THE SIGNATURE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXV, Issue 14, 7 October 1905, Page 14

THE SIGNATURE

M. Hardy in “ Temple Bar.”

JUST as the train moved off George Townley rushed down the platform and Hung himself on to the seat of a first-class smoker, purple in the face and almost bursting with heat, and want of breath. For a mile and a half he had kept up a fast trot, ami for the last two or three hundred yards he had galloped. This on a warm and muggy October day, in a heavy Newmarket overcoat, and ear vying a large Gladstone bag. Nature had made him a thin, austere-looking man, but at this moment he felt as swollen as a puidieah. tie was facing the engine; and, under the frown of the man opposite; he Hung down the window. The air came in with n sfe-miy si nut bearing blast. But, though the inan <ippi>eite, ostentatiously turned up bis. erjat collar, George Townley only foqihl h.iniwlf growing hotter. He pitched ..bis silk. Juit -into .the rack above him, and, leaping back against the cushions, mopped his face ami neck. The word *’s|pok,iug \ on the window caught his eye,, and he fumbled for his cigarette ease. But his hands trembled so that he could scarcely open it, and when at last he got a cigarette between his quivering lips he had io leave it there unlight-' ed, for his lingers could not strike a match. As the heat subsided George Townley began to collect his thoughts. Though'he was a man of middle age, it was the first time in his life that he had travelled first class. Even now he had not got a first-dlass ticket, but he realised with satisfaction that at last, if he chose, he could afford to pay for one at the other end. He determined that, even if the tickets were not collected till the train got to London, lie would lie honest and say "first” instead of "third” or "season.” For now he could afford to be hoiiesi. Complacently ho stroked his full black beard. His beard it was, not. by Hie gift of nature, but by purchase from a shop. Complacently he regarded the new Russia lent her Gladstone bag witli the initials G.T. neatly painted on it. G.orge I ownlev was bis mime, not by baptism ami inheritance, but by chance t ion :iiid fraud. Ip to last Tuesday Josiah Broadhurst, though only in a small wav of lmsim.-s. had been a highly resuecteif »itjizen in a large country town: a ehnrehwarden. and the treasurer of half a dozen charitable institutions and mutual insurance societies. Now the rector of that country town was bemoaning the loss of the fund collected for the repair of the church roof: many of his flock were staring vacantly before them, wondering why thieves ami hypocrites should prosper, while honest and pious men suddenly lost the savings of 10, 30. or .>0 years’ hard work; the widows and orphans and the aged poor were beginning to realise that, after alt, the .workhouse must be their home. One and all. loudly or silently, were proving tor the return of that long-faced, clean" shaven hypocrite. Josiah Broadhurs'. And George Townley, laughing in his great black beard over the thought of I heir angry helplessness, was travelling II P Io l.ondon in Josiah Broadlivist’s Stead. I lie train was an express, due to arrive in just over the hour. Before ten minutes had passed George Townley had grown cook Jle put up the window; and the man opposite, smiling grimly, turned down 4iis coat, collar again. George Townley shivered and buttoned up his Newmarket; then ho opened his Gladstone bag,' took out a cloth cap, ami jammed it lightly over his irou-grny wig. From cool he rapidly grew to cold. The reaction had ect But cold though lie was. his running had tired him. The motion of the train WM southing, the cushions were soft.

Presently he dozed. Only for a minute or two. Then he awoke; and when he awoke he was afraid. Afraid —horribly afraid! for the last six years he had had only one object in life —to be rich; and in order to obtain that object he had decided to defy all powers, human and divine. He had attained it: about his person, and in his bag, he carried thirty thousand pounds, his by right of scheming, energy, ami stonyheartedness. And now that he had obtained it, he was afraid, horribly afraid. Not of being caught and punished; he had planned too carefully for that. No, he was afraid that he was going to die. lie was a man of some imagination, with a strong sense of dramatic justice. Successfully had he defied the human power—his fellow-men. Bub the power divine was so different: so incalculable. so impossible to provide against. He had made up his mind to defy it; he had defied it. Ami now that he had got his soul’s desire, he. had a terrifying, over-powering feeling that all his scheming was about to b? brought to nought. He would die. It might happen so easily in so many ways. His fellow-travellers might be thieves and murderers. Furtively he glanced round at their faces. There were three of them: and they all looked respectable. But one never knew. He himself had always looked intensely respectable; yet he had no doubt that at that moment hundreds were calling him worse than murderer. Then there might be a- railway accident. What scores of little things there were, any one of which might cause an accident! A railway accident was such a hopeless thing to struggle against; it came so.suddenly, and stretched so far. True, the odds were enormously against it; but dramatic justice delights to win against long odds. Yes, it would bo a railway accident. The idea rooted itself in his mind. Before the train reached London there would be an accident; and in that accident he would be killed. He was terribly afraid of dying, even of the physical pain of death. He wondered whether ail would be over in an instant, or whether he would linger on some time. Where would the blow strike him? I low would the accident occur? Up thought of crawling under the scat, and lying there face downwards. Thon he half jumped up. with the intention of pulling the communication cord; but stopped as the idea occurred 1o him that this might bp the very means by which the accident woidd le caused. No, Fate should do its own work, and not in any way be helped by him. The train was going very fast now, and the carriage rocked from side to side. The view from the windows slid rapidly from dusk to dark. (.’purge Townley huddled himself up in his Corner, and. with heavy beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, gized glassily at his fellow travellers. He wondered if they, too. were going to b' killed. One was a very old man. with a skull-cap and an intermittent cough; he, at any rate, looked ripe for the harvest. Anot her was a hloate.l. middleaged man. smoking a long cigar; obviously a person of no value to any one but himself, whom a discrimin.it ing Providence would be glad to remove. The third was much the same looking man as George Townley had been ill the character of Jo<iah Broadhurst, but better off; under an austere exterior he, too, probably hid a scoundrel's heart. All three seemed likejy e subieel s for a railway accident. lie wondered what the verdict of tbft coroner’s jury would be: accidental loath or the hand of God? Whore would they bury him? There was no need for spike, as they would get their money b.irk. That was a gulling thought: they would bo able to laugh at his failure; they would despise him. To be merely hated was not so bail as to be both hated and despised. Could he baulk them by

hurling the money into sonic river? But then, if by any vliawee divine justice •should miss lire, and Jie should win through after all, he would have east away his riches for nought. No: while life was in him lie would cling to his money-bags. J he train rumbled, groaned, jerked, and then drew up just outside a small station. George Townley’s agony reached its highest point. This would be Jia end. 'While his train was stationary, another would burst into it from behind. Almost light-headed with terror, he began to count the seconds till the new train came. Presently he felt a slight vibration, which increased with great rapidity; and then, quite close, came the thunder of iron upon iron. George Townley shut his eyes, and, with his frenzied fingers gripping the rack above him, waited for the crash. M itli a shriek and a roar the train for which bis own had been waiting rushed by on another line. Then his train moved on. George Townley’s relief was only momentary. Two tunnels in quick succession left him wondering whether lie were still alive. Then came a long subterranean station, and finally the great terminus itself. Once more hope surged back into bis heart. Divine justice, after all. was going to prove a failure. Dizzily lie rose to his feet, and with frantic lingers struggled to fasten up the straps of his bag. Even yet there was lime for an accident, even yet some stupid signalman might send another train Hying into them. Despite his feverish haste, the other three passengers all ambled out leisurely before him. At last the bag was fastened; and out he jumped. Half-way down the long platform he had hurried before be discovered that his head was bare. He could not go on without his hat; it would make him too remarkable; and he objected to remark. So back he rushed. Then he found that he had forgotten his compartment. In and out of the compartments, one after the other, almost shrieking with rage find fear, he thrust his white, strained face. At last he had it, and nt a shaky trot he hurried down the platform. There was a large crowd at the barrier; and lie pushed his way into the midst of it. Then lie remembered that he had no ticket. If he offered to pay, it would mean explanations, and waiting till everybody else had passed; perhaps another five minutes or more in the horrid- choking station. Tie would risk it. The human current carried him up to the iron gate; and, in as firm a voice as he could muster, he said, "Season.” and tried to pass. The ticket collector looked sharply at him- and put out a detaining hand. “I beg- your pardon, sir; but I must ask you to show your ticket.” "I haven't it on me,” stammered George Townley. “I am in a hurry. Kindly let me pass.” "I am afraid I must ask you to stop and see the stationmaster.” said the man. "Those arc iny orders. It won’t take five minutes.” Just as the last passenger was let through up came the stationmaster. "Left your season ticket behind you, sir?” he inquired. “Will you kindly write your name ami address in my book In a semi-dazed condition, George Townley walked to the stationmaster’s room. Mechanically he took the pen which was offered him. and wrote his n.line and address. The stationmaster looked at the book, glanced swiftly at the writer’s face and whistled. "You are tired, sir,” be said, respectfully. "Will you rest here a minute or two?” He shut up the book and placed it under his arm. Then he stepped outside. and spoke to a couple of porters. George Townley, left to himself, sank into a chair. lie was dreadfully tired; mid here, at any rate, he was safe. No fear of a train runmfig off the line so far as this. Divine Justice, after all, was only a myth. His head fell forward on io the table in front of him; and. in a few seconds’, he was asleep. 'The opening of the door awoke him. lie lifted his head drowsily, and saw three men in the doorway, looking at him. One of the men stepped briskly forward. "Good evening, Mr Broadhurst,” he saul. " George Townley was on his feet in a second. The shock had aeted on him like a tonic; mid lie was as cool and calculated as ever. Either he must have misheard, or the use of the name was a mere coincidence. For the man who addressed him n.is a complete stranger.

“My name is Townley,” he said quieCs ly. “Here is my card.” u The man smiled. "Your pardon, sir. But may this ba your handwriting?” , lie thrust the stationmaster's book under George Townley’s nose. There, in his usual hand, was his usual signature. “Josiah Broadhurst,” and below it his country address. Then. George Townley realised that divine vengeance, after playing with him for an hour or more, had contemptuously tossed him over to the vengeance of man.