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.
A MODERN HERCULES
_THE TALE OF A SCULPTRESS_
... BY ...
MELVIN G. WINSTOCK
OF THE
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AUTHOR OF
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