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.