THREE FATAL DROPS

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 50, Issue 74, 8 January 1930, Page 6

THREE FATAL DROPS

DYING BOY POISONED. % ONE PROTRACTED AGONY. • NOVELIST’S .GRIM SECRET. A remarkable manuscript ol deep human interest —the disclosure ol a dramatic incident in the life of a famous novelist—came into the possession of the London. “Daily Express recently, said that journal in its issue of November 15. It is from the pen of Miss Dora Christie-Murray, daughter ol the late Mr David' Christie-Murray, and it was accompanied by the statement that tne writer had been inspired to place the facts on record after reading the count of the trial of Richard Corbett ■on a charge of murdering bis mother, whom he killed, lie said, because she suffered from <ui incurable disease. Miss / Christie-Murray’,s story is as follows: When my father was a young man, travelling in. the Belgian Ardenens, he came across a cottage tucked away from civilisation, inhabited by an old couple and their son. The parents were of typical peasant class —heavy and loutist, their hacks bowed with work, neither expecting nor hoping for anything beyond l their lives of daily toil. But tlie 16-year-old son, a bright, flame-like spirit, was a changeling to their dull eyes. . . Without any hook-learning lie was a genius. Untutored, he had the knowledge with which all artists are horn, and above all he had the great, sorrow, ful gift of music. But all his beauty of soul was imprisoned in a sickly body that found work, of even the lightest kind, impossible. The parents, irritated hv his helplessness and frightened by his alien ways, found him a burden, a useless clog on tlieij* own dull, sßudkl lives, and the hoy in turn was bewildered by his parents’ lack of understanding and sympathy. In Incurable Disease. My father, naturally attracted by the boy, approached the parents with a view to adopting him, and was met with open-armed enthusiasm, 'lo cut a long story short, he finally took tlie boy away, resolved that hisj artistry should find its own level. Jhe hoy let us call him Henri—lived for a few; months in heaven, but the sickness ol his early life turned to an incurable disease, and, in spite of all the loving care my father gave him, he became feebler and feebler, and at last bedridden. All his days and nights, and finally all -his minutes, were one protracted agony that not even the most powerful drugs could assuage. The time came when it' was only a question of days before the end—and such days! Such aeons of pain, such helpless,' shrieking agony, that my father could hardly bear to stand by the bedside. Finally one day he turned to tho doctor, almost frantic with his inability to do anything, and said: “For God’s) sake, man, do something! 1 cannot hear to see this going on any longer!” / The doctor looked at. him strangely for a moment, then picked up a small bottle which he handed to him. “When I am gone, monsieur,” lie said, “and the pain becomes very acute, you may give Henri three drops of this medicine—just three drops; remember; more would he fatal.” “Three Dr&ps OnEy.”

My father said: “You mean —?” “Three drops only; more would he fatal,” repeated, the doctor. “Thank you,” said my father, and the doctor left the room. As he turned to where the boy was lying, exhausted after his last paroxysm of pain, Henri opened his eyes and said faintly: “I can’t bear it, sir. Help me!” My father, gentle as a woman, went do,wn on his knees and lifted tho hoy’s head in his arms. “My boy,” lie said “you have only a few more days to live, and' they will lie full of pain and agony. T have something here that might help to relieve the pain a little, and if 1 give it to you you will go to sfleep and never wake up again. Will you take it?” “I’ll take anything from your hands,” .said the hov. So, with hands that never faltered, my father poured out tho overdose and bold it to the hoy’s lips, and the hoy drank it trustfully, then settled down with a smile of unutterable peace, and just whispered, “God bless you. sir.” And. so fell asleep, and • sleeping, died.