CHAPTER XX. THE METROPOLIS FROWNS.
After the nuptial night, Paul disappeared from the knowledge of men. Ouida and Horatio Nugent took up their lives together. New York society indulged in a spasm of virtuous indignation; became monstrously shocked; entered a vigorous protest; and pronounced upon the guilty pair the judgment of condemnation. This mattered not to the lovers. They could see, feel, comprehend, appreciate nothing but themselves, their love and devotion to each other. The outside world was naught to them. They builded their own universe, peopled with the inhabitants of their own imagination, and well satisfied and pleased, existed in it. But New York’s frown, in time, practically meant much to them. It meant the withdrawal of art commissions to Ouida, and the absolute banishment of Mr. Nugent from the practice of his profession. As time relentlessly rolled on, their affairs grew complicated. She was compelled to sacrifice her art treasures, her valued property, her jewels, and still they awoke not from their fevered dream. The day came at last when poverty and want crept in and found them in rude, uncomfortable lodgings in a back street. By a strange fatality, of all her glorious possessions, Ouida had alone retained “A Modern Hercules,” that piece of statuary done from the form of her discarded husband.
CHAPTER XXI. DOANE’S EXQUISITE VENGEANCE.
One day shortly after Ouida and Nugent had taken up their residence in the slums, Mr. Connors, who had now become a power in directing the political destinies of the country, met Mr. Doane, the editor, in the vicinity of Ouida’s home.
“This is a queer place,” said Doane. “It rather surprises me to see you here.”
“Not more so than I am to see you in such a locality,” said Mr. Connors.
“Oh, we newspaper men go everywhere.”
“And we politicians, too; but honestly, what are you doing here?”
“Well,” said Doane, rubbing his hands in grim satisfaction, “I don’t mind telling you; a little private vengeance.”
“Upon whom?” queried Connors.
“Ouida Angelo. You were present when I received that insulting blow on her account?”
“Yes, and by heavens, you brought it on yourself.”
“Never mind that,” said the editor. “I feel the sting yet, and while I cannot pay her back in kind, I can twist and probe her pride, and I’ll do it, too. She lives in that miserable hovel over there,” pointing to the place. “I am going to visit her.”
“You astound me,” said Connors. He himself was bent upon the same mission, yet was not inspired by so ignoble a purpose.
Doane continued: “She has become an object almost of public pity. When the haughty creature abandoned her husband, almost at the altar, and began a life of shame with her lover, even rotten New York society rebelled and frowned her down.”
“Yes, it is but too true. The world, when once aroused, is cold in its judgment. But I did not know that she had been so frightfully reduced.”
“She has lost her fame, and everything,” said Doane.
“All,” asked Connors, “her jewels, carriages, works of art?”
“Yes, all except the ‘Modern Hercules.’ So far, nothing has induced her to part with that. I have kept track of her affairs, awaiting my opportunity.”
“Doane,” appealed Connors, seriously, “I think there is true nobility yet in the character of that woman. Forego your vengeance.”
“Not I,” said the vindictive writer. “I am going to tempt her to sell the thing to me.”
“This is the very refinement of cruelty,” said Connors, in disgust. “You should have been a Spanish Inquisitor. You would have stood well with Torquemado.”
“Wouldn’t you like to share the treat with me?” said Doane.
“No,” said Connors, and the men parted, Doane going over in the direction of the place where Ouida lived.
The once proud and queenly sculptress sat alone, all pale and haggard, in her humble, ill-furnished abode, a prey to emotions that scorched her soul.
“Society never pardoned me,” she thought, “my genius and fame, and when passion enslaved me and my back was turned, the cruel jade stabbed me in a fatal spot. I thought I could offer defiance to custom’s rigid rule. I dreamed I was a queen, to whom the world owed obedience. I awoke, and found I was a woman, strong only in passionate devotion. Yet, could I turn back the hand of time, I would not change. Eternal poverty, exposure, shame, disgrace with him, is better than Paradise without. I have had pointed at me the finger of scorn, and yet upon his aching breast, I have found a consolation so deep and sweet, that it gave oblivion to the taunts without.”
Her reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said.
Doane entered.
“Ah,” said he, placing his glass to his eye, “can it be? Do my eyes deceive me? Ouida Angelo!”
“Yes,” she said, “and what can you want with me?”
“You surely believe me,” he said, in exquisite irony, “when I tell you that I did not expect to find you here?”
“Then,” said she coldly, “you will have no objection to making your stay as brief as possible. You see, I am not in a position to properly entertain so distinguished a visitor.”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you,” said he, with cool impudence. “I’ll take a seat; you don’t mind, do you?”
“I have no way of relieving myself of your presence,” said Ouida, “save by invitation, as this is the only apartment at my disposal. I presume I shall be compelled to hear what you have to say.”
“I was seeking curios,” said Doane, whose malicious smile revealed the fact that he was lying, “and a neighbor of yours informed me that a lady, once proud and rich, had a very fine piece of statuary for sale. I called to see it, not knowing who the owner might be, and was dumbfounded to find it was you!”
“Mistaken, sir, as you usually are,” said Ouida, “mistaken in all your facts. There is no lady here; only a woman of sorrow, one acquainted with much grief. I have nothing to sell, or give away.”
“I see a marble figure there,” said he, pointing to the one work of art that lent radiance and dignity, even to that humble abode. “Is that your work?”
“Yes,” was the curt reply.
“What is it?” he said.
“I will not tell you.”
“I know, so you might as well.”
“If you know,” she said, “then there is no necessity for me to give you any information.”
“Let’s throw deception to the winds,” said he, unmasking himself. “It is ‘The Modern Hercules.’ I came to buy it of you.”
“It is not for sale.”
“Not for sale!” he said, “when the price I’d pay for it would enable you to hold up your head in the world again?”
“Sir,” said she, filled to the quick with indignation, “I want neither your gold, sarcasm, advice nor presence.”
“A little of each would do you good.”
“You are a coward, sir,” the woman flashed out, “to say things to me here that you would not have dared to utter when wealth, power, position, all were mine.”
“No, dear lady, not a coward, but one who enjoys telling the truth, even if it bites and wounds. Will you sell that piece of stone to me?”
“Not for the wealth of Vanderbilt,” she replied. “I’d rather give it to a pauper whom I respected, than to sell it to you for enough to buy the golden opinion of all men.”
“Such a resolve shows delicate sensibility, artistic temperament, but a minimum of common sense. I saw your—” (here even he could go but little further) “I mean Mr. Nugent, a few days ago, and if you still possess your romantic attachment for him, his pinched cheeks and sunken eyes, would induce you to make some little sacrifice for him.”
The interview was becoming beyond endurance to Ouida, when, fortunately, the subject of the latter part of Doane’s talk—Horatio Nugent—entered the room. He had heard the editor’s allusion to sacrifice.
“Who are you,” he cried, “that dare talk to her of sacrifice for me? The world should weep for her. She has, upon the altar of her affection for me, sacrificed a glory, which before, no woman had ever achieved upon the American continent.”
Doane laughed, and Nugent, growing desperate, crossed over toward him, with threatening attitude.
Ouida clung to him, begging him, for their mutual sake to be calm.
“Oh, don’t restrain him,” said Doane, provokingly, “he’ll cool down bye and bye.”
“Oh, I know you now,” said Nugent, “You are from the upper world, a fair representative of the classes who set themselves up in judgment over common men.”
“No,” said Doane, assuming an injured air, “only an editor, whose kindly intent has been met here by rude insult.”
“Take your intent and presence away,” said Nugent, “and at once. We want neither. You and your kind stand well in the eyes of the world, but we refuse to bend beneath your judgment.”
“Yet,” said the editor, “you set up a tribunal of your own.”
“Yes,” said Ouida, “the tribunal of conscience, where we have had our trial, pronounced sentence, and for years have been paying to justice the penalty we owed.”
“You refuse my aid?” said Doane.
“It was not sought; we will not accept it,” said Nugent. “We prefer starvation to your pity.”
“Then,” said Doane, “let it not be pity, but a pure matter of business.”
“We desire none with you,” said Ouida. “This lodging is poor, but it is our own. Go, vent your spleen where it may be felt. We are beyond it. We have passed through the vale of agony. No shaft of scorn or ridicule can wound us more. Leave us, we would breathe the untainted air.”
And as Doane went away from the presence of his intended victims, it crept through his narrow brain, that he had not accomplished much.
“I could not pierce the armor of their pride and devotion. I am an ass,” said Doane to himself, and the next day’s editorials were permeated with great bitterness.
CHAPTER XXII. OUIDA’S WELCOME VISITORS.
Mr. Connors, while awaiting Doane’s departure from the house of Ouida, happened, accidentally, to brush into Olivia Winters.
“My friend, the politician,” she said, shaking hands. “I am glad to see you.”
“I echo the sentiment,” he said. “Where have you been? I missed you lately from your usual haunts.”
“The Tattler knows me no more. I have a magazine of my own.”
“And doing well, I sincerely hope,” remarked Mr. Connors.
“Largely experimental yet,” said Olivia. “I fear I shall have to educate the public up to the point of appreciating fearlessness. I am the freest lance today in the whole of New York.”
“I am glad of it,” said the politician. “Society needs a mirror in whose sharp reflection it may know itself.”
“People at first,” said Olivia, “were pleased, then amazed; now they are mad. But they read every line, and from the remonstrances I note in other quarters, I am satisfied that my object is being accomplished.”
“Where are you going?” said he. “May I accompany you, so that we may finish this delightful chat? You attract me. Now don’t imagine I am paying you some silly compliment. We both know too much for that. But there is something exceedingly refreshing in your society, especially for one who, like me, has run the gauntlet of ambition and emotion.”
“One good turn deserves another,” remarked his companion. “I frankly admit that your society is agreeable to me. While you are a politician, you never fail to admit the truth. But I cannot let you go with me. I am on a mission of mercy.”
“That spoils all of good you previously said,” insisted Connors. “Do you think that in the whirl of politics, I have lost all heart, and so am unfitted to be your companion, upon a deed of goodness?”
“No, I do not think so ill of you, but I am going to see one whom we both knew when the world was at her feet. To see us together might bring deeper pain to her troubled soul.”
“Your mission,” he said, with deep interest, “is no secret to me. I am here on the same errand. I just met Doane, who was bent on visiting her, with the idea of vengeance.”
“Then you may go with me,” she assented, “and perhaps together we may smooth over the roughness of Doane’s contemptible behavior. But you must agree in advance to back up all I say. Come, we will go together.”
As they approached the house of Ouida, Connors began to think very seriously that Olivia would make a charming life companion, and resolved, then and there, to further cultivate so sweet and strong a personality.
They entered the lodging together, and were more than cordially greeted by Ouida and Horatio.
“Welcome to you both,” said Ouida, “and you especially, Olivia, for you are one of the only two women in New York whose hand I clasp in friendship.”
“This is indeed good of both of you,” said Horatio.
“And I offer you both my complete attachment,” said Mr. Connors.
“In affluence,” said Ouida, “we would not have prided ourselves in the devotion of kings. Today, when stripped of all, save humiliation, your proffer is a consolation preciously dear.”
“Would to heaven, my dear Ouida,” fervently said Olivia, “that I could impregnate you with some of the bubbling pleasures of my life.”
“Too late,” said Nugent, “we ourselves have spun a web of fate, that fast imprisons us. We cannot break the chain.”
“You must not say that,” said Connors. “There is no mistake beyond retrieving.”
“Pardon me,” said Ouida, with a slight impatience, “I have no faith in such a sentiment. You, who have won the fight, forget the weary rounds of ambition’s ladder.”
“Yes,” said Nugent, in echo of Ouida’s thought, “we do not bare our souls to the insane multitude, but to you, dear friends, we say, that we feel that further effort to rise from out the pit, is vain.”
“May I change the subject?” said Olivia.
“You certainly have my permission,” said Ouida.
“I met young Wald, the sculptor, a few days ago, and he inquired as to your whereabouts. I evaded him, but he strongly hinted that discovery of you by him would be to your advantage.”
“The dishonest wretch!” exclaimed Ouida, angrily, “what do you think he would have had me do?”
“I don’t know, but I have had a very poor opinion of him ever since I knew that his father paid Doane $5,000 for a flattering critique of his ‘Goddess of Progress,’ a thing of no real merit. But what did he want of you?”
“To create, model, carve, and in his name.”
“I had no idea,” said Connors, “that there was such corruption in art circles. It is needless for us to ask your answer.”
“We have sunk,” said Nugent, “to what you behold, but Ouida and I will cut our throats, ere she shall thus prostitute her divine genius.”
“May we not help you in some way?” said Olivia.
“Not with ostentation,” quickly spoke up Connors. “Not even for yourselves, if you will have it so, but for the world, that should not be deprived of Ouida’s masterly creations.”
At this, Ouida wept, nor was she ashamed of her tears.
“I have not heretofore, through all my misery, shed a single tear,” said Ouida, “till this delicate offer of your sweet sympathy, and yet I cannot allow you to interfere with fate.”
“I have withstood the bitter hate of men,” said Nugent, “nor trembled once, but your kindness makes me weak, like a child. Do not be offended, but I must leave you. You will excuse me?”
“Yes,” said Connors, “if you so desire.”
“Kind friends,” said Ouida, “take your leave now. Your visit has left a ray of sunshine, which Horatio and I will bask in long after you wend your way from this place, out into the busy world. Leave us alone, to work out our own salvation.”
“Will you, dearest Ouida,” pleaded Olivia, “thus drive forth two earnest, loving friends, who desire no higher privilege than to stand by your side?”
“Yes, my dear Ouida,” said Connors, “I am not without some power. The strongest effort of my life is yours, absolutely, to command.”
“No, friends, go your way. With ourselves alone we must conduct this mighty strife. If we should fail, all I ask is that, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, paint us as we really were, not as biting tongues, tinged with malice, have told the story of our sin.”
“Come, Mr. Connors,” said Olivia, “it would be sinful, upon the rough rack of this world, to longer vex the proud spirit of our friends.”
“Good-bye, dear friends,” said Connors, almost with affection, “and as we say au revoir, let me breathe the earnest prayer, that the Supreme Intelligence will lift you out of the valley of the shadow of grief, so that from the hill tops, you may behold the dawn of a new and nobler life.”
They left Ouida together, admiring, yet regretting, that marble pride which prevented Ouida from accepting their proffered sympathy and aid. But a contemplation of the history of Ouida and Horatio, drew them closer together, though no word of love was spoken between the two. Their mutual interest in the fate of their friends provided a bond of sympathy between the two, that bid fair to develop into a deeper and holier connection.
CHAPTER XXIII. LAWYER SALMON MEETS DEFEAT.
The day on which Doane and the two sweet friends visited Ouida was a fateful one. On that same day Lawyer Salmon had a most eventful conversation with his daughter Marie. They also met near Ouida’s place.
“My dear child,” said he, “it is foolish for you to pine your young life away in grief over Milton.”
“Father,” said she, “it is easy for you to speak thus, but I cannot root out of my soul the love and faith therein enshrined.”
“He has forgotten you.”
“I will not believe it,” said she stoutly.
“How long,” persisted the father, “has it been since you have heard from him?”
“About six months, but he may be ill. There must be some cause,” said Marie, fighting every inch of ground.
“Stuff and nonsense,” said he, “why don’t you admit to yourself the truth. He has abandoned you. I always thought you had more pride than to throw yourself into the arms of a man who seems so utterly to have forgotten you.”
“Father,” said Marie, a tremor in her voice, “you wrong Milton. I fear you do not love me, or you would not so wound me.”
“There, daughter, you are unjust to me. You may deem me hard, cold, unromantic, but I know these Royles. His father was as treacherous as an Indian, and I believe in heredity.”
“And I in love,” said Marie.
“And I shall be silent henceforth on the subject. Stern though I seem, I love you, my darling child, and your happiness is my one aim in life.”
“Then withdraw your opposition to Milton, for I will only be completely happy when you shall admit him to your heart as a son.”
“Ah, well,” said Salmon with a sigh, thinking of the girl’s dead mother, “I will think upon it. I must now go in to see Ouida. I will not be long detained. Remain without until I return.”
“I will yet win him over. God alone knows how I have worried over Milton’s long and extraordinary silence.”
A moment and right upon the street, she felt warm arms around her, and a heart breathing next her own.
“Marie,” was all that Milton said.
“Milton!” she exclaimed, “what a surprise to father. Your name has just left my lips. My father and I have just been indulging in another portion of our perpetual quarrel over you. Why have you been so long silent?”
“Silent, dearest,” said he in surprise.
“I have not received a line from you in six months.”
“Then my mail must have been miscarried, for I wrote almost as frequently as usual.”
“Almost? Why not just as often?” she said, rather piqued.
“For the last few months I have been more than absorbed in my work, for the annual competition at Rome, and moments were golden.”
“Did you succeed?” she asked in breathless suspense.
“Yes, my darling,” said Milton proudly, “I won the first prize, and hastened home to lay the laurels at your feet.”
“I am proud of you, and I rejoice in your success. Now father shall come over to us,” said Marie.
“What’s the news?” asked Milton. “I just disembarked from the Germania, jumped into a cab at the wharf, drove to your residence, learned that you had started for this place, followed, and once again behold your beloved face.”
“Strange things have happened since you went abroad. You have heard about Ouida?”
“Yes,” said Milton, “and it almost broke my heart. I owe so much to her.”
“I am no longer jealous of her, and, dear Milton, if you can in any way help her I will love you more than ever, if possible.”
“I need no inspiration to that end,” said Milton, “my own gratitude would urge and compel me to serve her.”
“You are always generous, Milton, and I appreciate you all the more for it.”
“I care not what the world may say,” said Milton, “but humanity needs her, and she shall no longer be buried beneath the weight of a sin for which long ago she paid the awful penalty.”
“I share your opinion with all my heart,” said Marie.
Just about this time Mr. Salmon, having accomplished the mission which had called him to Ouida’s house, returned, and his first glance lighted upon the happy pair, who were totally oblivious to his presence. He turned down another street, with a sigh, and left them undisturbed. He had met with defeat. The girl’s faith had triumphed. He felt he ought to succumb, yet he was proud and stubborn, and even yet there was opposition in his soul.
CHAPTER XXIV. SALE OF “THE MODERN HERCULES.”
Almost immediately after Olivia Winters and Mr. Connors had departed Horatio Nugent returned to Ouida’s presence.
“I have just seen Marie Salmon and Milton Royle,” said he.
“Milton Royle,” she said, “so he has returned from abroad?”
“Yes, and radiant with victory. He has won the first prize at Rome, and was most anxious to offer his gratitude to you, but I knew you were weary with the trials of the day, and begged him to come some other time.”
“I am glad you did so. The sight of his beaming face would have recalled memories that would have made me doubly sad.”
“Yes, the period of your triumphs before I cast my dark and grim shadow over the sunshine of your life. Woe is me!”
“And do you think,” said Ouida, with infinite tenderness, “that I regret you?”
“That is the very thought that sears my soul. I know my wrong to you. Yet through it all your brave smile remains. Oh! for the power to blot out the past; to dower you with the past.”
“I would refuse the gift,” said Ouida, “if I could not share my life with you. You seem fevered tonight, love. Any good results today?”
“No, dearest, only added torment,” said he, sadly. “You remember last week I left my manuscript with Dixon & Company, the publishers? Their reader told me to call today. I did, with large hope and expectations. I was ushered into his office, furnished with artistic taste. ‘Your work,’ said he, ‘is clever and original, but I have made some inquiries about you. You are Nugent, the preacher, are you not, who was concerned in an escapade with Ouida Angelo?’ I could not and would not deny my connection with you. ‘I like your work,’ said he, ‘but our house cannot afford to insult society, which it certainly would do, if we fathered anything from your pen.’ With a careless nod he handed me my bundle of papers and dismissed me. And as I left, my heart almost bursting with indignation, I wished you again upon the very throne of art, that you might tear out my soul, and use it as a model for a creation, ‘The Agony of Despair.’”
“Come, Horatio, lay your head upon my knee and let me soothe your aching brow.” He gladly complied with her sweet suggestion. There was a brief silence, when, looking up into her face, he suddenly said:
“Do you not think, Ouida, that you and I have fairly tried the world?”
“Yes,” said she, firmly, “and surely we have reached the end.”
“Think you self-destruction is ever justified?”
“Have you abandoned hope so completely,” she said, “that you let such dark visions come into your mind?”
“I am full of despair tonight,” said Nugent, gloomily. “I see naught before me save the impregnable wall of fate. I can neither break through its thickness, nor scale its height.”
“True,” said Ouida, dreamily, “our lives have utterly failed, and if we quietly sought oblivion, the world would wag its tongue for one brief hour, then would speedily forget that we ever lived.”
Horatio rose to his feet, and said with impressive solemnity:
“I have thought that when two, through their love, pure in itself, had gained but grief and tears, when they had reached that point when starvation, both of body and soul, confronted them like a hideous spectre; when their pride had been stung by pity; when love views love with more than mortal agony, affording no hope; Oh, Ouida, beloved, I have thought ’twere best to end it all with one bold stroke, and solve the mystery of the fate beyond the stars!”
“Your magnetic eloquence,” said the woman, “moves me beyond expression. We cannot longer live together. Your agony each day kills me a million times. Mine utterly unnerves you. Whatever course you deem best I’ll share without a sob or tear.”
“Then, since you are content, let us die together!”
“I assent,” said Ouida, almost with joy.
“No vulgar death of violence,” said her lover. “I could not stab you with a knife, for the sight of your red, spurting blood, would rob me of the strength to do the deed upon myself. To blow your brains out with a pistol would be brutish. But see, here is a poison. This, in a small quantity of water, will provide enough to send our souls hence into the other world. Shall I prepare the drink?”
“Yes, and without delay. The morning sun shall shed its earliest rays upon our soulless dust.”
And Horatio Nugent, upon whose eloquence once hung breathless, countless thousands, mixed the drink, with firm hand, that would self-murder two human lives. When ready, said he:
“The fatal distillation is ready for the taking. Farewell, my queen! Would to God I had never crossed your life and dragged you to the dust!”
He held ready the glass almost to his lips.
“And you, my king, farewell! Let me drink first. I would not look upon your rigid limbs, environed in the grip of death.”
“Have your wish,” he said, “here is the cup.”
She raised the small vessel to her lips, and was about to quaff its fatal contents, when Edward Salmon, the lawyer, broke into the room, and quickly seizing the horror of the situation, struck the cup from her hand, and it fell with a crash upon the floor.
“Thank God!” exclaimed the lawyer, “in time to save you both.”
“Sir,” said Horatio, “may we not be permitted to die in peace?”
“You know not,” said Ouida, “the grief you have prolonged.”
“You told me yesterday to sell ‘The Modern Hercules,’” said Salmon, breathlessly. “I have found a purchaser.”
“Then sell it,” said Ouida, “and dig our graves in decency.”
“Sell it rather,” said Salmon, in deepest sympathy, “and with the proceeds begin life anew.”
“Our lives have run their course. We can no longer hold up beneath the world’s black frown,” said Horatio.
“That is the talk of the moral coward,” said Salmon, boldly. “Come, I know your story. Draw out your strength, your manhood. Fate brought me here in time. You both shall live to look upon this hour with shame.”
“He is right,” said Ouida, arousing herself with mighty effort. “Look up, my love, we may yet wring from fortune’s grasp a noble fate. Where is the purchaser?”
“He awaits without. Would see the work, pay the price and go.”
“Let him come,” said Ouida.
Salmon retired for a moment, and when he returned, brought with him—Paul Strogoff, the sinned against!
He only said: “I come not in anger, nor in vengeance; only in sorrow, to crave your pardon, that I live.”
“Would that I had died ere this,” said Ouida.
Horatio bowed his head in shame and humiliation.
CHAPTER XXV. THE BEGINNING OF REDEMPTION.
Paul Strogoff’s sorrow had ennobled him, and, though the opportunity came to him to humiliate those who had wronged him, no man, born of woman, could have acted with rarer delicacy, than he did upon the trying occasion of the purchase of “The Modern Hercules.”
His behavior at that time produced marvelous results. It seemed to have had the effect of tearing aside the veil which had blinded the sculptress and her lover, to a realization of the enormity of their sin. They resolved to be no less noble in sacrifice than Paul had been. They had resolved to give each other up, and the separation had taken place.
Nugent at first applied to the organized churches for place, but they would have none of him. So he began his work independent, and alone. His field of operation lay among the poor, the forsaken, the down-trodden of the slums. Many a time he had gone down into the gutter to uplift the fallen and degraded creatures, who were abandoned by the big churches to their fate. Gradually he won for himself a distinctive place in the real affections of the common people. He became a familiar figure in the humbler quarters, and often money came to aid worthy causes from an unknown source. It came from Paul, but Horatio Nugent never knew. He became such a character, that when he passed through the crime infected portions of the city, every cut-throat, burglar and petty larcenist took off the hat to him. They all felt that there was some mighty secret locked up in his breast, and they respected him and it. And what were the feelings within him? He had marked out his course, and was rigidly pursuing it, and gradually there crept over him, a peace, contentment, harmony of thought, that furnished a complete compensation for the sacrifice which he had made. His moral redemption was complete, but the struggle had been fierce and intent, and the temptation to swerve in the earlier days of the battle had often times been strong and almost beyond control. He had no friends, save among the poor whom he served, and he led as simple a life as that of a rustic shepherd.
And what of Ouida? Her life and pursuit were equally as noble. She had become a woman whose only object in life was to prevent others from falling into the sad sin which had darkened her life. The sensational newspapers had laughed at her for a while, but she bravely persisted, and ridicule was soon transformed into respect and admiration. Several times in the course of their philanthropic work they met, but no thought had come to them concerning a renewal of their former relations, and each, from afar, by magnetic sympathy sustained the other in this newer and nobler life.
CHAPTER XXVI. DOANE TOASTS DISEASE.
Doane, Connors, Salmon and Wayland were all members of the Union League Club, and spent much of their time amid its comfortable, enticing environments. There is a common opinion prevalent, particularly in New York, that a society man may as well be dead as not to hold membership in at least one of the fashionable clubs. You can eat there, receive the billet doux of your lady friends, and if you want to gamble you can be accommodated at any limit of the game. If you are convivially inclined you can there get on a decent drunk, and perfect care will be taken that you do not fall into the hands of the police. In fact the club is a great protection to married as well as single men. Many a husband, who likes a quiet time apart from domestic influences, has had his shortcomings covered by the club. This sort of thing is not for the poor man. He takes his drink in the groggery, and woe betide him if he should stagger on the public highway.
Doane, the editor, and Salmon, the lawyer, both sharp witted, were seated in one of the private rooms of the Union League. It was shortly after Salmon, apart from his usual custom in the profession, had been victorious in a celebrated murder trial.
“I congratulate you on your acquittal of Wilcox,” said Doane.
“A hard case,” remarked Salmon. “He was convicted once, actually sat in the electric death chair, but I got a new hearing, secured a second trial, and now the accused is as free as you or I.”
“A clever victory for you, but bad for society. The way murderers are freed now only encourages desperate deeds. There would be more respect for law if there were fewer lawyers,” said the editor.
“Perhaps it would be better,” said Salmon, “if we permitted the newspapers to administer justice.”
“How so?” said Doane, ignoring the covert sarcasm of his friend.
“I will illustrate,” said the lawyer: “About a year ago, in this city, a man was hacked to pieces. With him lived a Polish immigrant. He knew but little of the language or customs of the country. A sensational newspaper put its blood-hound-detective-reporters on the trail. They convicted Skinoski, only to find a few months later, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that a slight mistake had been made, and after all they had electrocuted the wrong man.”
“Yes, a little error of that kind will occur, you know,” said Doane, unfeelingly, “but then it only removed another of these filthy, foreign paupers. We have too many of these cattle on hand now. Not that I have any very great respect for the native toiler.”
“What is your objection to him?” said Salmon.
“I like the laboring man well enough in his way,” said Doane, “but I wish he would take a bath once in a while. There is too little sweat on his brow and too much on his hands to suit me.”
“Yet your paper parades the fact,” said Salmon, “that it fights his battles.”
“I admit that,” said Doane, with a wink, “we need readers and a circulation to justify us in raising advertising rates. This is business versus sentiment.”
Just then Mr. Wayland, the stock broker, entered, and, as he took an easy chair, said, “I’ll wager that Doane has just said something biting. There is on his face a smile of derision.”
“No, I have been making practical suggestions; that is all. Have been talking about the Plebeian herd, and must have a quart of champagne with which to cleanse my tongue.”
A button within easy reach is touched; a waiter appears; takes the order, and soon returns with the wine.
“It shall be on me,” said Wayland. “I can afford it. I made a fortune today.”
“How?” said Doane. “Did you bankrupt another railroad?”
“No; like Joseph I cornered wheat, and made a million. Will you help me spend it?”
“Yes. Buy a newspaper, and employ Salmon there. He’s a most expensive luxury,” said Doane.
“What reason have you for always jumping on me?” said Salmon. “Did I not safely escort you through seven libel suits last year?”
“Yes, and how much of our stock do you now hold in the way of fee?”
“Let’s cease this merriment,” said Wayland, in either real or assumed sadness. “I am in mourning. The City of Hamburg has just arrived, and brings the news that ‘La Petite Goldie’ died at sea, and was buried beneath the cruel waves of the unfeeling Atlantic.”
“Another $50,000 you will have to credit to profit and loss,” said Doane.
“Was that another of Gould’s operative speculations?” asked Salmon.
“Yes, gentlemen, she was, and truly I am awfully cut up over the matter. I liked the girl very much, and besides, she had great talent.”
“She died of what ailment?” queried the lawyer.
“That’s the puzzling thing,” said the broker. “Some dreadful, mysterious ailment, the germs of which floated up from the steerage. The confounded steamer should have been quarantined. The first thing we know New York will be scourged.”
“A few thousand useless cattle will be killed off,” said Doane. “A good thing.”
“It might lay its heavy hand on you,” said Salmon.
“No,” replied Doane, “I am too wicked to die. Satan would refuse me entrance to hell for fear I’d rival him for his kingdom.”
“Anyhow,” said Wayland, “I intend to wear crape for a year.”
“Bah,” said Doane, “the next pretty face will cure you. You’ll get no sympathy from us.”
“See here, Doane. I bought that bottle of wine as a bribe for sympathy, and I shall engage Salmon here to prosecute you for obtaining it under false pretense.”
“This possibility of some mysterious epidemic in New York annoys me,” said Doane. “I shall take occasion in tomorrow’s paper, to rake the health officers sharply over the coals,” and for some cause or other, a sickening shudder passed over his frame.
“Does it trouble you, Doane?” said Wayland, “if so, let’s go abroad.”
“No, personally I do not fear,” said the editor. “I have looked pistols in the eye; have been a war correspondent, with bullets flying about like hail; and, have in addition, faced an angry husband or two. A little disease—bah! There are a hundred doctors who would serve me for the asking. Give me another drink,” and as he held the glass aloft, he offered a toast: “Here’s to grim disease,” he said, “may it kill off ten thousand”—he did not finish; the wine glass fell upon the floor and was cracked in many particles, while Doane tottered, fainting in the arms of Salmon.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE CURSE FALLS.
The vague fear which outlined itself in the mind of the club men, had taken shape, and New York was in the grip of the most dreadful epidemic that had ever scourged the Metropolis. The curse of Heaven seemed to have laid its heavy hand upon the people. Hundreds dropped, day by day, into the very jaws of death. War may have had its terrors, but it could not be compared to the ravages of this frightful visitation. It came in the night time, touched its victim, and ere dawn, he sinks into the tomb. Preachers, nurses, doctors, have fled before its grim approach. The preachers who fled, did not do so out of cowardly fear, but because God needed them, and they did not feel like disappointing Him by taking chances on death. The sick take care of the dying, and the dead rot, become putrid and stink before the undertaker’s cart rolls around. The city looked a good deal like Paris did during the Reign of Terror. There were several persons whose lives were interwoven in this story, who stayed bravely at their respective posts of duty. Ouida Angelo, immediately upon the outbreak, had joined the Red Cross forces, and had done work of almost divine mercy and gentleness. Horatio Nugent, while full of pity for the human suffering which the epidemic had brought in its train, reveled in delight at the opportunity it gave him for noble and glorious work. Mr. Connors, stepping down from his proud place as a statesman, had done herculean work by the side of Olivia Winters, who had furnished the inspiration. Thus this great public misfortune had afforded hundreds the opportunity for nobility of conduct, whose lives before had been selfish and proud.
During the very maddest part of the ravages of the curse, Olivia Winters met Mr. Connors on one of her tours.
“I am so comforted to meet you here,” she said, and the thought in her mind was, that she rejoiced to see him still alive. “I have just seen the last of Doane, the editor. His death was frightful. Dr. Simpson attended him. Doane, under the influence of the fever, had an idea that it was within the power of the doctor to save his life. Whining like a cur, he said: ‘I must have my life, good doctor,’ and then he shrieked, ‘I cannot die—I must not die—I’ll give you $50,000 cash, if you will but save my life.’ Then, with a look of agony, he fell back upon his pillow, exhausted, panting like a thirsty dog. Through the day he incessantly kept up this cry; sometimes laughing in defiance, again sobbing. Then, when the doctor left, he muttered to himself: ‘I’ll fool this cunning Æsculapius. Just let me live; I’ll not give him a cent.’ Each mad, despairing outbreak tended only to exhaust his small remaining strength. When Dr. Simpson returned, he felt death near at hand. Doane evidently saw reflected in the doctor’s eye, his own fatal condition, and with almost superhuman strength, he lifted himself upright in bed. ‘Will I die, doctor?’ came rattling from his parched throat. ‘There is no hope,’ said the physician. ‘Then bring me pen and paper,’ he said. His wish was complied with. ‘I will write,’ he said. ‘It shall be the bitterest screed that ever wounded quaking souls. I’ll sing a song of iron bitterness; a dying legacy to the sons of men. O! I cannot hold a pen within my grasp. I cannot see; all grows dark around me. So this is death.’ There was a sickening gurgle in his throat as he fell back dead.”
“Horrible! horrible!” said Connors, his heart full of fear and pity for this woman, so brave and strong.
“Heaven deliver me from such another experience,” said Olivia. “I shall hear his wild laughter, the death rattle in his throat; shall behold his gleaming, glaring, glazed eye balls to my dying day.”
“I may be considered uncharitable,” said Connors, “but it is better that the world is rid of such a venomous spirit.”
“That may be true, but you know, my dear Mr. Connors, that while he lay in that condition, one could not consider his character, only that he was a sufferer,” said Olivia. “But did you ever see this great city in such a plight before?”
“Never,” he replied. “I don’t know what will become of us.”
“One thing has happened, that almost makes me glad of our great calamity.”
“In the name of Heaven,” he said, “what can that be?”
“For the opportunity it has given Horatio Nugent to regain his good name.”
“Indeed, you are right, and he has redeemed himself,” he said. “How glad I am that you and I did not desert him in his hour of need.”
“Just as a few years ago,” said Olivia, “the world rang with the story of their shame, so now does it smile and bow over their heroic conduct.”
“Public opinion,” said the statesman, “begins to disgust me more than ever. It is as fickle as the wind, and it is not what you are that governs, but that which you appear to be. I shall bow to it no longer.”
“Yet, remember what befel our friends for their defiance of this thing you now despise,” said Olivia.
“You spoke of Horatio Nugent a moment ago,” he said. “Let me tell you about Ouida.”
“Go on,” she said, “but quickly, for I have much work before me.”
“From time to time,” said he, “I heard of the deeds of a sweet and saint-like creature, that quietly flitted to and fro among the desperate wretches of your sex, who had fallen into the lap of sin. I heard of shop girls who, tempted by the lust of man, and who were about to fall, snatched from the very jaws of ruin. I heard of extreme poverty being relieved in hundreds of cases. I heard of reading rooms being established for poor working girls. I heard of some mysterious angel going forth upon these varied missions of mercy and humanity. When I investigated, to find out who this was, lo! and behold! Ouida Angelo. And then my heart leaped for joy.”
“Her redemption and absolution is complete,” said Olivia. “She has gone through the valley of the shadow of death, almost, in the course of this fight with herself.”
“And now,” said Connors, tenderly, “is there any hope for me?”
Her heart leaped for joy, but she still brushed aside the hope that was as dear to her as to him. There was no false modesty about her, and her open countenance revealed the delight that quickened her soul.
“If,” said she, “we live through this ordeal, I’ll come myself, willingly, and bring the answer, woman though I am.”
“Did you know that Paul Strogoff was stricken down today?” said Connors.
“Is it so?” she said, in utmost sadness. “Death loves a shining mark.”
“Good-bye,” said Connors. “God grant we soon may meet again, under happier and safer conditions.”
They separated, each filled with mighty anxiety for the other, but each too truly great and noble to allow personal longing to interfere with the stern duty of the hour. But it was not many months before their unselfishness was rewarded with a happiness of pure and gentle nature.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAWYER SURRENDERS.
Among those who felt the touch of the awful disease was Edward Salmon, the lawyer. For days it had its strong clutch upon him, but he battled bravely, and Marie and Milton were tireless in their tender care and solicitude. Most of the time he lay in fevered unconsciousness, not recognizing those by whom he was surrounded. Often death approached so near at hand that Marie shuddered in dread, and Milton was full of grief on her account. At length, however, the struggle ended in victory, and Edward Salmon lived.
When consciousness had become fully restored, and the danger was over, Marie had Milton go away. She had resolved upon her course of action.
One day when Mr. Salmon, in his smoking jacket, weak and pale, sat thinking, Marie, cuddled up to him, and stroking his hair. He knew something was coming, for, like her dear, dead mother before her, that was the girl’s way.
“Father,” she said, “you have been ill, very ill, but thank God you have been spared.”
“Yes,” said he, “and through your noble devotion.”
“We did the best we could,” she said, slyly.
“We,” he said, “what we? Did you have help?”
“Yes, in your fever, you did not know, but it was Milton who braved all danger, and with me, sat up night after night, watching your slightest movement.”
“And I hated him so,” said Salmon. “He has heaped coals of fire upon my head, and has nobly shamed me.”
“Father, believe me, the eye of love cannot be deceived,” appealed the girl. “You have misjudged Milton.”
“Perhaps,” said he, “my darling, I have. I surrender!”
In a moment, for joy, she was sobbing on her father’s breast, and he, too, could not restrain a silent tear.
“Bring Milton to me,” said Salmon, “he shall not outdo me in generosity; if he will but love and cherish you as I have done, I’ll ask no more.”
But a brief period elapsed and a happy trio were in conclave at the lawyer’s residence.
CHAPTER XXIX. PAUL FOLLOWS CHRIST.—THE END.
Paul Strogoff had developed a peculiar philosophy since Ouida had sent him into grief. Though singularly fortunate as far as this world goes, though young, though of lusty strength, though possessing the ability to gratify every desire, he loved not life, but death. He had come to the conclusion that what a man gets in life is not by any means sufficient compensation for the struggle through which he goes. If he could have folded his arms quietly and passed out of human existence, he would not have murmured, but with perfect resignation accepted his fate. He was neither a physical nor a moral coward. His whole life had been marked by bravery, therefore he could not commit suicide. His fortune was being expended in private charities, and many boys, struggling up from the gutter, wondered at his generosity. They would not have done so, if they had seen Paul’s early battle with the dog.
When the scourge visited the city, Paul remained, not so much for the reason that he might reach death as that he saw opportunities for good, useful, and above all, absorbing work. Like many others he for a time labored assiduously, and was spared, but at length his turn came, and he, who had worked with such devotion for others, lay sick and dying, almost bereft of attention and care.
At length, his servant, an old Russian retainer of the family, managed to procure the attendance of Dr. Simpson. As soon as he saw Paul, the doctor shook his head ominously.
“How is my master?” said the Russian.
“In the very extremity of the fever, sir.”
“Is there no hope?” asked the servant.
“None,” said the doctor, unhesitatingly, “he will be dead within the hour.”
The patient stirred uneasily. Wild dreams were flitting over his sick vision.
“Is she here?” the sick man muttered.
“Who?” said the doctor.
“The idol of my life,” said Paul in his delirium. “I deeply wronged her, to put my shadow on her life. She, so far above! A star unreachable! I may not die until my eyes shall rest upon her form again. Oh, Ouida, come!”
“The height of pathos,” said the doctor, softened, though he had witnessed before, misery untold. “Oh, for a nurse to soothe his dying hours!”
And, as if in answer to the doctor’s prayer, there came a gentle knock at the door, and Ouida Angelo entered.
“I heard there was a patient here,” said she. “I am a volunteer nurse. Can I be of service?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, and Ouida approached the couch of the dying man, and as she looked upon his wasted face, and saw death’s mark there, her face turned white as marble. She forget the doctor’s presence, forgot all the world, save that this was the completion of her punishment, the wages of her sin.
“Paul!” she said.
“I hear her voice,” said the patient, looking up and instantly recognizing her. Her voice had brought him out of his delirium. “I knew I would not die until she came.”
“Do not speak of dying,” she said, and her voice was mellow and soothing. “You shall live.”
“How good of you to speak of hope,” said the dying man, “but it cannot be; it is useless. I cannot shake off the icy hand of death. Pray, forgive me that I crossed your life. I loved you well. You did not know, but now I kiss your hand and die.”
“Forgive you,” she said, “that is mockery. Upon my bended knees, I ask your forgiveness,” and the woman, her pride all gone, sank upon her knees by the bedside of the husband she had so deeply wronged.
“If this be your wish,” he gently said, “my dying soul confers the gift. Is there not near some man of God, to offer up a prayer for me?”
“You need no mediator,” she said, lifting up her head, “your life has been a constant prayer.”
“Procure a minister, if possible,” said the doctor, addressing the servant, who disappeared, and, as good fortune would have it, shortly returned, having accomplished his mission. Fate had directed the servant to Horatio Nugent!
Ouida was startled beyond expression to see him, but her manner was calm.
“This dying saint,” said Ouida, “requests a prayer in his behalf to God.”
The preacher approached the couch of death, but when his eyes beheld Paul, his soul was wrenched with agony.
“Paul!” he exclaimed, “I am not fit to pray for him.”
“Give me your hand,” said the dying man to Horatio, “and yours, Ouida.”
Across the death bed he joined their hands.
“This is my revenge,” said Paul. “I love you both. Be happy, for my sake. I forgive you. Death, thou hast no sting for me; no terror hath the yawning grave. I die in peace!”
And as he breathed his last, a seraphic smile lighted his whole countenance. The preacher’s eyes were raised to God, his soul was wrapped in prayer, while Ouida sank to the floor, her head bowed in utmost reverence.