The Tragedy of a Gift.
by Kooraali.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #11 (Feb 1906).
A very modest letter accompanied this story when it was submitted to me for my inspection. It was the writer's first effort, and she anxiously awaited my verdict upon it. Women are generally supposed to prefer love stories to those of any other type, and it is, perhaps, a point worth noting that in this story (written by a woman) neither love nor woman finds a place. "Kooraali" is a native Australian word meaning "The Rising Sun," and was adopted by the writer, who spent her early life in Australia, as a nom-de-plume in the hope that it might bring her luck.
"This is a curious thing you have here, Brabazon," said Jack Courtenay, gazing at a round, slender piece of steel wrought in various coloured enamels, that hung upon the wall of his friend's chambers. "Any history attached?"
"Don't touch it, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Brabazon hastily, as his visitor was about to take it down. "It is a poisoned dart, and the spring at the tip has become loosened with age, and moves with the slightest pressure. I picked it up in Cairo and have not had time to find a safe place for it yet. I don't know what made Morrison unpack it, for he goes in deadly fear of it. Perhaps you would like it, Jack," he added, seeing his companion's keen interest in the weapon.
"Thanks awfully, old chap! If it would not be robbing you of it—I should be delighted, for it would be a most unique addition to my collection of curios."
"On the contrary," returned Brabazon, "you would be doing me a kindness, for, as you see, I have nowhere to put it, and it is not a thing that ought to be hanging about here. But for Heaven's sake be careful, old man," he added, as he handed the dart to his friend, "for if that point so much as scratched the skin it would be all over with you in twelve hours, for the poison it contains is most deadly, and there is no known antidote for it."
"All right," laughed Courtenay, "I shall be going down to my place in Surrey at the end of the week and will put it safely under lock and key—I have just the cabinet there to suit it.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, suddenly glancing at his watch. "Is that eight o'clock striking? I have an engagement for half-past, and not dressed yet," and, snatching up his belongings, he bade his friend a hasty adieu, and hurried forth in search of a cab.
Hailing the first hansom he saw, he jumped in, and was soon being whirled rapidly towards his rooms in St. James'.
Big Ben was striking the hour of twelve as he re-entered his chambers, and to his amazement found them in total darkness.
"Confound Reeves!" he muttered; "drunk again, I suppose! Well, he has overstepped the mark this time," and he firmly resolved to dismiss him on the morrow.
Searching in his pocket for a match he found with increased annoyance that his box was empty, and went groping blindly for the mantelpiece—when, suddenly catching his foot in a rug—he fell heavily forward, striking the table in his descent. As he put forth his hand to save himself he felt a sharp prick, and with an exclamation of horror scrambled quickly to his feet.
"The poisoned dart!" he muttered. For a moment he stood stunned, then, with a desperate cry, called loudly for his servant. Receiving no reply, he called again, but still silence was the only answer, and he wondered vaguely if the fiendish dart that in his haste he had so carelessly left on the table had served his man the same hideous trick as it had him.
Rousing himself with an effort from the deadly torpor which seemed to grip him, he renewed his search for the matches, and found them at length in their customary place on the mantelpiece, and a moment later the room was flooded with light. He glanced nervously down at his hand, and to his horror saw that blood was slowly trickling from a small, punctured wound on his thumb.
"Heavens above. It struck me," he whispered hoarsely, as Brabazon's warning flashed quickly through his mind. "Fatal in twelve hours and no known antidote," he repeated dazedly—realising for the first time the horrible significance of what his friend had told him.
He stood for a moment wiping away the bright red drops with his handkerchief, when suddenly his glance fell on the sharp steel point of the fatal dart as it protruded through the soft paper wrapping; and, crossing to where it lay, he took it up with a shudder, and examined it carefully in the faint hope that the spring had not been pressed back far enough to liberate the poison it contained—but with a groan of despair he saw the slender grooved point, still wet with a colourless fluid which mingled with a small spot of blood at the tip.
He staggered back, feeling faint and dizzy, then sank heavily down in a chair inert and motionless.
He sat there gazing with fascinated horror at the deadly weapon that he still held in his hand, then, with a cry of rage, he sprang up, and a moment later the hideous thing lay in a dozen fragments at his feet.
With a final vicious stamp on the bright steel point, that seemed to scintillate with evil intensity from the hearth below, he turned towards the inner chambers in search of his servant; but only scenes of disorder met his bewildered gaze as he wandered from room to room. Upon reaching his bed-chamber, however, he quickly discovered the cause of the confusion, for there lay his private drawer, which he always kept securely locked, open to his gaze and from which everything of value had been abstracted.
"Decamped, by Jove!" he muttered, with a feeling of relief that nothing worse had happened—for what did the loss of money or jewels matter to him now, he thought bitterly, as he retraced his steps to the outer room.
He paused for a moment upon entering, then, sinking wearily into a chair, he remained for some time in deep thought.
Could it be true, he wondered dully, that he was to die in twelve hours—nay, eleven, for had not one already passed?
No—he would not believe it—there was some mistake. He would go and see Brabazon, and Brabazon would tell him it was only a joke. Of course it was, how could he have thought otherwise? But even as he rose to go, he knew there had been no mistake, that he was only trying to deceive himself; but still he determined to see Brabazon, for would not anything be better than inaction, he reflected miserably. And, heedless of the lateness of the hour, he wandered forth into the streets, and ten minutes later was ringing loudly at the door of his friend's chambers.
After some delay, he succeeded in arousing a sleepy servant, who informed him with scant politeness that his master had left for the country—leaving no address, as he expected to return on the morrow.
Feeling that his last hope had fled, he turned away in utter despair, and began slowly to retrace his steps back again. But he had not gone far when a sudden idea seized him, and ere Big Ben chimed the hour of two he was standing before a grave-faced man of science, into whose astonished ears he had poured forth the story of the poisoned dart.
"And now, Doctor, can you do anything for me?" he asked at length, with nervous eagerness.
Dr. Melville scratched his head in ominous silence for a moment or two, which seemed eternity to the wretched man whose very life hung upon his verdict.
"You see, my dear sir," he began at last, with a gravity that was the reverse of reassuring, "these ancient poisons are a sealed book to us in this age, and we have never been able to discover anything that would be of material assistance in a case of this kind; for the secret of their manufacture has long been lost in the ages of the past.
"That they are both subtle and deadly in their effect is practically all we know about them. You will therefore understand that it is impossible for me to prescribe an antidote for a poison of which we have absolutely no real knowledge."
"Am I then to die like a poisoned rat?" exclaimed Courtenay in horror. "Is all the boasted science of the twentieth century of no avail? Surely, Melville—you, who lived for years in the East, can do something for me; I will give half my fortune—nay, the whole of it—if you will only grant me another lease of life. It is hard," he added bitterly, "to die at twenty-four, when one has everything to live for."
The Doctor gravely shook his head. "It is my duty to save life at all times, if it is possible," he returned gently, "but I should be doing you a grave wrong if I wasted the short time left to you by trying useless and dangerous experiments, and any honest exponent of my profession would tell you the same.
"But take this before you go," he said, hastily mixing a draught, as Courtenay, white and despairing, staggered to his feet.
"Not if it is anything to make me sleep, Doctor," he said fiercely, "for I want to live—live, you understand, every moment that is left to me."
"No! No! It is nothing of the kind," reassured the Doctor; "for I am quite aware that you will have many matters to arrange, but if you leave like this—you will not have the necessary strength to attend to them."
A few minutes later the wretched man found himself once more in the now almost deserted streets, and stood staring for some moments irresolutely about him; then, with a deep groan, he walked with lagging steps in the direction of his rooms—those rooms that had now grown so hateful to him, that he shuddered at the thought of re-entering them. Still, he knew there were many things that had to be done, and done quickly, for had he not only a few hours to live?
A wild, unreasoning fury possessed him at the thought, and he clenched his hands in impotent rage. Why should he die—he, who had everything to live for?
Was he to be made the sport of a malicious Fate?
What had he ever done to deserve so dastardly a trick at her hands?
True, he had lived a life of pleasure, but he had never done a shady or dishonourable act in it—why, then, should the jade choose him for her malice out of all the teeming millions around him?
But his rebellious mood quickly changed, and despair once more claimed him for her own, as he walked slowly on in gloomy thought.
Could it be true, he wondered dully, that at this time to-morrow he would be nothing but a piece of lifeless clay? He shuddered at the thought. He had always possessed an unreasoning dread of death.
Great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead, while a raging fever coursed madly through his veins, as his vivid imagination conjured up his last moments of earthly life, and despair gave place once more to passionate rebellion against his cruel fate. He wandered miserably on, instinctively choosing the least frequented thoroughfares, until at length he arrived at the door of his chambers, utterly weary and exhausted.
He paused for a moment before entering—for would it not be for the last time?—but hearing approaching footsteps he hesitated no longer, and unlatching the door, passed silently up the stairs to the rooms above.
The gas was still burning, although dawn was peeping through the sides of the drawn blinds, and his glance instantly fell upon the broken fragments of the poisoned dart, as they gleamed up at him in hideous mockery between the two lights. With a muttered curse he kicked the pieces aside, and, entering his dressing-room, threw off his coat and hat.
Looking suddenly up he encountered his reflection in a mirror and started back in alarm. Surely those dark, staring eyes, and that ghastly countenance, could not be his.
He stood gazing for some moments as if fascinated, then a sudden faintness seized him, and he staggered back.
Steadying himself with an effort, he espied a decanter of brandy, and pouring out a stiff dose gulped it down neat. The spirit somewhat revived him, but a great fear possessed him that the deadly poison had already begun its work, and might at any moment render him unconscious; and realising the necessity of arranging his affairs as speedily as possible, he was soon seated at his escritoire, surrounded by letters and documents of various kinds, and was amazed to find into what chaos matters had been allowed to drift.
His naturally gay and careless temperament had always studiously avoided anything like business, and it was only repeated and urgent appeals from his agent which could no longer be ignored that eventually induced him to give it his tardy attention.
He now reproached himself bitterly for his neglected duty, as he glanced through unanswered letters from friends, despairing appeals for help, and important documents that required his immediate, but delayed signature.
Hour after hour he sat there writing with desperate energy, for the precious time was flying on lightning wings, and a cold numbness was gradually stealing over him, until at length the pen dropped from his stiffened fingers, leaving behind an inky trail in its descent to the floor.
With a heavy sigh he tremblingly rose, and crossing with feeble steps to the window, drew the curtains closely together, excluding the bright sunlight that filtered through the still drawn blinds.
He felt unutterably weary and exhausted, but fought with all his will and strength against an overmastering desire to sleep, pacing restlessly to and fro, until at length, his shaking limbs refusing longer to support him, he tottered to a couch and sank heavily down.
He knew the end could not be far off now, for it had already struck eleven—and was not this cold numbness that was slowly and stealthily creeping over him death? Yes, he remembered the doctor had said that the end would probably be painless, with a gradual deadening of the senses until the final release, and he sat waiting, with staring eyes fixed on the little ormolu clock.
The hot, bitter rebellion that formerly possessed him had given place to a calmness that vaguely surprised him, and as a heavy drowsiness stole gradually over his senses, he marvelled feebly at his former dread of death.
He had no fear now of that "awful presence," but only an intense desire for rest, and as the first stroke of twelve sounded dully on his ears his weary eyes closed, and with a long-drawn sigh of relief he fell back, rigid and motionless.
* * * * *
"You see, it was like this," Brabazon was explaining an hour later, as Courtenay, still pale and weak, finished his recital of his twelve awful hours of anguish. "I bought the dart which had been the cause of all the mischief from an old Jew dealer in Cairo, who positively assured me that it was one of the three poisoned darts known still to be in existence, and being rather proud of the possession of such a rare and curious antique, I showed it to a chap staying at the same hotel, who happened to be a connoisseur of such things, don't you know, and he immediately detected it to be an excellent imitation—Brummagem, in fact.
"At the same time he told me that he knew where he could get one of the genuine articles if I cared to pay the price for it. I agreed, and a few days later had the satisfaction of possessing one of these rare curios.
"But it became rather a nuisance to me, for when I explained to my servant the necessity of packing it in a separate compartment, on account of its highly dangerous nature, he refused to touch it, and I had to do it myself; in fact, he went so far as to leave the box that contained it severely alone, so therefore you can understand my surprise at seeing it hanging on the wall at my chambers, for I had forgotten all about the fake, having no intention of bringing it over with me.
"Morrison, however, not knowing this, and remembering I had said that it was only a harmless counterfeit, had packed it, and when we arrived home, had naturally taken it out with the other things I had picked up.
"It was only when I returned to town this morning, that I discovered I had given you the wrong one, so hurried on here to explain, and found you lying there unconscious. I assure you, old chap, you gave me an awful turn, but the brandy soon pulled you round," he added with a sigh of relief.
"But," exclaimed Courtenay, still somewhat dubious, "that infernal dart you gave me contained a fluid of some kind, for after it struck me, I examined it, and found the groove still wet with it."
"A little harmless water, no doubt," returned Brabazon soothingly, as he observed his friend's still evident anxiety. "At any rate, old chap, you can rest assured that it was nothing fatal, or you would not be here now to tell the tale."
"Then—you attribute all my recent suffering to imagination?" queried Courtenay.
"Mental anguish—combined with want of food and loss of sleep—would make any fellow feel pretty rocky," said Brabazon kindly; "and that just reminds me—you had better come and have some lunch, and then turn in, and to-morrow you will forget it all happened.
"By the by," he added, as his friend rose to carry out his suggestion, "I have brought the real antique with me, if you still care to have it!"
"Have it!" reiterated Courtenay with some vehemence. "Great Scott! No! And if you will take my advice, old chap, you will serve the infernal thing as I did its double there," and he pointed to the fragments on the hearth. "Why! I have suffered a thousand deaths through those hateful pieces of steel," he added, with a look of hatred, "and I never want to see another Eastern curio."
And Brabazon, glancing at his friend's still haggard face, could well believe him, and a few minutes later the poisoned dart joined its double on the hearth.