"A Modern Hercules," The Tale of a Sculptress/Chapter 29
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 heighth 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.