SECOND CHANCE

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 59, Issue 39, 25 November 1938, Page 7

SECOND CHANCE

A Moving Story of a Man with a Past.

CHAPTER VII

AT THE PICTURES.

In the end he decided to go and if lie ran into her to be guided by her attitude whether to suggest sitting together. After all, there was no reason why his life should bo that of a hermit. Besides, it would attract attention if lie made no social contacts whatever.

“I’m going to the picture to-night, Mrs Gaddesdon,” he announced when she brought in his tea. “Do you good, Mr Ferguson. You shut yourself up with your reading and wireless far too much. It’s all very well for an old woman like me. Not that I see much in the films. They all seem very much of a muchness to me.”

He smiled and turned to the consideration of the excellent meal she had provided. In any case, lie decided, as ho walked hack into the town that evening, friendship between a modern man and woman was possible, and could be a fine and valuable thing. He was not in love with Mary Donovan, nor had he any intention of falling in love. And her kindness to him, he realised, was merely part of her instinctive good nature. Moreover, the past was dead and done with; he was a normal human being again with the normal human dread of loneliness. But, in all probability, he realised as he approached the cinema, he would not see her at all, for the film was an attraction and people were surging into the theatre. Nevertheless he did meet her. “So you came after all,” he heard her voice suddenly, as she fell in by his side. “Yes. You on your own?” “For a change,” she smiled. “Then take pity on my loneliness and sit with me?” “I shall bo pleased to.” “What part of the house do you prefer?” “The front of the balcony. One and six. You get both tickets, will you?” She slipped a shilling and sixpence, into his hand as she was speaking. “But surely . . .” ho began. “Nonsense. Fifty-fifty. I’m, a modern young woman with a job and don’t you forget it.” “Just as you say,” he laughed. “But I thought that it was one of man’s few privileges to pay for the seats at a cinema!”

“I don’t believe in privileges at all,” she said firmly. Besides the big film there were tw T o shorter ones and the news reel. The small films were very ordinary, but the chief picture was in a different class. There were brains behind it and, moreover, what is rare in films, imagination. Some of the people sitting around them wondered what it was all about, and openly sighed for the films they were used to, the films which made no demand on their intelligence, but Mary Donovan and her companion followed it in silence.

In silence, too, they went out into the starlight night. “I usually get a ’bus, but I think I’ll walk to-night,” Mary said.

“Good. I need a walk too. What did you think of it?” “I don’t quite know. The photography was wonderful, hut, particularly towards the end, the characters struck me as being swayed too much by intelligence and reason.”

“Can one be?” ho hazarded. “Yes. The way he let his son go off in the space ship to what seemed like certain death ,was all very heroic of course, but it wasn’t human.” Ferguson nodded in agreement: “You mistrust intelligence?” “No. Not exactly. But I don’t think it’s enough ; a life that was controlled simply by intelligence would be a very dull affair, don’t you think?” “I suppose it would,” ho said doubtfully. “Understanding and sympathy are just as important,” she said after a silence. “But they should bo allied with intelligence?” “Of course. I didn't like the dress the girl was wearing, either. It seemed as if they were straining at an effect. And it wasn’t a very practical rig, if you come to think of It. Not as suitable as that of a girl who wears a tweed coat and skirt and sensible shoes in the country.” “But more beautiful, perhaps?” “And another weakness was the tendency to uniformity in the clothes. I don’t believe that people, certainly not women, would ever dress alike if they could possibly avoid ”

“I agree,” he smiled. “It’s men whoso minds turn to uniforms. But nurses always 3ook nice. And nuns,” he added. “So do the Life Guards in London because the uniforms are attractive. But I don’t think people would wear uniforms, however attractive, if they could avoid them.” And so on. Quite an interesting talk and they reached the street where her mother lived in what seemed a surprisingly •short time. “COME IN FOR COCOA?” “Mother’s still up. Como in for five minutes ?” “Well . . . thank you very much,” he said.

“I’ve heard about you from my sister-in-law,” Mrs Donovan said when Mary introduced him. “You’re lucky to be there.”, “Indeed I am.” “Do you drink cocoa ? T always have it for Mary and her young man after she’s been to the pictures or the theatre.” “I should like some very much,” he said, and noticed that Mary was smiling. “Well, what was it like?” Mrs Donovan went on as she watched them drink the cocoa. “Very good.” “Too much picture-going, if you ask me!” “But we didn’t ask you, dear,” Mary said with a smile. “Inspector Garrod was saying the

other evening that they do a lot of harm.” “Or was it that he agreed with you, dear, when you said it?” Mary suggested .

By HOLLOWAY HORN. Copyright. (Author of “George,” “Two Men and Mary, Etc).

WHAT IS HIS SECRET?

[ “Well, that’s the same thing, surely ?" “Hardly,” Mary smiled. “You are a Londoner, I hear, Mr Ferguson?” Mrs Donovan asked, turning to her visitor. “Er . . . I’ve lived in London,” he said. “And you’re settling down in Mossford?” Mrs Donovan pursued relentlesslv. “Yes.” “By the way, there’s a very good show at the Theatre Royal next week,” Mary put in, apparently in an attempt to change the subject. “I suppose most of your friends are in London?” her mother went on, however. “Yes. Thanks very much for the cocoa, Mrs Donovan. It’s getting late,” He rose as lie was speaking. “Aye. It’s nearly eleven,” Mrs Donovan said. “Good-night!” he said. “And thank you.” Mary Donovan went to the door with him. “You mustn’t mind mother,” she said. “She’s curious about everybody.” “On the contrary, I like her very much.” “But she shouldn’t cross-examine people like she does.” “What is the play at the Theatre next week?” he asked. “It’s a. revue called ‘Laugh . . . and Love,’ or something silly like that. But Lucia Desmund is in it.” He started almost as if she had struck him. “What . . . what name did you say?” “Lucia Desmund,” she said in a wondering tone. “Do you know her?” “I . . . I’ve seen her, of course.” “She was here last year,” Mary Donovan went on in a different tone. “She was very good indeed.” “Would you care to come with me one evening? I’m free every evening.” “Yes, 1 would,” sho said. “Monday would suit me—to-day week.”

“And me. I’ll hook some seats.” “You’d better. Two and four in the circle are quite good enough. I shall look forward to seeing Lucia Desmund again.”

“I once saw her when I was in London.” “I shall look forward to Monday. Thank you very much for coming with me, Miss Donovan.” She watched him go down the steps of the rather old-fashioned house and walk hurriedly away. “You are right, Mary?” her mother asked when she returned to the sitting room. “Of course.” “You look tired. Anything upset you?” “No! Why should it?” “Does George know you’ve been out with Mr Ferguson?” “The Inspector? He’ll probably detect it,” Mary laughed. “Ho won’t like it.” “Then he can do the other thing, mother mine! I’m a free agent. As a matter of fact, it was I who suggested it.”

Mrs Donovan shrugged her shoulders: “When I was a girl!” “Yes, I. know, dear. But I don’t believe a word of it,” Mary laughed. “Your Aunt was talking about Mr Ferguson.” “Then she shouldn’t. There’s not the slightest need for her to take lodgers at all, and if she does she needn’t gossip about them.” “There’s no need to get all hot and bothered. Of course she talked about him. Why shouldn’t she?” “It’s quite clear that he doesn’t want his private affairs gossiped about.” “And why doesn’t he?” Mrs Donovan asked.

“Because they’ro his private affairs, I imagine. I’m for bed!” “So, am T. I don’t like him anything like as much as I like George.”

“The Inspector will lie pleased!” Mary laughed. “There’s a great deal to bo said for George,” Mrs Donovan insisted. “We know about him.”

“Every mortal thing there is to be known, I should say,” her daughter agreed. “I don’t suppose he’s had such an education as this Mr Ferguson, but he’s done very well with what he has had. Don’t you think it funny a gentleman like Mr Ferguson should suddenly come to a firm in Moss ford and become a clerk?” “Yes, I do.” “There’s something behind him, Mary.” “I think there is. And I feel certain that one of these days, in his own time, he’ll tell me.”

“I’ve got no patience with all this romantic nonsense. It comes from going to these pictures so much,” Mrs Donovan said sharply. “It isn’t romantic, mother, and it isn’t nonsense. He’s just a friend of mine—a. man who happens to interest me a great deal.” “He might be married. Probably is.” “I don’t think be is. But he certainly has not said that he wasn’t.” “Then where’s bis wife?” “Ho may not have one. If he has they have obviously separated. But why all the fuss, mother? I’ve been to the pictures with quite a lot of other men one time and another.” “But this is different. You’re not a very experienced person, Mary,” her mother said warningly. “No. 1 wish 1 were.” “And 1 think it very unwise to play, fast and loose with George. And it’s my duty to tell you so,” her mother insisted. “Ob, bother George!” Mary said crossly. “He’s a very decent man and lie’s very much in love with you.” “But I’m not in love with him a bit, and I’ve told him so—a hundred times.”

“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.”

(To be Continued).

“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 3 T oung man like George beats me,” her mother exclaimed.

“It would simplify matters, wouldn't it?” But apparently I can’t.” “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 wont over in her mind everything she knew about Ferguson, twisting the facts as she saw them, tliis way and that. For a moment, as they l had stood at the front door that evening, sho 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 Desmond. She was certain oi 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 Fergusson could talk about films, and ideas and experiences. One day ho 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.

And with that thought * sho fell asleep.