"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 September 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

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

CHAPTER IX

(Continued). “I’m all right,” he assured her again. “I shall never forget your kindness, though.” “You’ll write to me in any case?” “I promise. And I shall think of Number Five as Home.” “I believe you will,” she said. “I shall tell Mary you said that.” “She knows it.” “Then goodbye, my boy, and God bless you!” He shook her hand in silence and as he turned away he knew that he had left behind a friend who wished him well. The conventional phrase conveys no idea of what the fact means to a man like Ferguson. Half-past five found him at the station and a little later Mary Donovan hurried into the. big hall. “I’ll crime down the platform with you,” she said. “Mr Maynard was ticked off good and proper by old Mummy this afternoon. He had the impudence to mention what he called the ‘rumour’ to the Old Man. It served him jolly well right.” The departure platform was almost HpqprfoH and thev found n cpat. lust be-

yond the clock where they were prac- ' tically alone. “I shall hate Trevowe’s without you,” she said. “I despise the men. who have . been whispering.” "I can understand it —the whispering I mean. I’ve no hard feelings except where Wilson is concerned.” "You will write to me tomorrow,” she said, as if she were stating a fact. “And then whenever you've got a few minutes 'to spare.” ; “I will. I shall be glad to have a contact somewhere in the world.” "I have your word?” Her eyes were on his as she asked the question. “Yes.” “Whether you have any news or not, remember. Even if it’s bad news. I want to know.” “Why are you so decent to me, Mary?” “Try and think,” she smiled. “But for you this last business would just about have broken my spirit.” "I don’t think it would,” she said. You're too good a man!” “As it is, I’m not in the least depressed —not really, I mean.” “I wanted you to say that,” she said quietly. “You know, my dear, I’m very unhappy about you,” he said after a silence. “How?” “I don’t think so,” she said calmly, to put it. But you may have to wait a long time.” “I don’t think so,” she saidly calmly. “Besides, there’s no hurry.” “You really mean this?” “Of course, silly,’ she smiled at him. “I can hardly believe it. I’ve never loved anyone as I love you.” Her hand closed on his. “Whatever happens, I’m yours,” she said. "If it means being poor, we’ll face it together, that’s all. If it means carrying on with my job—or a job—after we’re ■ married, then I shall carry on. People get through times like this somehow. We shall look back on it in years to come and smile.” “I read somewhere that women are ■ of two kinds: the ones that put strength into a man, and the ones that sap his I strength.” They sat on that wind-swept plat- i form a while in silence before she said: “If there’s any justice in things that : man Wilson will pay for this.” “In some way or other he will. Sooner or later, we do pay for things,” he agreed. “I shall go and see Auntie tonight,” she said. “I can talk to her more easily than I can to mother.” “She’s a dear," he said. ‘I shall miss her . . and the little room.” “Is that all you’ll miss?” “My dear!” he said. And for a while they sat in silence. “There’s nothing to worry about,” - she said, at length, firmly. “We love each other. That’s the one thing that matters. Six months ago I should have smiled if I’d heard anyone say it, but it’s simply true . . now.” 1 “I’m young—at least I’m not old—” he began, but hesitated before he added: “And I shall fall on my feet.” 1 “I told the Old Man that I was going to marry you this afternoon, after he ; had ticked Maynard off'.” 1 “You've got a wonderful courage!” he said. “What do you think he said?” she asked, with a smile. “Told you not to be a silly ass, I’m afraid.” “No. He said that I was just the wife a man like you needed.” “You’re the wife that every man needs. But am I the husband a girl like you needs?” “I think so,” she said. “A gaol-bird?” “That is nonsense, and you really must get it out of your head!" she said, almost crossly. “You’ll never be there again.” that is true,” he agreed, in a grim tone. “You haven’t an instinct that isn’t kind,” she insisted. “The very case itself showed that.” “The difference you make,” he said. "Of course I do!" she laughed. “I was just thinking what I should have felt like tonight if you had not been here." “Then don’t think! I am here. And I shall always be here when you want me. Here's the train. It’s early.” “I wish I were coming with you,” she went on. a moment later. “Listen, Mary. I shall be all right. I feel in my bones that I shall get a break. You won’t worry?" “Not if I hear regularly and know the truth." Her eyes were on his again as she was speaking. “You shall know it—good or bad.” "Come what may, 1 love you. And I count on you. You're going to make good. You’re not going to let this

beast Wilson get you down.” “There’s not much wrong with life, 1. after all, if it produces a woman like =, you, my dear.” “Nonsense. I’m just an ordinary girl, but I happen to have fallen in f love with you. There’s the whistle. Good-bye, darling.” I For a moment she was in his arms, her lips on his. “Sorry!” the guard said with a smile, d “I’d have held her up a bit if I could!” The train was moving. He saw her s standing there, on the platform, her I face white in the evening light. But n she was smiling at him as the train bore him away. He could still see her o as it slowly rounded the curve of the i platform, a silent figure, looking after him. And out into the night he took - the memory of her smile. i He was alone in the compartment and sank back into the seat with a 1 feeling of unutterable loneliness. But - almost at once he pulled himself to- / gether, fortified by the memory of her 2 brave strength. In a couple of hours’ time he would i be in London once more. In his wallet he had fifty-six pounds. Moreover he t had comparative youth and excellent - health. - ' And as a background to his life he had Mary and with him the memory ’ of her quiet smile. ; He lit his pipe and settled down to consider his immediate future. He had no plans, whatever. The be- - trayal of his secret had caught him entirely unprepared. ’ Nor had he evolved any when the . train ran into St Pancras. ; He found the hotel which Garrod had recommended and took a room for i the night. Bed and breakfast cost him the not unreasonable sum of six ■ shillings, and having fixed it up he went out into the Euston Road to get a meal. Euston Road is never particularly cheerful and it is at its melancholy worst about nine o’clock in the evening. But Ferguson had no intention of letting it dampen his spirits and after his meal he felt quite equal to facing whatever might turn up. He walked along the Tottenham Court Road, looking into the big furniture shops, and after a while came to Charing Cross Road. In St George’s Circus he ha,d rather a shock for a man spoke to him: “If it isn’t old Hallett,” the man said. "Fancy running into you!” Ferguson—for so he wished to be called —did not for a moment recognise the man, until he grinned, but with the grin came recognition. He had forgotten—if indeed he had ever known —the man’s name, but they had been together in Maidstone Gaol. “I remember you,” he said, grimly. “Course you do! How's things?” “Fair. And with you?” “Okay.” The man’s appearance justified the optimistic assertion for there was a prosperous look about him as well as a superficial smartness. “What are you doing?” he went on. "At the moment I'm a gentleman of leisure, I'm afraid.” “I always knew you were a toff, even in “stir." Do you want a job?” “Very badly.” “And you aren’t too particular what it is?” “That’s another matter,” said Ferguson cautiously. “Anyway, it can’t do any harm. You go along to 9 Culver’s Court and mention my name—Bertie Rourke. Ask for Mr Sidmouth. Culvert’s Court is a turning off Linden Street, Leicester Square. “What is Mr Sidmouth?” “That’s the first thing about the job —if you get it. You don’t ask questions.” “Sound a queer job,” said Ferguson. “It’s a job. And chaps like us don’t have too big a choice. Anyway, think it over. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning is a good time.” “Shall I tell him . .” Ferguson began. “Tell him everything. He won’t want references. Besides I’m your blinking reference.” And with another grin Bertie Rourke turned and left him. No references wanted. He walked on and decided to find out that evening where the place was. He knew Linden Street, but had some difficulty in finding Culver's Court. It proved to be a dismal little cul-de-sac, but number nine was a rather better establishment than the others. It appeared to be a curio shop, but the blind was drawn, and all he could see in the dim light that came from the lamp at the corner were a few old books in leather bindings and a Chinese vase. The name above the shop was “Forest,” but what connection “Mr Sidmouth” had with Forest or the Curio Shop was beyond Ferguson. In any case he did not like the look of the place. It was no good to him, he decided, and turned away. As he walked back to his temporary home, he realised bitterly that, in the absence of sheer luck, he would have to take a job in which references were not required. At the hotel, he asked the young woman who appeared to be in charge for some notepaper, and in the seclusion of his room wrote to Mary Donovan. He told her that he would write again as soon as he had fixed up a more or less permanent address, and assured her that he was in good spirits. But in spite of his assurance, is wasn’t • quite true. His meeting with Rourke had disturbed him. To be greeted by such as man as an equal—“chaps like us" Rourke had said, "haven't a choice of many jobs"—made Ferguson wonder what was going to happen. It was quite clear to him that there was something very shady about “Mr Sidmouth," and that apparent preference for men who had been in prison was] not likely to be due to philanthropy.] but to something far more sinister.

But it was a “job" he had to offer, and Rourke had assumed that he would take it.

Life, however, had a more cheerful aspect in the morning—for one thing, the sun was shining —and the woman who ran tne hotel recommended him to a private house in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road, where he might be ble to obtain a room. It proved to be a pleasantly clean house, and the room he took on the second floor was only nine shillings a week. For an additional six shillings a week, Mrs Penslever, the landlady, contracted to provide him with breakfast. He sat on the end of the bed and surveyed his worldly possessions. Through the window, which he, had opened with some difficulty, came the monotone and the more insistent noises of the great city. Ho felt curiously alone. But in a little while he sallied forth to try his luck. At the end of the street he found a pillar box, and posted the letter he had written to Mary Donovan. And the click it made as it. fell into the box seemed to echo in his heart as he walked away. (To be Continued).