THE HERO.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXXII, Issue 15606, 3 May 1911, Page 12

THE HERO.

(By H. DE VERB STACPOOLE)

Author of “ The Blue Lagoon,” ‘‘ Tho Pools of Silence.” Etc. [All Rights Reserved.] The Triton, of the British East African line, bound from Southampton to the Cape, was just casting off from the wharf; the rumble of the great boilers preparing to cast ‘'heir steam into tho cylinders, tho rattle of a steam winch swinging tho last crate of luggage aboard, tho shouting of quartermasters, the crying of gulls lro ; m the harbour, tho crying of babies, the voices of fifteen hundred passengers, half of whom wero searching for luggage and half of whom were bidding good-bye to friends, made a fitting accompaniment to tho turmoil of tho decks.

On tho boat dock, leaning on the rail and with his eyes fixed on tho wharf, stood a man of some forty-five years, middle-sized, well-dressed, plain of face, neutral-tinted. A man who, to judge from appearances, had walked all his life in the. very middle of the clean high road of respectability. Internally—-could you have opened his skull, as one opens a box, and peeped in at bis thoughts, you would have found tho mind ot Mr John Musgravo as respectable as his overcoat, as neu-tral-tinted, and as well-cut according to tho canons of convention. I doubt if you could have found amidst tho fifteen hundred passengers of tho Triton a mind as content, for in tho twenty years of prosperity which lay immediately bohind him, I doubt if Mr Musgravo could liavo found, outside tho chicanery of business, a bad action to bo ashamed of. A diamond merchant of Hatton Garden, prosperous in trade, respected by all men, happily marriod to a woman who loved him, ho was now taking a winter trip to Kimberley at the invitation of Harris, the diamond magnate. Threo months of summer weather, festivity, and perhaps good business lay before him, bo had excellent health, lie was a good sailor, tho Triton was a floating palace. No wonder that he surveyed tho grimy wharf with a satisfied eye entirely unaffected by the gloomy sky of tho dark November day. ’ . Tho gangways wore going now, now ] tho last hawser was cast off, and the tug was hauling the groat ship’s head out from the wharf, and now the tramp or tho engine began, dead slow, quickening to half-speed and then full speed ahead.

Musgravo was gazing at tho shore passing away on the starboard quarter when a hand gripped his arm. He turner! and found himself face to face with a man he knew, despite the alteration twenty-four years had made in him.

It was Jan Keyscr. Keyser, the man whom Musgravo had attacked, robbed, and loft for dead oh the South African veldt twenty-four years ago. TJioro are surprises in life that by their very vastness lose their true property. Musgravo standing before Jan Keyser felt no surprise, bo knew that this was no ghost, he knew that tho man ho had murdered in thought and attempted to murder by deed had, in some miraculous wav, escaped. Here was the fact boforo him in the person of tbo man, and before the man and tho fact ho stood unconfuscd in mindThat perhaps ivas his punishment. On the best of terms with life, prosperous, well-dressed, self-respecting; with twenty clean years behind him, he had leaned on the rail of the boat deck a hand had fallen on his arm, and ho had turned to find his self-re-spect swept away, his prosperity, nay, even perhaps his freedom. He had committed the deed urged by ill-luck, hatred of Keyser the lucky oiie and lust of gold. Prosperity had allowed him to develop, he had grown out of his sin. Callous by nature, he had buried his crime, forgotten it. taken its benefits and twenty years of respectable life had made of him a rospeetable man, only to reduce him in a second of time to his true proportions. “ Well. Mr Henderson,” said Keyser. “ Dick Henderson—good old Dick Hondersoii—that was what Murphy used to call you—shako I” He held out n broad hand. Ho was a powerful man, a man of Dutch extraction, with a face very broad across the cheek hones, a fine faco in many ways, and a terrible face in some ways. Musgravo held out his hand and Keyser took it and shook it. He laughed ns ho shook it. It was not only the laughter of revenge about to bo satisfied; it was sardonic as well, tho expression of a foreign humour, and more insulting than the vilest abuse. But even worse to the craven heart of the victim was the hand grip, the hard iron grip, the merciless grip, that said plninor than tongue could say, “I’ve got you. This is no chanco meeting. I have followed you long and followed you far, and now I’ve got you, Mr Henderson, good old Dick Henderson—for all your change of name, for all the twenty-four years that havo cloaked you.” Then tho half-fainting Musgravo felt his hand released. Keyser had dropped it, turned, and disappeared in tho surrounding crowd. But he had left something in Musgravo’s hand—a piece of paper, folded in four, which the wretched man glanced at, and then thrust into his pocket. Shaking and shattered, as a prisoner leaves the dock after sentence of death, Musgrave left the boat deck, crawled down the companion-way to the main dock, and sought his state-room. Ho i rang for the state-room steward, ordered somo brandy, swallowed it, and then, flitting on tho edge of his hunk, holding his head between his hands, he tried to think.

The thing was absolutely unprecedented. Had Keyser openly accused him, vilified him, struck him, tho position would have been more bearableBut Keyser had shown no sign of anger or even malignity, nothing but contempt and the triumphant assurance of the man in whoso hand the game Musgrave had placed the folded slip of paper on the bunk beside him, no took it now, opened it, and spread it on liis knees. “ Six years ago I found you under your changed name, but I was not then prepared, to do you justice, evidence taken tim© to collect and I had to find Murj>hy. Tho money in my possession that day, the money you robbed mo of, I was taking to ray wit© in Cape Town, sbo was an invalid, unable to rough it. unfit for work, bhe died from want. Tho money you robbed mo of would havo saved her. Stand ilf, and look at your crime and ask vour God to forgive you. I havo nothing to do with forgiveness—only punishment.” Musgrave, as ho read the message, felt tho physical nauscn that comes of pure, black terror. A crime committed is like a stone cast into a pool, tho splash only affects a certain space of tho water, bur* the ripples reacn who knows whore. Here was an innocent woman whom Musrrmvo had never scon, cl \>hom ho iiaci never heard and ho had killed her away tliero twonty-four years ago, and' for twenty-four years he had lived unconscious of the fact, and now the fact which had lieen lurking tigor-like in his past, had sprang forth to devour The money he had stolen wae tho baris of his prosperity and fortune, and tho wife of Jan Keyser had died for want of that money. He looked b3ck and saw again the ¥uo sky the arid veldt and the blaze of sunshine that formed the background of the tragedy. There had been three of thorn, Murphy. Kevser and Henderson. They iiad been prospecting for gold, they lrul hc-t'ii prospecting for threo months without finding a sign or indication of what they sought. It wm in tho days lone- before the Boer War, before Jame-

son's Raid, before Johannesburg had fully developed. They had no money to speak of at starting, but Murphy had influence at the Gape, and had they struck rich ground he could have brought capital to bear on it. Murphy was their main hope—after the gold—and he was their mainstay through their disappointments, for he was an optimist, and an optimist on an expedition of this sort is as essential as food and water.

One evening of a blazing September day they rode up to a farm on the veldt to ask shelter for the night. The farmer, a heavy old Dutchman of the Kruger type, who was sitting smoking his pipe on the stoep, gave them welcome, called a Kaffir to take their horses, and ordered his wife to prepare supper. Musgravo, as he sat on the edge of his bunk, could visualise the whole scene and the scene after 6upper when, sitting smoking their pipes, the three gold prospectors had Held a council as to their future proceedings. Ho and Keyser, sick of the fruitless business, declared their intention of throwing it up and pushing on to Harrisburg next day, there to look for work. Murphy, the optimist, declared that ho would stick to the business, till he dropped in his tracks ; and so it came about that next morn*ng at sun-up, Henderson and Keyser bade good-by to their companion, and. turning their horses’ heads, made for Harrisburg, which lay twentytwo miles away to the south-east and which they reached at about nine o’clock.

It was a small, tin-roofed, dusty town boasting a general store, a post office and a drinking saloon. Keyser dismounted at the post office, saving that there might be a letter for him, as a friend at the .Cape who owed him seme money had promised, if possible, to send him a remittance in a letter to bo called for at Harrisburg. lie went in, and Musgravo, sitting on the edgo of his bunk, could still feel the hot, dusty wind blowing in his face as lie sat that day waiting for his friend, nnd ho could still see Keyser’s jubilant face as ho came out flourishing the month-old letter in one hand and a sheaf of bank notes in the other. Seventy-fivo pounds there were. Seven ten-pound notes and a five-pound note, and Musgravo could still taste the whisky they drank in the little tinroofed bar to celebrate the good luck : whisky worso than “ Balloon Juice,’ 1 worse than “Valley Tan,” worse than “ Cape Smoke.” They carried a bottle of this poison along with them, and Keyser, a most abstemious man as a rule, under the influence of the drink grew jolly, then maudlin, then quarrelsome. He remembered how Koyser’s good luck hud rankled in his soul like the barb of a poisoned arrow; how the fight began he could not remember, but he could very well remember Keysor lying on his back, and his own ferocity, and how he had kicked the fallen one on the head and then knelt beside him. feeling his heart, which had ceased —so he thought—to beat. He could remember the flight to Cape Town with the seventy-five pounds in his pocket and the vision of the dead man behind him urging him along. How he had cashed the notes, how he had taken his passage to England as a steerage passenger under an assumed name, how with his crime his luck had seemed to change, good fortune pouring on him for twenty-four long years till now, a moment ago, when the whole hideous tragedy had. materialised itself and rushed upon him threatening destruction. Ho was awakened from his dream by a sound. It was the luncheon bugle. Should he go to the saloon—-would ho be thereP It was not a full ship, and though there were two berths in the cabin he had it to himself, there was no necessity for him to go to the saloon. Feigning indisposition, he could have ordered the steward to bring his luncheon to the cabin. Why torturo himself by sitting at meals in the same place, perhaps at the same table with the mail who, for him, was no longer a man, but Fate in a terrible shape? Yet he lmd to go. The fascination that draws the bird to the serpent, the fascination of the precipice that draws a man to the extreme edgo, and will draw him over if lie be not strong enough to resist it, the motive that makes a man draw near to the wirst of his fate, touch, examine and measure it, drew him towards Jan Keyser with irresistible powor. He tore up tho scrap of paper, and climbing into the upper bunk opened the huge scuttle of the port, a burst of sea breeze entered; a few yards below, the heavy, lead-coloured sea was rushing astern as the ship tore her way through it at twenty knots, and a few cable lengths away a fishing-boat on the starboard tack, and making for Yarmouth cut the leaden background with her brown mainsail.

He thrust his hand out cf the port with the scraps of paper in it, opened it, and let them flutter away like white "butterflies on the wind; then he closed tho scuttle and left the cabin.

Tho saloon of the ‘‘'Triton” was a huge apartment, big as the dining-room of tho Savoy or Cecil, and set out with numerous tables. A steward led Musgravo to his placo at a table near the door; at first he could see nothing of Koyaer, and then he made him out at a on the port side. *He took Ins seat. There was only ono other passenger at his table, a stout, business-like individual, far too much engrossed with the menu to bother about conversation, or notice the absence of mind and agitation cf his table companion. Had Keyser looked in his 'direction ; had he stared, had he even risen up and denounced him before the other passengers, the situation would have been, at all events, less uncanny, but Keyser, though he must have seen Musgravo enter, never once looked in his direction.

Just as a schoolboy who has committed some grave offence tries to imagine what punishment the stern and chilly-faced headmaster is about to mete out to him, so Musgravo sat at table with his eye, every now and then wandering from his plato to tho man lie roared. He left tho table before tho meal was over and returned to his stateroom ; lie got a hook from his portmanteau and tried to read it. Useless, tho thing had no interest, for, though he could hold tho threads of the sentences and the meaning of tho writer, the story seomod written for people living in a world different from that in which he was living—yet it had interested him yesterday. Late in the afternoon, he came on dock, the sea was still calm, and the boat deck was crowded, but there was no sign of Keyser; lie came down on to the main deck, he was not there; he wandered into the smoking-room, men were there drinking and smoking and telling yarns, but Keyser was not amongst them. 110 had vague ideas of going up to tho man he had wronged, asking for an interview and attempting an explanation, bub had ho met Keyser face to face ho would have slunk away without courage to speak, and in his heart of hearts lie knew this. What he really wanted was to sec and be close to tho object of his terror. Tn be alone with the thought of the Avenger was far, far worse than to be near him and to have him in view. When the bugle blew for dinner, he went to tho saloon and took his place. Keyser was not tlioro, but lie presnetly came in and went to the same table as that lie had occupied at luncheon, but lie never looked in tho direrticn of Mus. gravo. That night, Musgravo could not sleep, he was kept awake not by fear, but by r. great idea. Tho ship stopped for a few hours at Las Palmas, passengers would land to see the place ; he would step ashore with thorn and evade his fate, for he had in his mind as a certain fact that that at Capo Town his punishment would fall upon him, eithor in tho form of disgrace and imprisonment, or death at the bands cf the man whom he had wronged.

The idea of escape stilled his norvea liko an opiate. Ho no longer sought to bo near Keyser, ho went very little on deck, and took his meals in his own cabin.

• At nine o'clock on a beautiful morning the Triton cast anchor off Las Palmas. It was a Bix hours’ stop, for coal had to ho taken on board and a number of passengers were landing. They were crowded round the starboard gangway, tho steps had boon lowered, and tho ahoreboats were waiting at the grating.

Musgrave was amongst the passengers waiting to go ashore. Ho would lose all his luggage and. forfeit his tscVafc. but that was nothing. Ho had watched for Keyser, arid had seen no sign of him, escape seemod imminent, and he was moving forward with the rest when a broad, serge-covered back barred hie passago. It was Keyser’s. The back said as plainly as words, “ You shall not leave this ship.” He moved to one side, hoping to pass, but Keyser moved too. “ You shall not leave this shin.” No one heard the words, but to Musgrave they were spoken clearly and emphatically, lie dared not touch tho man in front of him or speak to him. He gave up, and, with shaking legs and lips dry as pumice stone, returned to his cabin, rang for the steward and ordered brandy.

At two o’clock that afternoon the Triton weighed anchor and started on the long run to tho Cape. If Koyser had been planning his vengeance for a thousand years he could scarcely have invented a more artistic or refined method of torture than that which he was now usiug against Musgrave. Musgrave was perfectly free as far as tho narrow boundaries of the ship went; he was respected by his fellowpassengers as far as their knowledge of him lay; and. this very freedom and respect were the spice of his torture. Around him were people happy and amused playing deck quoits reading novels making a holiday of the voyage, and he had to mix with them and dine with them, and answer them when they spoke to him—ho, a robber and a scoundrel, whose crime was ever before him, and whose punishment, unknown but surely terrible, was awaiting him at the end of the voyago. After a few days his sufferings were noticeable in his face and manner; he became the ghost of himself, and moped about alone. At night, sometimes, unable to sleep, he would open the scuttle of his port, and, lying in the upper bunk, look out at the sea rushing below. The porthole, as is common now on all big liners, was very large—quite large enough to let his body pass through, and tho temptation often came to him to slip out, and leave Keyser and liis troubles and the world for ever behind him.

The ship was on a level with Bathurst, when one evening Keyser, who was standing on the boat deck with his hand on the rail and a cigar in his mouth, felt a tench on his arm and heard a voice.

“ I, too, have got a wife,” said the voice. Keyser turned and looked into the white face of the condemned man; then he turned again, without speaking, and went on smoking as though he had heard and seen nothing. That was the last straw for Musgrave, and it was oil the next day at 1100:1 that the inevitable had happened. Keyser, who had a friend in the steerage, was standing on the after gratings talking to him. Tho ship was going at twenty knots through a heavy sea.

Suddenly, from away forward on the bridge, sharp and thin like the call of a gull, came the cry: “ Man overboard!”

Keyser rushed to tho port rail; ho was just in time to seo Musgrave’s pale face whirling away astern in the wasii of the snip. A lifebuoy had been flung, and Musgrave had clutched it and was clinging to it. Ivoysor saw this, and the next moment he had cast his coat and shoes off and was overboard.

Musgravo, when he had thrown himself overboard, had reckoned without Ills cowardice.

Tho well-flung lifebuoy had fallen within his grasp, and lie had grasped it. With tho sea hitting him in tho face and tho buoy .twisting and bucking and turning in his grasp, he saw the vast stern of tho Triton passing away from him; he saw a man spring over tho rail and strike tho sea, and then he saw, as tho waves lifted, him, tho head o* a swimmer .making for him. As tho swimnieT"’approached he saw Ins face ft was Keyset. The ship, though tho engines were reversed, was a full mile away, but Musgravo had forgotten tho ship—his eyes wore fixed on tho approaching face of Koyser. Now the two men were in touch, and Keyser was resting a hand on the buoy. “ You told mo you had a wife,” spluttered Koyser, and his broad face seemed beneficent to tho half-drowned Musgrave. “Fcr her sake, I forgive you 1 For her sake lam doing this!” Ho gripped Musgravo by the collar, forced Ins head under the water, and held it tnero in his powerful grin till all struggles ceased. Then, letting the body slip away and sink, ho clung to the buoy, waiting for the boat which the Triton had lowered.

At Cape Town, somo ten days later, under a glorious sunset, the Triton came into harbour. There was a meeting ir. the smoking-room that night, and tho presentation of a cheque (for the purchase of a piece of silver) to Jan Keyser, tho hero of the voyage. And tho widow of Musgravo is still searching for the hero to thank him for what* he did; and the humorous thing in the tragic business is that he deserves her thanks—in ft way.