"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 27 August 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

(Author of “George,” “Two Men and Mary,” etc.

CHAPTER 11. (Continued'). As the spring progressed, Ferguson explored the country round Mossford more thoroughly. It was, generally, flat, but there were lovely little bits which he came to know. Beyond Ferry Wood, for example, he discovered a field path which, led to a water mill some three miles beyond, tucked away in a lost little valley. The mill was derelict and only the sound of the water splashing over the weir broke the silence of the valley. Above the weir was a deep pool, and one Saturday afternoon he came on a man fishing there. He didn’t appear to be catching fish, but as Ferguson watched him —physically and mentally the angler seemed to have relaxed—he realised the great truth about fishermen; the catch doesn't matter. Fishermen themselves will often deny this; nevertheless it is a fact that the great charm of angling is that results are of minor importance. Few occupations in life possess this charm.

The mill became Ferguson's favourite harbour—the word is used deliber-

ately. Usually the place was deserted, or at the most, there were a few anglers there. A gentle melancholy brooded over the spot; once the scene of considerable human activity and the repository of human hopes, it had ceased to strive, had passed out of the world where people are judged by results. He spoke of it to Mrs Gaddesden. “Yes, I know it,” she said. “My husband used to fish there years ago. I’ve still got his old rod and tackle. Not that he ever caught anything, but he always said that there were big fish in the pond.” “I think I’ll get a rod,” “You’re welcome to use my husband's.” During the week he went over the rod and tackle of the departed Gaddesden and with a little adjustment it proved to be still usable. On the following Saturday he set out immediately after the midday meal. The Mill was silent; he was completely alone there. It is a curious fact that one is never as consciously alone in such a place as one often is in the midst of a great city. Slowly and methodically he put the rod together and began his attack on the fish, if any, in the pool above the weir. Once, he might have had a bite; the float moved and the bait had disappeared. But beyond that, the actual result of the afternoon’s fishing was nil, unless one counts the sedative effect of the quiet hours by the gently moving waters.

He had brought some tea with him in a vacuum flask and was thinking about it when a girl, wheeling a bicycle, came along the path and over the little bridge. “Good afternoon, Mr Ferguson,” Mary Donovan said with a pleasant smile. “Oh, good afternoon!” he said. “Any luck?” “Not in the way of fish, I’m afraid. But it’s a lovely spot.” She was standing on the path still holding her cycle. “I was just about to have a cup of tea. Will you join me?” he suggested. “Have you enough for two?” she asked. “Whatever there is, we’ll share,” he said. “If I know Mrs Gaddesden, she's put up sufficient for at least two.” “I’ve some chocolate we can make up with,” she said as she leaned her cycle against a gate. He fixed his rod on an iron upright, knowing that it had almost as much chance of getting a fish on its own as with his assistance, and turned to the basket Mrs Gaddesden had packed for him. “Do you often come to the Mill?" he asked as he poured out a cup of tea for her.

“No. But I heard someone talking about it last week and decided to come. I recognised you as I came down the path from the road.” “It’s a very happy meeting.”

“I wonder if it is, Mr Ferguson. When I saw that it was you, I almost turned back.” “Whatever for? Am I so terrible?” he asked.

“No. But I have a feeling that you like being alone and .that it’s rather an impertinence to intrude." “Not at all. Really, I'm a very sociable animal.” he said with a smile. “And I’ve no friends in Mossford at all.”

“Then I'm glad I didn’t turn back. Most of the men in the office will be at the football match: it's the last of the season. But you aren’t interested?” “No, I’m not.” “Nor am I. But Mossford takes football very seriously.” “And you don’t, I gather?” “No.” “What do you take seriously? What do you consider important?” he asked. “That’s a very difficult question to be faced with suddenly," she smiled. “My job, 1 suppose—within reason. And the happiness of the people I’m fond of—my mother, for example. And,, I suppose, seeing that I get as much out of life as I can." He nodded as if he agreed. “And now you tell me what you take seriously,” she went on. “I wonder. At one time it was success. Now ... I dont know." “Happiness?” she sugested. “People seem to fight for success —as you call it —and when they’ve got it they don’t think a great deal of it." Again he nodded: “Life is like that. I’m afraid. Not," he went on. “that I’ve experienced this thing we call success.” “You’re settling down with us at Trevowe’s?” “I hope so. I'm beginning to feel quite at home there. I find the weekends rather lonely, though. There is really very little for a lonely person to do in Mossford."

“There's the Conservative Club,” she suggested. "But of course you may not be a Conservative!” "In any case, I know no one there. Still, as time passes, I shall get to know people, I. suppose.” "You mean to make Mossford your home?” she asked, after a silence. “I hope to,” he replied. “You’ll probably find us more reticent than Londoners,” she said and added with a smile, “Not that I’m particularly reticent, I’m afraid.’” "You've been exceedingly kind to me Miss Donovan,” he said. “I do appreciate it.” “Nonsense,” she smiled. “It meant a great deal to me,” he insisted. “That Saturday night at your aunt’s . . I wanted a friendly word . . badly.” “You’ll find that people here are friendly,” she said. “Look! The rod!” she suddenly cried, excitedly. Ferguson grabbed the rod and began to reel in. There was a half-pound perch on the hook. "Well, I'm bothered!" he said. “That just shows, doesn't it? We were talk-

ing about success." He removed the hook gently from the lower jaw of the fish and dropped it back into the water.

"I don’t think I like fishing after all,” he said.

“Why?” “I have a horror of anything' being captured or imprisoned.” “But you eat fish!” “Yes. I haven’t caught them.” “I think I understand what you mean,” she said quietly. Suddenly he smiled at her. He rarely did smile and it altered the expression of his face.

"What's the joke?” she asked. “I've suddenly remembered something. It’s an absurd story about a Chinese philosopher called Luen Chi who spent his life in fishing.” “Well?” she urged.

“But he used no bait—since his object was not to catch fish,” he added solemnly. “He was a philosopher?” she asked, gravely, after thinking over what he had said. “According to the story.”

Suddenly she, too, smiled: “I fancy I can understand Luen Chi,” she said. “Have a cigarette?” he suggested. “Thank you. Then I must go. I’ve a date for the pictures tonight. Do you ever go?” He held a match for her and for a while they smoked in silence. Once he glanced at her; she was looking out across the water where the old mil) was read in. the glint of the setting sun. For the first time, and almost with a shock, he realised that she was a very pretty girl. "A penny?” he said.

She turned her glance to him and smiled: “Actually, I was wondering what you thought of me.” “I’ve already told you. I think you are exceedingly sympathetic and kind. “Anyway, I’m glad you think so. And now having eaten most of your tea —in order to show you how kind I really am —I will go.”

She rose from the bank on which they had been sitting as she spoke. “The road’s at the top of this path? I cace across the fields from Ferry Wood. I'H’walk up with you and come back to pack up the rod.” He wheeled her cycle up the path and at the top watched her set out down the hill. At the bend in the road she waved to him, and with a queer, exhilarated feeling he turned back to the mill.

The meeting with Mary Donovan made all the difference to the afternoon, had dissipated the feeling of loneliness. He packed up the rod and tackle which he had used for the first and last time and set out across the field towards Mossford.

She had said that she was going to the pictures. He wondered with whom. Some youngster, he decided, who could meet her on level terms.

He fell to thinking of her delicatelycut profile as she had. looked across the water to the Mill. There was a wistfulness in her face which puzzled him. And suddenly, as he walked along, he realised that he had not consciously thought of a woman’s face since Lucia Desmund had filled his existence.

Lucia Desmund . . for months he had not thought of her at all. That he could do so this lovely evening, as he walked through the lush meadows to the shadowy wood ahead, without bitterness, was due to his meeting with this Mossford girl who had been kind to him.

He wondered what Lucia Desmund was doing and smiled a little grimly. Even her name was a fake. But that, he realised, was unfair. Lily Smith would hardly do as the name of an actress, and most of them changed their names. Probably she was somewhere on Easy Street. But it was foolish to dwell on her. She belonged to the past, to that portion of the book of his life which was closed. Here in Mossford a new chapter was opening—indeed, a new book beginning. The past was over; but was there the chance of a future?

He came to the wood, already pearlgrey in the deepening dusk, and realised that his spirit was lighter than it had been for a long time. “Did you have any luck?" Mrs Gaddesden greeted him. “1 caught one, but I threw him back.”

“They’re never any good,” the wise woman replied. “It’s the fun of catching them. I suppose. But there. 1 never could understand fishing." As he read his book that evening his attention was apt to wander from the pages. He assured himself that it was no concern of his. Nevertheless, he was wondering who was Mary Donovan’s companion. (To be Continued).