNG MAN’S RETURN 179
XXXII.— SEARCHING FOR HIS WIFE 184
XXXIII.— TURNING SHADOWS INTO SUNBEAMS 187
XXXIV.— ELSIE, THE LUNATIC 190
XXXV.— SHOWING HOW A GOOD WOMAN CAN DIE 193
XXXVI.— THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE 201
XXXVII.— THE CLOSED LIBRARY 207
XXXVIII.— THE FAMILY BREAKFAST 214
XXXIX.— THE TWO PORTRAITS 218
XL.— THE BIRD-CAGE 222
XLI.— NURSES FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR 227
XLII.— THE ADOPTED SON 234
XLIII.— SITTING BY THE DOOR 240
XLIV.— THE ITALIAN VILLA 246
XLV.— THE STRANGE LADY AND HER CHILD 250
XLVI.— THE MANIAC AND THE CHILD 255
XLVII.— THREE HEARTS GO OUT TO LITTLE EDDIE 259
XLVIII.— THE IMAGE IN THE GLASS 262
XLIX.— ENEMIES MEETING 266
L.— A VISITOR TO BREAKFAST 271
LI.— OUT IN THE STORM 276
LII.— OUT IN THE STORM 280
LIII.— COMING HOME FROM CALIFORNIA 283
LIV.— LOUIS DE MARKE’S CONFESSION 289
LV.— THE NIGHT OF MISS JUDSON’S WEDDING 293
LVI.— THE BROTHERS TALK OVER THEIR FATHER’S DEATH 297
LVII.— THE SECRET MARRIAGE.—LOUIS GOES ON WITH HIS STORY 304
LVIII.— LOUISA’S LETTERS 307
LIX.— AT BELLEVUE HOSPITAL 311
LX.— THE FEMALE MISER IN HER DEN 317
LXI.— MADAME’S GOLDEN CRUCIFIX 323
LXII.— BEGGING FOR FOOD 327
LXIII.— THE IRON-BOUND BOX 332
LXIV.— THE BROTHERS CONSULT AGAIN 334
LXV.— THE WASHERWOMAN’S INTRUSION 338
LXVI.— A DOMESTIC STORM 344
LXVII.— THE WOUNDED BIRD 349
LXVIII.— DOUBTS AND FEARS 353
LXIX.— MADAME DE MARKE’S DEATH-BED 359
LXX.— LITTLE EDDIE’S GRIEF 365
LXXI.— QUESTIONS AND CONFESSIONS 371
LXXII.— ELSIE’S MARRIED LIFE 376
LXXIII.— ELSIE RETURNS HOME 381
LXXIV.— ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE WEDDING 386
LXXV.— THE INTERRUPTED CEREMONY 393
LXXVI.— RIGHTED AT LAST 397
LXXVII.— ABOUT THE LITTLE BOY 403
THE
CURSE OF GOLD.
CHAPTER I.
A WARD IN BELLEVUE.
The sick ward of a hospital, mockingly, it would seem, called Bellevue.
The room was long, low in the ceiling, and lighted by a range of windows
sunk deep in the wall, which overlooked the East River and an expanse of
Long Island that curved along the opposite shore.
A few poverty-stricken women, and some worse than that, because bowed
down by shame as well as poverty, had sought this ward as the only place
in which their anguish and sorrow could find shelter.
Narrow, pauper cots, furnished with straw beds and covered with coarse,
checkered cotton, were ranged down each side, of the room, with just
space enough between to allow a sort of foot-path in which the nurses
could pass from one bed to another.
Every cot was occupied. Here a young face, so pale and mournful that
your heart ached while gazing on it, was turned sadly toward you on the
straw pillow, or a feeble hand would make an effort to draw up the
coverlet, that you might not mark the flush of shame that stole over her
forehead, or discover the cause of that shame which lay nestled in her
bosom.
Other faces met your view, coarse and shameless, or haggard with long
suffering; and some turned upon you eyes so full of gentle submission,
that you wondered why human beings so opposite in their nature should be
crowded together in one room, even by the terrible leveller Poverty.
Sounds, in painful harmony with the scene, greeted your entrance.
Murmurs of sharp impatience, imprecations suppressed only by fear, and
open complaints from the coarser and ruder inmates, drowned the sighs
and timid whispers of maternal love that gave a breath of heaven even to
that miserable place.
Two cots in the room, both standing in a remote corner, were occupied
like the rest, but gave forth no signs of life. They stood close
together, and of the occupants it seemed impossible to say which was
living, or which was actually dead, so coldly pale were the two faces
that gleamed upon you from the pillows. Both were young, and one was
wondrously beautiful even in that deathly state, when forehead, hands
and lips were blanched to the whiteness of a corpse.
The other was less beautiful, but very young, and so fragile that you
wondered why death had waited to find her in that miserable place, for
she was dying. The gray shadows, settling like a mist upon her face, the
locked whiteness of her features, the imperceptible stiffening of her
white hand upon the coverlet, all proclaimed this truth with terrible
distinctness. But there was yet a breath of life close to her heart, a
faint flutter as if a wounded bird had folded its wings forever, and
then all was quiet as if sleep were there, or death had come twice.
The gray shadows of a winter’s morning crept through the checkered
curtains of a neighboring window, and hung coldly around that pauper
couch; and amid the muttering of patients restless with fever, or
clamorous for nourishment, the wail of sickly infants, and the outcries
of healthy ones, this poor young creature died and grew cold, unwatched
and unwept.
The other, she who lay so like an exquisite statue on the neighboring
couch, would no life ever return to her? There was a faint motion of the
bed-clothes, as if breath still lingered there; but did it exist in that
fair young mother or in the child, for she, poor thing, was a mother,
and even in the chill of insensibility she held the little being into
which her own seemed to have merged, clasped to her bosom.
Just as the day dawned, a nurse came into the ward, not with her usual
dauntless step, but stealthily, and casting sidelong glances from cot to
cot, like a panther fearing to arouse his prey. She stopped once or
twice and arranged the pillows of her patients, with a sort of cajoling
attention, always leaving their faces turned from the corner where those
two young creatures suffered. Then she stole softly between the two
cots, and bending down her face till her soiled curl-papers almost
touched the dead, listened, felt the cold hand on the coverlet, and
cautiously turned down the clothes.
At the head of each cot a square wooden label was hung against the wall,
on which was painted the name and number of the occupant. The nurse took
down these labels when quite sure that one of these young women was
dead, and replaced them again, looking furtively around as she did so.
After making herself busy with the labels a while, the nurse stood over
the cot of the dead woman and took a rapid survey of the ward.
All was quiet, save the murmurs of a child, far down the room, who was
struggling to keep its place in the arms of a drowsy mother.
The nurse was relieved by this sound. It gave her time for breath. The
rustle of her own dress seemed less startling. She turned to the other
bed, stooped over it still more cautiously, and laid her hand down upon
the heart of the senseless woman.
She half rose, gave a sharp glance over her shoulder, and taking each of
the fair hands, clasped so fondly around a sleeping infant, forced them
gently apart, and lifted the child from its mother’s bosom.
A shudder passed through the frame of that young mother, as if the last
gleam of life had been torn from her heart. Her eyelids quivered, and
her lips were, for an instant, faintly convulsed.
The nurse turned suddenly to the other couch, and back again, while this
life-struggle was going on. Without unclosing her eyes, the poor
creature reached forth her arms, clasped them fondly again with a sigh
of ineffable delight, and sunk away motionless, without a perceptible
breath.
But it was not for joy. As the child, a moment before, had seemed to
keep the vitality in her heart with its own warmth, so now some outward
chill drove back the blood to its centre. With a moan, and a struggle,
she came to life, opened her great blue eyes, and fixed them wildly on
the nurse.
“I am cold, oh! so cold,” she said, shivering, and cowering down into
the bed; “what have you done to me?”
“Done to you?” said the nurse, faintly, “done to you? Nothing, but try
my best to bring you to. Why, it’s almost dead you’ve been, I don’t know
how long.”
The invalid did not hear this. A momentary impulse of strength seized
upon her. She flung back the bed-clothes, and bending her face downward,
fixed those wild eyes upon the child. One glance, and she lifted them
with a sharp, questioning look to the woman, and passing her hand over
the little face, whispered hoarsely,—
“What is this?”
The nurse put her hands down and touched the infant. The poor mother
felt those coarse hands shaking against her own, and shrunk away with a
faint cry: it seemed as if they had inflicted a wound upon her.
It was some moments before the woman spoke. When she did, it was with a
sort of unnatural quickness, accompanied with hurried glances down the
room.
“Where’s the doctor? It might have been expected. Fainting fits all
night—overlaid and smothered it. Half on your face when I came in—arms
grasped around it like a vice. No wonder it’s cold.”
“Cold. Is that all—only cold?” cried the mother, trembling all
over,—“only cold?”
“Cold as a stone, and dead as a door-nail, that’s what it is?” answered
the nurse, sharply, for that moment the physician of the ward came in
sight, and the nurse judged well of the effect her brutal speech would
have on the young creature.
With a cry, that in her feebleness scarcely arose above a wail, she fell
back perfectly senseless again.
“What is the trouble here?” inquired the doctor, coming forward. “Oh, I
expected this!” he added, glancing at the dead; “scarcely a breath of
life in her from the first. The baby too, I suppose.”
“No!” answered the nurse, quickly; “_that_ poor creature has lost her
baby. Hers is just alive yet; I wish they wouldn’t send such delicate
creatures here. It’s enough to destroy one’s character to have them die
off so.”
“But she is not dead,” replied the doctor, passing between the two cots,
and taking the little hand that had fallen away from the child; “almost
as bad though; a hard chill—we shall have fever next! Take the child
away. No wonder she feels cold! How long has it been dead?”
“It was cold when I came in.”
“Well, well, have it removed. She will never come to with that freezing
her to the heart.”
“And the other baby?” questioned the nurse, anxiously.
“Give it to one of these women to nurse, till something can be done; and
order two coffins. They mustn’t lie here, or we shall have a panic among
the patients.”
The nurse made an effort to take the child once more from its mother’s
arms; but, for the first time, she seemed nervous and reluctant to touch
the dead. The doctor startled her, saying impatiently,—
“There, be quick, or the woman will die! That will do—now let me see if
anything can put life into her? Poor thing, poor thing! It’s a pity the
baby is dead—but then what chance has an orphan in this world?—better
dead, if she could only be brought to think so!”
While he was talking, the nurse bent suddenly to the floor and snatched
up a small, silken bag, which, suspended by a braid chain, had been torn
from the invalid’s neck when the babe was first removed from her arms.
The doctor turned his eyes that way.
“I am always dropping this pin-cushion from my side!” she said,
hurriedly, gathering up the chain in her hand; “there is no keeping any
thing in its place.”
“Don’t stop for such nonsense,” cried the physician, impatiently, “or
the woman will die under our hands.”
The nurse thrust the silken chain and its appendage into her bosom, and
began in earnest to render assistance.