The curse of gold

Catharine did not observe it at first, but Mrs. Barr had been failing for more than a year. A life of constant exertion began to tell upon her, and she was at last clearly admonished that her days of usefulness were drawing to a close. She said little about this, until increasing weakness forced her to relinquish some of her duties; not that the subject troubled her, but her noble heart shrunk from giving the pain which the mournful truth must inflict on her best friend and almost daughter.

One night there was a dance in the dining-room of the Asylum; for it was a part of Mrs. Barr’s new system, that amusements of all kinds, which could inspire wholesome pleasure, were the best means of restoration in almost every case of insanity. It was understood that all the usual preparations for a ball were to be insisted upon, and no set of school-children ever exhibited more interest in an exhibition, than these unfortunates took in their toilets.

Elsie was unusually excited; a dozen times that day she swept through the halls in search of Catharine, first in one dress, then in another, each more fantastic than the rest, yet all arranged with artistic effect, as if she had been intending to sit for a portrait. Other inmates were on the alert, and it was wonderful to see how much of absolute reason mingled with their fantasies. One young creature, fancying that she was Queen Elizabeth and about to hold court, was in great tribulation, because her crown had been torn to pieces and the jewels lost. Another, who fancied herself Charlotte Corday, took Catharine on one side, to consult with her about the possibility of washing the blood from her hands. There was no end to their perplexities or various ways of expressing them.

One poor creature, who fancied that she had killed her husband, insisted on wearing a mask, that the officers might not discover her. But the greater number, being monomaniacs upon some given point, understood the nature of the amusement offered them, and acted with great decorum, enjoying the fantasies of their companions as a sane person might.

Catharine was very busy that day. Mrs. Barr had admitted for the first time that she was not quite well enough to help, and this imposed a host of duties on her assistant. The dancing-room was to be decorated with garlands, on which the inmates worked with enthusiasm. Supper was to be prepared—in fact, Catharine required all the administrative talent she possessed to carry the affair through with credit. It was a first experiment of the kind; and in the absence of Mrs. Barr she felt the responsibility even to nervousness.

At nightfall the inmates of the house began to assemble; they all seemed to understand that perfectly good behavior was expected of them; and their efforts at superior and extra politeness were touching, and at times ludicrous.

There was no regular music, but Catharine had become a fair performer, and she at once placed herself at the piano; and, trusting to her ear, dashed into the most exhilarating music she was capable of.

Directly, a singular and most picturesque scene presented itself. Each inmate had satisfied his or her own fancy in the way of costume, and in some cases the effect was richly fanciful. Among the rest, Elsie came in dressed after a fashion that had prevailed twenty years before; even in her insanity the exquisite taste for which she had been remarkable in her youth manifested itself. She might have stepped out of some old family picture—the costume was so perfect both in arrangement and coloring.

Catharine, happy in the enjoyment of those around her, was playing with unusual spirit, when Elsie came into the room. She stood awhile by the door watching the dancers; then, as if something displeased her in the music, she crossed over to the piano, touched Catharine on the shoulder, and made a motion that she should get up from the music-stool.

Catharine obeyed, and Elsie, sweeping out her skirts with a queenly gesture, seated herself, and dashed into an old-fashioned dancing-tune that made the room ring again. At first, her touch was a little heavy and stiff, but after awhile those slender fingers flashed across the keys like lightning. The usually sad face became brilliant, and, with a bend of the head that a queen might have envied, that demented woman brought another beautiful talent out of the past, proudly as a child exhibits its most gorgeous plaything.

Catharine was very tired, and went away from her weary work at the piano with a sensation of relief that no one could have guessed at from the expression of her sweet face. She stood a moment at the door, looking at the bright scene her own energies had wrought out of the most unpromising materials that ever presented themselves to human talent. There, under the lights and the flower garlands, she saw those helpless creatures, full of childish gleefulness, dancing, smiling, and filling the room with laughter, genuine as could be heard in any saloon of the large cities.

The sight was a pleasant one, and Catharine turned away from it wondering that she should feel so sad. She went slowly up to Mrs. Barr’s room. The good lady had not felt well enough to come down, and she would sit by her a while and warm her heart with a description of the scene she had just left.

Mrs. Barr was sitting alone, with her hands clasped softly in her lap. There was no lamp in the chamber, but the light of a calm summer’s moon fell upon her face, touching the middle-aged features with serene beauty.

Catharine drew a foot-stool close to her friend, and sat down upon it.

“How still you are,” she said, gently. “It seems like a sabbath here, after all the hilarity down-stairs.”

“Are they happy? Does our little plan succeed, Catharine?”

“Yes, madam. You never saw children let out an hour before school-time enjoy themselves more.”

“Poor things; how one learns to love their helplessness. I should almost like to stay with them a little longer.”

“A little longer?” faltered Catharine, touching the clasped hands in Mrs. Barr’s lap with a sort of awe, as if she expected to find them growing cold.

“Yes, my child, but it cannot be. God chooses his own time, and chooses it well. Do not start and look at me so mournfully, Catharine. It is a short journey I am taking; one which every soul must travel.”

“But you are not sure; only a little while ago you seemed so well,” pleaded Catharine, with tears in her voice.

“Still, I am near the end; the moon is at its full now—” She paused, and looked kindly down into the sad young face uplifted so piteously to hers. This broken sentence had chilled it into paleness.

“You—you do not mean that?” she questioned. “Oh, not so soon!”

Mrs. Barr unlocked her hands, and laid one of them on the anxious creature’s head, tenderly as if she had been smoothing the white plumage of a dove.

“Very soon; it may be to-night; I feel it creeping toward me.”

Catharine uttered a broken cry, and dropping her head, whispered a prayer for strength.

“Or any hour—the doctor thinks it will be sudden; I know it will be soon.”

“Oh, my friend! my dear, dear friend, what shall I do without you!”

“The God who calls me will comfort you, my child.”

There was something ineffably calm and sweet in the dying woman’s voice, but it was very faint.

“Do you suffer?” questioned Catharine.

“A little, but that is nothing; I want to talk to you, my good child, not of myself—all is right with me, but what will the world have for you when I am gone?”

“Nothing.”

When that one pathetic word fell from Catharine’s lips, she covered her face with both hands, and began to cry, not noisily, but with a hush of grief all the more touching from its stillness.

“You must go away, Catharine.”

“Yes, my friend,” answered Catharine, meekly; “tell me what I must do in your sweet wisdom; God will guide me to follow it.”

“There will be new people coming. You are young and very, very pretty, my child; too young, and far too beautiful for a place like this. Some way will be opened, take it. Seek quietness and protection. Some day your husband will come back.”

“Oh, say that again, Mother Barr—once more; from those dear lips it seems like a holy promise.”

“It is a holy promise, or God would not have sent it so clearly to my mind at the last.”

“I will believe it—I do believe it. Oh, if you could only live to know.”

“I shall know, child.”

Catharine kissed the hand which had fallen away from her head. She did not comprehend the faith in these last gentle words; but Mrs. Barr went on, smiling wanly upon her through the moonlight.

“Oh yes, dear; I shall know; that will be a part of my blessedness. But now, while we are here and so still, let me tell you what I have done.”

“No, no; do not tell me! it makes this so real,” pleaded Catharine.

“My poor child, it is real.”

“Oh, let me hope not, a little longer—only a little longer.”

“There is a paper in my desk—a will. It is not much, but all I have is yours.”

Catharine began to sob.

“Hush, child, hush! You are my daughter, sent when I needed one most. You have been a good, good child. I love nothing so dear on earth. It is little, but enough to keep you from taking wages of any one. For all that, darling, you must be useful. God made all his creatures for usefulness. Human suffering will want alleviation. You will find duties at every step. Do them well—”

The good woman paused a moment, struggling for breath. This conversation was exhausting her feeble strength. After a little, she spoke again:

“Keep my name, Catharine, till your husband comes back and gives you his own. It pleases me to think that it does not quite die out with me. Now go down, darling. The good people will want you, and I would like to rest a little.”

Catharine arose with a heavy heart, and went down-stairs. The inmates of the dancing-room were all in gay commotion. Elsie was at the piano, inspired with her own music. They did not need Catharine, so she went up to her own room, and, kneeling by the bed, wept and prayed for that dear life with passionate earnestness. Never until now had she known how clear and good this woman had been to her; how nobly she had influenced a life threatened from the first with disaster. She felt in all her being a dread of the loneliness which would fall upon her when that gentle guide and wise counsellor was gone. It was difficult to force the cruel belief of her immediate danger on her mind. The calamity was more than her recoiling thoughts could grasp. By degrees, a faint hope broke up through her prayers, and instead of pleading, she fell into a sad reverie. It was a heart-disease; this she knew well; but the peculiar form—what young girl could be expected to understand that? Sometimes such maladies are slow, painful, and full of anguish. Again, they only give a faint indication of the death which is surely coming, and when it does come, strikes its victim down in an instant. This was the insidious disease which had blinded the poor girl to its progress till the end was upon her. She could not believe in its reality. Now that she was alone, hope would spring up in her heart; she thought of that sweet old face, the low, calm voice, and it seemed to her impossible that death could be so near. Gradually her prayer, which had at first been a passionate entreaty for an existence so precious, took almost a glow of thankfulness. It seemed as if that dear life must be prolonged; as if the very agony of her own prayers must win a beneficent answer from God.

Almost tranquillized by this faith, the weary young creature dropped her head upon her folded arms, and a feeling of drowsy languor came upon her—not sleep, but rest. All at once she was aroused by a shock of the whole frame, so strong and sudden, that she started to her feet with a cry of affright. Quivering in every nerve, wild with nameless terror, she went down to the chamber she had just left.

Mrs. Barr still sat by the window. The pure radiance of the moon lay full upon the hands clasped in her lap, the Quaker cap which framed in that lovely old face—and the muslin neckerchief folded over her bosom. Catharine, with a sigh of infinite relief, went up to the easy-chair. She was not asleep—not even in pain. Those kind, blue eyes were open—that gentle mouth had a smile upon it. She was resting, Catharine thought, nothing more—evidently resting, and did not wish to be disturbed. Had she not asked to be left alone? Catharine moved softly to a shadowy part of the room and sat down, holding her very breath, in fear of disturbing the sick woman, who had not cared to recognize her presence. The music from down-stairs rose to her faintly. Sometimes the dying echo of a laugh came floating upward; but after a while, all this ceased; then the stillness in the room oppressed her.

Again Catharine arose and went close to Mrs. Barr’s chair.

“Have you had a good rest, dear mother?” she whispered, bending close to the motionless head.

There was no answer—no sign, no breath that she could hear or feel. She saw the eyes turned to the open window—the smile still hovering about those lips; but she also saw that the whole face had turned whiter than whiteness. The awful silence of the grave was there, and she knew that her best friend had passed over the “dark waters” when that shock fell upon her, breaking up alike her hopes and her prayers.