"VENGEANCE."

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 2, 1 November 1899, Page 21

"VENGEANCE."

By Henry Dean Bamkohd.

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i^JF&gIFE knows no higher joy than that wr\) °^ ie mven t° r > wno realises his dream after many years of toil and disappointment. Robert Hill had been a young' man of much promise. At school he swept everything before him, and when he proceeded thence to the University all predicted a brilliant future for him. For two years it seemed as though these predictions would be fulfilled, when suddenly Hill developed into that strangest of all creatures — the crank. Possessed of true mechanical and scientific genius, he conceived the idea of a great, though seemingly impossible invention, and for five years devoted himself, body and soul, to the realisation of his idea. No pen can adequately describe his labours during that period. Baffled again and again when success seemed certain, he had been compelled to retrace his steps and to explore a thousand unexpected by-ways in order to surmount some stubborn obstacle that confronted him. The idea of his invention gradually became part and parcel of his life, and dominated his entire being. It was his ideal, his very god, and on it he lavished the whole wealth of his intellect, imagination and soul. And now, at last, success was certain. He was about to change from the " crank " to the " man of genius," that is, to the successful crank. Then suddenly outraged nature gave way, and for months he hovered between life and death, babbling incoherently of his invention, and fighting again in imagination the all but insuperable difficulties over which he had triumphed.

When, at length, his delirium slipped from him, he was but a shattered wreck of his former self. The keen, stubborn, inspired intellect that had confronted and overthrown so many difficulties, was weak and uncertain ; his body, neglected during year after year of isolation and unnoticed toil, was a poor wreck — fit tenement for a shattered intellect. The doctors held out no hope of recovery. Human brain and body had been too severely taxed, and nothing could be done save to watch life slowly ebb away.

One day, a year after his collapse, Hill happened to pick up a- newspaper containing an account of a marvellous invention, destined to revolutionise the history of science, and a eulogy of a great scientist, George Logan hv name, who had perfected this wonder after unheard-of application and labour. For a while he read on without interest, but, as ho read, a glimmer of recollection dawned upon his mind. Suddenly his head swam, for he realised in a flash that it was his own invention of which he was raiding. Steadying himself, he continued, anil byc-and-by his poor tottering wits realised the truth. While he had been lying, fighting for his miserable remnant of life, the achievement of year after year of colossal labour had been pilfered from him, and the fame he had justly earned stolen by another. His only college friend — the man to whom he had partly confided his daring thoughts — the only one who had not joined the crowd of pitying sneerers — had robbed him of his secret and his reward. As he realised all tliis — the treachery and diabolical meanness of it — his old keenness of intellect flashed back to him,

and he was no longer the half-witted

moribund

From that day he rallied and grew visibly stronger. Yet in that moment all his former greatness and loftiness were turned to a fierce, over-mastering lust for revenge. With passionate intensity he strove to live that he might wreak vengeance upon the robber of his hopes. And it seemed as though the very intensity of his longing revived the waning spark of life. He went forth into the world again, a frail wreck, indeed, yet living by reason of his mad passion

And so he lived for

a year — how, no man knows. In the fierce writhing depths of London poverty he existed, hoarding with frantic care the tiny store of wealth yet left to him, living almost entirely on stimulants without which life could not have been kept in that living corpse, his body. Children as they passed him shuddered, sometimes whimpered. He was, in deed, a strange

fearsome creature Beneath a noble forehead, formerly the throne of gorgeous, yet tempered imaginations, and the poetic longing of the true genius and inventor, flashed out two coal black eyes, gleaming with unnatural ferocity and cunning, and rendered doubly startling by the deadly whiteness of his skin. A grizzled, unkempt beard, a bent, emaciated frame, and that undefinable, vague, unmis-

takeable impression of insanity, all served to render him more terrible and weird-looking. He was waiting for his revenge — ever in fear that it would not come, hoping almost against hope that he might live till it was accomplished. The robber had gone to America, and Hill, with an almost frenzied

interest, read of the applause accorded him by the scientists of that country, and of the ever-increasing fame of the great invention. One day he read that the man was returning to England, and the shock of exultation almost quenched the flickering spark of life. Solemnly he prayed to God, with all the

force and intensity of his being, that he might live long "enough to meet Logan face to face. The suspense of waiting was awful. Again and again he fancied that death was upon him. Again and again some powerful stimulant revived and kept alive the vital spirit. At length the day came when Logan was to arrive from America. Hours before the vessel was due Hill was on the quay waiting. So weak was he that he could scarce stand without support. As the vessel drew alongside the usual crowd collected, and the poor madman was jostled on every side. He could scarce forbear to scream. A policeman looked curiously at him, and, by a superhuman effort, he regained his composure. At any cost he must not give way now. Mechanically he counts the pleats in the capo of a woman in front of him. Then his eye catches sight of Logan standing on the deck of the steamer collecting his rugs and baggage preparatory to coming ashore. At the sight of his enemy Hill becomes on the instant calm and purposeful. He has had twelve long months in which to form his plans, and he has made certain. The sight of his enemy steadies him. With perfpet clearness he takes in what is going on around him. He sees the hawser made fast to a pile, and the vessel slowly draw alongside as the strain on the rope increases. He hears the rattle of the winch. He sees Logan raise a hand and signal for a cab. Firmly he grips the revolver in his pocket, and waits. "Oh God, give me strength, give me strength ! Oh, my God ! " he mutters. Those standing near gaze at him, and shrink away a little. He presses forward to the edge of the quay.

Suddenly thero is a loud report. Tho hawser has snapped under tho strain of the winch, and recoils with deadly forco. Logan is struck full in tho side, and is swept like a straw into tho water. At the moment of the accident. Hill was so close to the steamer that he could not help but see all that happened. His tongue is dry and hard, and clings to his mouth. Ho opens his lips to scream aloud, but no sound issues. The unhappy Logan, though frightfully crushed and broken by the huge rope, rises to the surface of the water, and looks up with a mute appeal for help. Hill is gazing with a wild stare into the depths, and, as he sees the hated face appear, he springs out in maniac exultation before those around fully realised the catastrophe. He grips fiercely at Logan's throat and the waters close over the heads of the madman and his despoiler. * * # * # * When the bodies were recovered next day it was seen with silent awe that tin; lingers of the unknown beggar had actually met in Logan's throat, so great had been the ferocity of his dying grip. The newspapers contained a lengthy and sugared obituary notice of the groat inventor, George Logan, struck down in the fulness of his prime ; while, at the inquest, the jury added a rider praising the bravery of the poor outcast Avho had lost his life in the unavailing effort to save one whose loss to science was so irreparable. They buried poor Hill in a little crowded cemetery, and over his grave a few genorous philanthropists erected a cross, with tho simple inscription — " Greater love hath no man than this, that ho should lay down his life for hifi friend."