“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.