[This story was sent to Dr. Beall of Greensboro, N. C., in
a letter in 1883, and so is one of O. Henry's earliest attempts at
writing.]
I
Lord Oakhurst lay dying in the oak chamber in the eastern wing of Oakhurst
Castle. Through the open window in the calm of the summer evening, came the
sweet fragrance of the early violets and budding trees, and to the dying man it
seemed as if earth's loveliness and beauty were never so apparent as on this
bright June day, his last day of life.
His young wife, whom he loved with a devotion and strength that the presence
of the king of terrors himself could not alter, moved about the apartment,
weeping and sorrowful, sometimes arranging the sick man's pillow and inquiring
of him in low, mournful tones if anything could be done to give him comfort, and
again, with stifled sobs, eating some chocolate caramels which she carried in
the pocket of her apron. The servants went to and fro with that quiet and
subdued tread which prevails in a house where death is an expected guest, and
even the crash of broken china and shivered glass, which announced their
approach, seemed to fall upon the ear with less violence and sound than
usual.
Lord Oakhurst was thinking of days gone by, when he wooed and won his
beautiful young wife, who was then but a charming and innocent girl. How clearly
and minutely those scenes rose up at the call of his memory. He seemed to be
standing once more beneath the old chestnut grove where they had plighted their
troth in the twilight under the stars; while the rare fragrance of the June
roses and the smell of supper came gently by on the breeze. There he had told
her his love; how that his whole happiness and future joy lay in the hope that
he might win her for a bride; that if she would trust her future to his care the
devotedness of his lifetime should be hers, and his only thought would be to
make her life one long day of sunshine and peanut candy.
How plainly he remembered how she had, with girlish shyness and coyness, at
first hesitated, and murmured something to herself about "an old bald-beaded
galoot," but when he told her that to him life without her would be a blasted
mockery, and that his income was £50,000 a year, she threw herself on to him and
froze there with the tenacity of a tick on a brindled cow, and said, with tears
of joy, "Hen-ery, I am thine."
And now he was dying. In a few short hours his spirit would rise up at the
call of the Destroyer and, quitting his poor, weak, earthly frame, would go
forth into that dim and dreaded Unknown Land, and solve with certainty that
Mystery which revealeth itself not to mortal man.
II
A carriage drove rapidly up the avenue and stopped at the door. Sir Everhard
FitzArmond, the famous London physician, who had been telegraphed for, alighted
and quickly ascended the marble steps. Lady Oakhurst met him at the door, her
lovely face expressing great anxiety and grief. "Oh, Sir Everhard, I am so glad
you have come. He seems to be sinking rapidly. Did you bring the cream almonds I
mentioned in the telegram?"
Sir Everhard did not reply, but silently handed her a package, and, slipping
a couple of cloves into his mouth, ascended the stairs that led to Lord
Oakhurst's apartment. Lady Oakhurst followed.
Sir Everhard approached the bedside of his patient and laid his hand gently
on this sick man's diagnosis. A shade of feeling passed over his professional
countenance as he gravely and solemnly pronounced these words: "Madam, your
husband has croaked."
Lady Oakhurst at first did not comprehend his technical language, and her
lovely mouth let up for a moment on the cream almonds. But soon his meaning
flashed upon her, and she seized an axe that her husband was accustomed to keep
by his bedside to mangle his servants with, and struck open Lord Oakhurst's
cabinet containing his private papers, and with eager hands opened the document
which she took therefrom. Then, with a wild, unearthly shriek that would have
made a steam piano go out behind a barn and kick itself in despair, she fell
senseless to the floor.
Sir Everhard FitzArmond picked up the paper and read its contents. It was
Lord Oakhurst's will, bequeathing all his property to a scientific institution
which should have for its object the invention of a means for extracting peach
brandy from sawdust.
Sir Everhard glanced quickly around the room. No one was in sight. Dropping
the will, he rapidly transferred some valuable ornaments and rare specimens of
gold and silver filigree work from the centre table to his pockets, and rang the
bell for the servants.
III—THE CURSE
Sir Everhard FitzArmond descended the stairway of Oakhurst Castle and passed
out into the avenue that led from the doorway to the great iron gates of the
park. Lord Oakhurst had been a great sportsman during his life and always kept a
well-stocked kennel of curs, which now rushed out from their hiding places and
with loud yelps sprang upon the physician, burying their fangs in his lower
limbs and seriously damaging his apparel.
Sir Everllard, startled out of his professional dignity and usual
indifference to human suffering, by the personal application of feeling, gave
vent to a most horrible and blighting CURSE and ran with great swiftness to his
carriage and drove off toward the city.
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