THE OTHER FELLOW.

Waimate Daily Advertiser, Volume VI, Issue 11, 28 January 1905, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE OTHER FELLOW.

It was Christmas Eve. and right seasonable weather. Too seasonable, pcrlwps. for a number of shivering, ill-clad beings, who gaze wistfully at town upon rows 'of plump, roectte-decomted geese and tiirkeyw stacks of nuts aftd oranges, fat pork aud pale sucking-pigs hugd ‘pic'C'ta of rich, juicy-looking beef and mutton, cut from animals that have taken prizes—and. if the butchers are to be believed, there are ail prizes and no blanks at the shows taking place during thin aeason—yards of sausages, and superabundance, in fact, of everything eatable that fills the brilliantlylighted shops. Poverty is never a light burden. Heaven knows, but it must be a

doubly heavy one to bear at Yuletide. Overhead the frosty brilliance of the stars gives promise of a continuance of frosty weather. A keen north-easter is blowing the dust into folks’ eyes; but what matters such a trifle as this on Christmas Eve?” A young man comes to a sudden halt at a street corner, and leimirqly surveys the living stream, of which he, has eretwhil© been forming one drop, flow merrily by him. A good-looking young fellow, wellclad, or ho would not hare fixed upon .such a thing as a street corner for his post of observation. Altogether, a young man whom one would expect to be wearing a somewhat more cheerful expression of countenance than is this one. It has been said that none' but the ovildoer can feci miserable at the sight of others’ happiness, yet, apart from the peccadilloes that fall to the share of the average young man, our friend is no evildoer, aud the cause of his forlorn expression at thia moment is undoubtedly the sight of so much happiness round him of which he cannot partake. Christmas! Ab, the world has lusk it* magic for him now, but there was a time hu can remember when Christmas was something more to him than a name; when ho dwelt on it in anticipation weeks and weeks before its arrival, busy on a hundred plans for the holidays, and noting with joy the ever-incrensing aigris uf its advent. To-night. a*> he watches the folk round him, each one. as it seeitib to him, intent on making a purchase of some sort, his mind is carried back tx> thoatpYulel- - when he, too, was filled with a pleasing anxiety as to the best method of laying out his small stock of cash in presents. But all that was many yeai« ago; he Im>< no dear ones now to think of at Christmas time, and as he looks at the passers-by. with a cynical smile on his face and a secret wish in his heart that he could share their happiness, a great sense of loneliness creeps over him that only those who have themselves been strangers in a big city / will be able to understand. In fact, not once since his return to the old country some weeks back has our friend felt qliite 8.7 "out of it” as he does to-night, "I’ll get back to Canada before long,” he mutters, as he turns and retraces hi« steps. "The old country, seems a new country to me now.” And juot then his reflections came to a sudden pause as a girl brushes swiftly by him. Not so ewiftly, however, but that he haa been able to see that aho is very pretty, very sad, aud very poorly dressed. Now, the sight of a pretty face is no new experience to Arthur Norbury. He has scon scores of handsome women in his time, ay. and could have had the pick of * them, in a manner of speaking, for in tile country of his adoption he is looked upon with respect, as a man who has "made his pile,” and more than one anxious “mamma” has thrust her daughters at him, but with such poor success that hitherto his operations on the matrimonial Stock Exchange may be described as being more in the “bear” line than any. But whether or no, it is the fact of both he and the girl scorning in their loneliness so out of place among the light-hearted multitude, that has established a sort of freemasonry between them, certain it is that he is now gazing after her with a goocl deal more interest than he has yet displayed this evening. He turns round, takes a few steps after her retreating figure, then as suddenly stops again. In spite of hi* rough education and Colonial lack of polish, Arthur is no cad, and it strikes him as somewhat of a mean thing to dog a lonely girl’s footsteps. But it so happens that* some one else has been attracted likewise, aud not possessing such a scrupulous conscience as our friend, he first endeavours to stare her out of countenance, then, as she passes him by in evident oblivion of his existence, the stranger saunters along a few paces behind her. . A stylishly-dreßßetl young fellow, smoking a cigarette, and carrying a cane at the constant and imminent risk of endangering someone vise’s eyesight. Again Arthur hesitates, while for a moment there flits across his mind a vision of a cosy room, warm slippers tea stewing on the hob, and muffins dragging out a dry and useless existence by the fire. "Moreover,” argues Conscience, "two J wrongs never yet made a right, and the fact of one fellow making a cad of himself is no excuse for another doing likewis®.*’ The obvious reply to this is that the second fellow will not be following the girl, but the other fellow. Long before arrivj ing at this conclusion, however, our hero is within arm’s reach of that jauntilyswinging stick. "Bah !” he mutters to himself, presently, "I am getting too old for such child’s plav as this. Supposing he turns out to be her swoethoaort, who wants to give her a pleasant surprise, or something like that!" But for all that he does not slacken his pace one whit. ‘ So the chase continues, up one afreet ! and down another, (ill Arthur has thur- • oughly entered into the spirit of the thing. and has so sagaciously settled it in his I mind that (he lady is awaro of the pursuit, and that the other follow is not her

sweetheart—a conclusion. that somehow seems to afford our friend a certain amount of satisfaction. In the eagernees of his quest the other fellow seems not to, have the slightest idea that he himself is followed, and when by-and-by he comes to a halt near a small shop the girl has entered, Norbury takes up his position, and waits too.

A few minutes, and out she steps, with one or two small parcels in her hand. In a half-terrified, half-hopeful glance round she catches sight of her tormentor, and is off again, threading the busier streets with a quick step, as if in the hope of wearying him. But he is not shaken off so easily, and when she slackens her steps he adapts his pace to hers in the coolest manner imaginable. Once she comes to a stop so suddenly that, being pressed by the crowd, he cannot help overtaking her, when he takes advantage to whisper something in h?r ear—some coarse insinuation, doubtless, for she turns her head sharply aside, and Arthur, who has noted it, feels his pulses quickening with anger, and mentally resolves that someone shall spend a bad quarter of an hour presently. Now the girl, apparently losing sight of her pursuer, glides swiftly down a quiet by-street, but Norbury, who has watched his man suddenly swing off in another direction, is not so easily deceived, and follows as closely as he can. Neither is he mistaken; the other fellow evidently has an idea of his victim’s destination, and shortly comes to a full stop near the corner of a small, dimly-lighted street, while Arthur, determined to see the game out now, slips through an open gateway and crouches low.

Light footsteps come pattering down the street, then suddenly stop. Arthur hears a faint exclamation in a woman’s voice;' and peers out. Yes, it is the same girl, and the other fellow, who has strangely enough, dropped his jaunty air, and is talking to her in low, earnest tones. Fragments of their conversation fall on the listener’s ears. . . .’ “Elude you,” from the woman, who speaks with a slightly foreign accent. “Of course not. . . . The sign. . . . How should I know?” “You have led me a pretty dance, then,’ growls the man. “Who are you, to spy upon me?” replies th i woman, raising her voice, {hen lowering it again at the warning admonition of her companion, till Norbury can only catch what follows in disjoinaed sentences “The Unity. . . served.it faithfully for years. . . . trust me on a small matter like this.” “The time is brief. . . To-morrow,” ho hears the man say, and then there is silence. The pair have meanw’hile slowly drawn near his hiding place, and Arthur can hear the next remarks distinctly. “Take a friend’s advice, Nina, and dally no longer,” says the man. “You are on intimate terms with this man; you—” “You are evidently well acquainted with my doings, Monsieur Berot.” “Hush! not that name here. I am Fandel now.” “Ah ! And for how long have I been under your surveillance, Monsieur Faudel?” “It is of no matter. The Unity has many eyes, remember. There may be others beside myself. Others who would not have warned you.” “Warn me!” “Just so. It is a dangerous game that you play, Nina, with this traitor Englishman.” The girl laughs scornfully, but the man presses his face, strangely white and set. cloee to hers. “Shall I tell you why you delay to strike the blow?” he says, in low, intense tones. “You love this man. Ah ! I have guessed * your secret. And why? Because I, Nina, • love you. Oh, you need not turn away and pretend to shudder. I ” ' “It is enough,” the girl interrupts him, with an impatient gesture. “I will not have your love of your advice. I have till to-morrow to prove inyself faithful to my trust.” “Till to-morrow night—Christmas night,” the man sternly and slowly repeats, gazing thoughtfully at the little figure before him. “Remember what I said—the Unity .has many eyas —or his fate may overtake you.” But the girl, with another mocking laugh, flits like a shadow across the road, leaving him stating there with a heavy frown on his face. Another minute and he, too, walks away, while Arthur emerges from his hiding place, puzzled, and not a little, disturbed by what he has just witnessed. “Whew! There’s something warm brewing there, I’ll bet,” he mutters. “Who w r ould have dreamt my chivalrous dream of rescuing a pretty maiden in distress was going to end like that? Such a refined, pathetic, little face, too. I beg your Hallo ! Morrison, old man !” “How do, old chap?” replies the man whose toes have just had such a narrow escape from Arthur’s stoutly-shod feet. “Where are you running off to?” “Well, I was just thinking of getting some tea. Will’you come back with me?” . “Not now, Arthur; I’ve one or two little things I must get off to-night. But if you care to drop in at my diggings later on and have a friendly pipe, I shall be pleased.” “Right you are. About ten?” “That’ll do. You know the address?” “Yes.” “Ta;ta for the present, then.” “So long.” Norbury sits a good while over his tea to-night, although, in spite of the lateness of the’ hour, his appetite is not. very hearty. His thoughts ate busy on the little scene he was the uninvited spectator of some little while back; but though he smokes two pipefuls of tobacco over it he can come to no satisfactory conclusion concerning it, and he at length rises and • glances at his watch with an air of relief. . 9 chat with his old school-mate will sweep away these troublesome cobwebs from his mind. Ralph Morrison lives in a somewhat dieary, though semi-fashionable, part of London. He looks up from Iris writing with

a nod Arthur entera’tfye untidy-looking room thaV every where bespeaks the single of its tenant. * ;< “Just famishing,” he A. minute later fie throws down his pen, and, going to the'cupboard, produces a spirit decanter and syphon of soda-water. “Heljp^roureelf,, oldr;manL”> he says. “I make it a rple never to wait bh my friends unless „ “Unless what?” Norbury, as the other in lighting fiis pipe corrie® to a sudden halt. “Unless” . puff —& “they are”—puff — “ladies. Here’s to wS “And a Merry Christmas,” adds Norbury. “Well, Arthur,” says Morrison, as he stands his glass on the mantelpiece and gives the fire a vigorous poke, ‘talking of girls, I suppose you intend to marry and settle down in the old country?” “I don’t know about marrying. Women and I don’t seem to hit it, somehow, together.” “Ah, you will find things different, old man, now that you’ve made your bit. There is no sound so musical to a woman’s ear as the chink of coin.” “Maybe’. But enough of myself. I want to hear how you’ve been going on all this time. You were in such a deuce of a hurry the other night that I hadn’t an opportunity to ask you.” “Oh, I am grubbing on in a sort of hand-to-mouth fashion. Bit of writing,” he waved his hand towards the pile of papers ; “and when I’m in the mood, a picture of some sort. I’ve rigged up the next room as a studio.” “And this is your literary den?” Morrison laughs. “I don’t know about literary,” he says. “My old housekeeper would agree with you as regards the litter, I suppose.” “You were always a long-headed chap at school, Ralph,” says Norbury, admiringly. “I used to tell ’em you’d turn out a 1 genius.” “So far my genius seems to have brought me precious little beside bread-and-cbeese,” replies the other, somewhat bitterly. “Journalism is a pretty little hobby, but as a bread-winning occupation ” “I don’t know. Seems to me you’re not fixed up so bad here.” “Ah! I’ve had my chance, and missed it. I had a nice little bit left me, you know, soon after you went away, and like the young fool I was, went and bio wed the lot in less than a couple of years. It makes me wild to think of it now.” “Never mind, old chap, money isn’t everything. I know that.” Gradually the conversation drifts into pleasanter channels—of old schooldays and companions, of the hundred ond one commonplace things that can interest two old acquaintances who have met again after an interval of many years. Presently Norbury rises and pulls out his watch. “One o’clock !” he exclaims. “By George! how the time has slipped away.” “I’ll walk as far as your diggings with you,” says the other. “A mouthful of fresh air will do me good.” “H—m !” observes Arthur, who, pending his friend’s preparations for outdoors, has been gazing at the photos adorning the walls. “You spoke rather cynically just now’, Ralph, of women, but all the same you seem to be an admirer of——” He breaks off with a sudden exclamation, and Morrison, pausing in the act of lighting a cigar, sees his friend gazing intently at one of the portraits. “Who is this woman?” he asks, in a low voice. “Do you know her?” “Rather! That’s Nina.” “Nina!” “Yes; a little French acquaintance of mine. She has sat to me once or twice for the face and shoulders. Not one of the regulars, you understand. But perhaps you know her?” “Poor little Nina! She would never tell me anything of her past life, though we got very chummy. Fallen on bad times, like myself, I believe, and that’s what established our comradeship.” Norbury gazes absently at him. / “Surely it can’t be that you’re the plan?” he mutters. \ “What’s up, then?” Good Heavens! man, don’t talk in riddles. What do you know of her ?” As briefly as he can, Norbury relates that evening’s adventure. Nor does he fail to notice the expression of amazement that at first overspreads his listener’s features, giving way to a ghastly grey as Morrison sinks into a chair and covers his face with his hands. “My God! Arthur. . . After all these years. This Christmas has brought me good tidings!” he groans. “You are that man?” “I am. It is a chapter of my life that I have kept from you and everybody else, one that I hoped was completely effaced. It all happened long ago, soon after I had fooled away my money. I wae left stranded in Paris, desperate, and ready to make war on anybody or anything. I joined th its secret society—the JJnity of the Millennium, as it was called—as precious a collection of assassinee, crafty schemers, and fanatics as ever you set eyes on. The scum and froth of the earth !” “What was the aim of the Unity?” “Oh, the usual upheaval and reformation of society. Some time after my initiation a plot was set afoot for the ‘removal,’ as they termed it, of a certain exalted personage. Lots were drawn, and—the hideous task fell on me! I pretended to be elated, but went home that night, full of horror at the step I had taken. But remorse was too late; I must either become a traitor or a murderer. I chose the former alternative, managed to throw my colleagues off the scent, and returned to England. “For a long time I lived in a Gtate of perpetual fear. The penalty for desertion was death, and mine was an aggravated case, for, as I read afterwards, the plot in which I was to have had a leading part was discovered, and one or two arrests made—that of this Berot, among others. Doubtless I was suspected of having betrayed them, and for many many months I started at every shadow, and the crack-

ing of a chair or board at night would wake me from the deepest slumber. Gradually. however, as time went on, and the Unity gave me no sign, I forgot my fears, until I came to look upon that part cff my life more as a bad dream than anything.” “The upshot of all of which is,” says the practical Arthur, “that you must get out of this place at once.”

“What! now ?” “Certainly. You never know when these gentry are going to strike.” “What is the use?” mutters the other, hopelessly. “They will have me in the long run. They are merciless.” “Look here, old man,” says Norbury, cheerfully. “You are a bit unnerved now, but you will take a different view of things after a good night’s rest. Believe me, I have been in just as tight a place as this dozens of times out there, and ” “Look, man ! Look !”

So softly has the door been opened that neither of the men has noticed it. But now, following the frozen stare of his friend, Norbury sees standing there, with a emile on her lips—Nina. For a moment or two they gaze dumbfounded at her, waiting for whatever is to happen next. “Is your friend talking business with you, Mr Morrison?” the girl says, still lingering on the threshold. “If so, I’ll withdraw; though I warn you that mine is probably more important than his.” “Am unearthly hour and manner to break i.i upon a fellow with talk of business. Nina,” says Ralph, making a desperate effort to recover his composure. “How did you get in, may I ask? The door is locked, and my servant gone to bed this last two hours or more.”

“All things are possible to a woman.” replies the girl, with another of her strange smile®, advancing into the room. “Well, well; I suppcse you must have your way, like the rest of your sex,” he says, with a short, nervous laugh. “This is a friend of mine, Mr.—er—Mr Tipon— Mies Nina ”

“Venier,” adds the girl, smoothly, as she accepts the chair Norbury, noticing the shaky condition of his friend, hastens to place’ for Her. There is a long pause, till Morrison bursts out abruptly with—- “ What is this business of yours, then, Miss—Miss Venier?”

“It is strictly private,” responds the gill in a low tone, with a scarcely perceptible glance at Arthur. “I have no secrets from my frielid—bufiinesH or otherwise,” replies Ralph. “Hang you!” he shouts, hysterically, rising from his chair and starting towards her. “I know what your business is, you she-wolf. Here I am ! Strike ! I say, and get it over.”

“You know me?” The girl has also risen, very pale, and stands facing him. “I do. You are the model of chastity, the refined little lady who has seen better days, the wanton of such assassins and criminals as Berot! What! you shrink from me now that I offer you the accomplishment of your mission. Surely your heart has not failed you at the last moment !”

A deep flush dyes her face and fades, leaving a carmine spot oh each cheek. “You may know me,” she says, quietly; “but you mistake my business.” “What?” Both men are hanging eagerly oa her words.

“You mistake my business. It is to save, not destroy, you I come.” “But you ” Nina gives an impatient little stamp of her foot.

“What is, it,” she replies. “The past is done with. Listen to me. Berot has watched me here to-night—l saw him through his disguise.”

Both men start back suddenly, for she has drawn a dagger within ah inch of their faces. With its point she pierces the skin of her round white arm and smears the blood over the glittering blade. “See!” she exclaims, with a smile at their bewilderment, as she replaces the weapon in its sheath. “That is for Mon»:eur Berot. I shall tell him it is your®, Ralph, and he will go to bed as happy as any child in its dreams of Santa Claus.”

“But he is bound to discover the truth socner or later,” says Morrison. who has been staring at her open-mouthed. “By that time, my friend, if you are the wise man I take you for, you will have put a big ocean between this country and yourself.” “And you do this unconditionally—without any hope of return?” asks Morri son, with suspicion. “Shut up!” puts in Arthur, roughly. “And you?” he adds, in a gentler tone, turning to Nina. “What will you put between yourself and this man’s revenge?” “I, Monsieur says the girl, with a sad little smile. no fear for me. It is th? good that die young.” “And traitors!” exclaims a deep voice from behind her.

They all look up in dismay. There, in the doorway, stands the other fellow, with his thin lips curved into a cruel smile, and both hands held behind him. Ln the next second there is a scuffle, the sound of a pistol shot—a woman’s scream, and a big crash as the assailant is brought to the floor by a timely blow from Norbury’s heavy stick.

“He won’t trouble us for a few minutes,” mutters the latter, as he bends over him, and removes the smoking revolver ficm liis unconscious grasp. Then he turns to the other®, and utters an exclamation of surprise, for it is Nina, not Ralph, that has been hit. “She ran in front of me, just as that brute pulled the trigger,” Morrison tells him, huskily. Tenderly they bear her to the sofa, and stanch the flow of blood as beet they can with pocket w handkerchiefs. “Stay by her while I run for the doctor.” It is only in a whisper that Nor•bury has spoken, but apparently Nina hears, for she opens her eyes and shakes her head slowly in dissent. “It—is—too—late,” sire says, with an effort. “Too late !—lil:«—my—repentance,” Then her vacant wandering eyes fix themselves on Morris-.n’s, and an anxious

expression comes into them. He bends down to catch the words that come fluttering from her now like broken sighs. ‘'Are—you—hurt?” “No, dear; you saved my life. O Nina, can you forgive?” A smile settles over her pale mouth, and a happy light shines in her grey eyes. A moment of silence. Nothing can be heard but the ticking of the men’s watches, and the painfully drawn breathing of the dying woman.

The eye® are still upturned towards Morrison’s, but the light is fading fast. Now the lips are moving again, and though no sound comes from them, Ralph understands, and kneeling by the couch he places one arm tenderly under the slight form, and presses his lips to het». And the light flickers and goes out for ever.