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.”