"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 30 August 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

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

CHAPTER IV. (Continue®. “Love!” exclaimed Mrs Donovan, a little contemptuously. “I don’t suppose I shall marry anybody,” said Mary Donovan. "A woman’s better married,'’ said her mother firmly. “But there’s no point in just marrying for a job or a living. I've got a job and a good one.” "You don’t want to spend your whole life tapping a typewriter.” “That’s true. Or darning George’s socks, either.”

“Why you can't go and fall in love with a nice young man like George beats me.” her mother exclaimed. “It would simplify matters, wouldn’t it? But apparently I cant.” “Of course, it isn't as if you had to marry; I see that. You'll have my little bit and your aunt's as well when we go.” “Now don’t get morbid, mother, and I’ll tell George!” Mary laughed and. kissing her mother, went up to her room.

But sleep came to her reluctantly that night. She heard midnight strike and one o’clock. She went over in her mind everything she knew about Ferguson, twisting the facts as she saw them, this way and that. For a moment, as they had stood at the front door that evening, she had glimpsed beyond the veil which was drawn over his life before he came to Mossford. Somewhere, somehow, in that life, he had come into contact with Lucia Desmund. She was certain of it. as certain as if he had told her himself. Twice she had seen the actress. Once in London and once, a year before, at the Theatre Royal in Mossford. She had a very attractive, husky voice, and she was very beautiful. It was curious that she should have remembered her so clearly. She had noticed the name that.evening on the little bill at the side of the theatre where they gave the following week's play. But gradually her thoughts centred on Ferguson.' The mere possibility of an imputation of dishonesty had upset him strangely. Why? He must have known that there was no cause to fear anything beyond a mistake. Curious, too, the way he had put that fish back in the water. He couldn’t bear to see anything trapped. Even her mother, prejudiced as she was in George's favour, had recognised that he belonged to a different class, had spoken of his education. She was right; it was strange that he had come to a place like Mossford —important as Mossford people were convinced it was —and taken up the position he had done. Stranger still that he should have been glad to be able to do so.

He evidently had influential friends —William Trevowe himself, for example. You could discuss things with him.

George just liked a film or he didn’t and that was an end of it; but Ferguson could talk about films, and ideas and experiences. One day he would tell her. The thought returned to her. One day she would understand. And until he saw fit to tell her she would never ask him a single question. It was a kind of faith she had in him. A trust. A.nd with that thought she fell asleep. CHAPTER V. At the Theatre Royal, Mossford, it is the custom to exhibit in the vestibule the photos of the leading actors and actresses who will appear during the forthcoming week. Usually the companies are, although Mossford may not know it, second-rate, and the Theatre Royal, despite its grandiloquent name, has a hard struggle to maintain its position against the all-conquering cinemas.

Ferguson went to the theatre on the Saturday after he had been to the cinema with Mary Donovan. .The company that week was a clever one. They gave a different play each evening, which, in itself, is no mean feat for a travelling company. He was rewarded with some excellent acting and on coming out noticed that the photos adorning the walls around the box office had been changed. There was a big one of Lucia Desmund. signed in the flamboyant writing he recognised: “Sincerely yours, Lucia Desmund.” It was what is. known as a “studio" portrait. He gravely contemplated it for a moment or so before a quiet smile touched his lips. Almost at once it left them and his face resumed its normal seriousness. Near to the big photograph he noticed another, and this time the whole expression of his face changed. It was of a dark, almost swarthy man and it bore the name “Teddie Wilson," Superficially, "Teddie Wilson" was a good-looking individual —as far as the photograph went, anyway.

But the hard look which had flashed into Ferguson’s face softened, and the queer little smile which the picture of Lucia Desmund had brought to his lips came back. He turned away, and slowly walked back to his lodgings in Manor Street.

It was two houses nightly at the Theatre Royal and Ferguson had booked seats on the Monday for the second performance. He met Mary Donovan outside the theatre at a quarter to nine just as the people were coming out from the first house. There did not appear to be many of them, but Monday night is never very “good"—the word is used in its theatrical sense—in Mossford. ‘ "Love and Laugh,' "he said as he handed the programme to Mary after they had taken their seats. "One might do worse,” she said, with a smile. "You certainly might do more laughing than you do." she added as she turned to the programme. “Lucia Desmund seems to appear in most scenes,” she said.

You like her, though?”

Yes. From what I remember.”

The circle in which they sat was not more than half full when the orchestra started up: “I hope there are more people downstairs. It must be depressing to play to empty seats,” she said. He nodded.

The first scene was a cafe in some South American port where the cabaret gave the company an opportunity to show its individual talent, but, that evening, Mary Donovan was more interested in the man at her side than in the show. From the moment the lights went down she covertly watched him. He was sitting forward, chin cupped in his hands, and was evidently giving more attention to the hackneyed story and music than the revue merited. But. as far as she could see, his face was expressionless. There was a peculiar quality—a huskiness —in Lucia Desmund's voice, but even when she spoke for the first time, Ferguson gave no sign. The revue was in two parts and at the interval Mary said, “Well, you’ve followed it very closely. What do you think of it?” “Of the play . . the revue?”

“Yes, of course.” He smiled: “It’s much like most of them,” he said. "For a travelling company, I thought it quite good. What did you think of Lucia Desmund?”

“She hasn’t had a geat deal of opportunity so far.” “No. She’s very beautiful.” “I thought that Teddie Wilson was an offensive little beast,” he said. “Teddie Wilson,” she repeated and glanced at the programme. “Oh, yes, I remember. He was the gigolo. Hardly a ‘sympathetic’ character,” she smiled. “But surely you prefer it to the films?”

“Not to a good film. I’d rather see a bad play than a bad film, I suppose.” She turned again to the programme.

“This Teddie Wilson is the business manager of the company as well,” she pointed out. He nodded. “He's probably running it.”

“You seem to know rather a lot about the stage, Mr Ferguson,” she said and since she regretted the hint of a question in her words went on before he could reply: “That little dancer was really good. She’ll go to the top.” “I don’t think I noticed her particularly.”

The second part of the Revue was rather more exciting than the first, but, it was all hackneyed, second-rate stuff. By the end of the evening Mary Donovan was even more certain that he knew—or rather that he had known — Lucia Desmund.

It was raining slightly when they left the theatre and they caught a ’bus instead of walking back to her home. “Care lor some cocoa?" she asked as they reached the door.

“I don't think I will tonight." he said. “Thank you, though. I have rather a head. I’m afraid I’ve been a dull companion.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I always feel that if people are really friends there's no need to keep on talking.” He nodded. “And I value your friendship more than I can say.” “And I yours,” she said frankly. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight. . . and thank you,” he said as he turned away. From the top of the steps she watched his tall figure as he hurried along the road. He was bending a little forward against the wind and the rain. She watched him a moment before she turned to open the door and make her way to the warm, comfortable sitting room, where Mrs Donovan assuredly waited for her with the inevitable but welcome cocoa.

It was a wild night and Ferguson was glad to achieve the quiet haven of Number Five. Mrs Gaddesden was in bed and the fire in his sitting room was nearly out, but it was still warm. On an impulse he went up to his bedroom and unlocked a small leather box where he kept in his suitcase. From it he took a photo of a girl and relocked the box and went downstairs again. It was the photo of Lucia Desmund. She was younger when it was taken, than in the photo by the side of the pay box at the Theatre Royal, but she had autographed it: “Ever yours. Lucia.”

That queer smile hovered for a moment on his lips as he looked down at the photograph: “Ever yours. Lucia." he said aloud.

Slowly, methodically, he tore the photo into small pieces and after Stirling the fire to a blaze, dropped them on it. Presently the pieces began to blacken and curl up and suddenly burst into flames. He watched them, still with that queer, strained smile on his lips, until nothing was left of the photo but small flakes of greyish ash. He stood watching the darkened fire for some minutes, but suddenly seemed to pull himself together: "Well that's that." he said aloud and turned to the door.

The following evening Ferguson left the office a minute or so before Mary Donovan. Sometimes they met on the steps leading to the street, but on this occasion he ;vas ahead of her. Market Street leads from London Road to Market Square, in which the Theatre Royal is situated, and as Ferguson turned out of the mam entrance and towards London Road a girl who was coming in the opposite direction came face to face with him.

Mary Donovan saw it; she was a yard or so behind them. Apparently he did not recognise the girl, but there was no .question as to whether she had recognised him. She had pulled up and was staring after him as if she had seen a ghost.' (To be Continued).