SECOND CHANCE

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 59, Issue 46, 3 December 1938, Page 11

SECOND CHANCE

By HOLLOWAY HORN.

LUCIA “DOES HER BIT.”

Ferguson had reached homo—as ho was coming to think of Number Five at the usual time, on the evening that Mary Donovan had traced his case in the files of the “Courier.” , He was tired, for he was working really ha'rd at the office, fully aware that lie had to make good in the second chance that life—in the person of William Trevowe —had. offered him.

His evening meal was ready and Mrs Gaddesden having given up her rather irritating attempts to fathom the obscurity which hid the earlier part of his life was chattering pleasantly when the bell rang.

“Now who can that be?” she said and paused as if to consider the matter. “Better open the door and find out,” lie suggested with a smile. “I will,” slip said. A minute later she returned. “There’s a lady to see you, Mr Ferguson.” “A lady? To see me?” “Yes.” ' “Who is it?” “It’s I,” said a voice from behind Mrs Gaddesden and Lucia Desmund came into the room.

Ferguson had risen and stood watching her in silence.

“Good evening, John,” she said. “Er . . . good evening.” “Won’t you ask me to sit down?” “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. You rather tooji me by surprise.” “Would the lady like a cup of tea?” Mrs Gaddesden asked. “I should love one,” said Lucia with a quiet little effective smile. “I had to look you up, John,” she went on when Mrs Gaddesden had left them.

“Why?” he asked coldly., “For old times’ sake. We’re at the local theatre.”

“I know. I saw you.” “We’ve never met since . . .” “Since that day at the Old Bailey. I saw you in court. I hear that I have to congratulate you. I’m afraid I haven’t done so before.” “What on?” “Your marriage.” “Oh, that,” she said, and laughed.

Mrs Gaddesden came in with the cup anu saucer.

“Thank you, Mrs Gaddesden,” said Ferguson. “There’s nothing else you’ll be wanting?” “No thank you!.” “Ring if there is,” the wise woman said and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

a very comfortable place here. That last time I had tea with you was at your flat in Red Lion Square.”

“I remember it.” “Wejl, how am I looking?” she demanded. y “Much the same.”

“You’re looking younger.” “THank you. Do you mind if I continue my meal? Perhaps you’ll "have some 1 of that cake?”

“No, thanks. I’m dieting. But you go on. You don’t bear me a grudge because I’m married?” “Not in the least:” ‘ ‘ You’re not interested. ’ ’ “No. W!hy should I be?” She shrugged her beautiful shoulders: “You used to say you were fond of me.” “Curious, isn’t it?” he said with a smile. “That wasn’t- very gallant of you,” she said, angrily. v “Look here, Lucia, what is it you want?” Ferguson asked” as he helped himself to another fillet of plaice. “I wanted a.chat with you,” she said quietly, with head slightly averted so that her profile was in evidence. “You know, you amuse me,” he said. “What made you marry that nasty little ratjike husband of yours?” , “I often wonder. You’d gone. You let me down and I was disillusioned and depressed. ¥ 1 thought he could help me in my work—he was an agent at the time.”

“He’s been many things in his time.” “And still is,” she said bitterly. “When this tour is over, I’m through with him.” “That’s your affair, isn’t it?” She nodded. “You’ve changed,” she said. “Of course I have. A man cannot go through what I’ve been through without being changed. It makes him see things and people more clearly—far more clearly,” he added. “Meaning me?” , “If you wish to place that construction on what I said, I cannot prevent you.”

“But you were fond of me . . once.” “I thought so at the time. I see you’re still wearing the ring I gave you. Remember l how that infernal lawyer kept on about it?” She nodded: “I nearly screamed,” she said. STERNBERG’S ACTIVITIES. “Not you!” he smiled. “You were enjoying it I” “John*!” she protested. “That’s the beastliest thing I’ve ever had said to me.” “Isn’t it true?” lie asked. “No!” “Then I did you an injustice.” “Y~ou never wrote to me . . . afterwards.” “One’s literary activities are limited . . . there,” he said with a smile. “But you could have written.” “There was nothing to say. You were sitting in court with the man you married shortly afterwards and his attitude towards you was, even at the time . . . proprietary.” “He doesn’t matter. I’ve only loved once in my life.” “I know that. You wore in love with yourself, Lucia.” “I wouldn’t have come here to-night if I had known that this would be your attitude,” she said angrily.

“What did vou expect my attitude to be?”

A Moving Story of a Man with a Past.

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

1 “WHO IS SHE?”

Copyright.

“A reasonable one,” she said quietly. “I know that judged by ordinary standards I’m a washout where you are concerned—that 1 didn’t stick to you—but I’ve only got one lile and it all seemed too hopeless!” “I don’t blame you.” “But you do! 1 can see that you do! And yet J loved you,” she went on more quietly. “I’ve always loved vou.”

“You said that very effectively, Lucia. But you didn’t ‘put it across,’ as you say on the stage.” “Ah well!” she sighed. “I know. The smash didn’t do me any good; you realise that?” “In what way?” “People thought that I was the cause, that you had wasted the money on me.” “You know that 1 didn’t.” “But people thought that 1 was behind it. I. was cold-shouldered. My contract at the Imperial was terminated. They paid me, of course—they had to —but they wouldn’t give me another, job.” •, “But you had another job in London. Someone here saw you in it.”

“I was an understudy and appeared a few times only at the end of the run. No, your .smash finished me as well. I thought it would at the time.” “I’m sorry.”

“And it led me into the greatest mistake of my life—marrying Sternberg.”

“But-you knew what you were doing. You knew he was a wrong ’un.” “But. he’d pulled up. He was going straight at the time. And I thought he could help me.”

“In any case he’s never beep in prison,'” said Ferguson bitterly. “Well, that’s that,” lie went on as he got up from his chair. “Mrs Gaddesden looks after me wonderfully well.” “If she’s listening at the door—as she probably is—she’ll be pleased.” “I’m quite certain she isn’t. By the way, shouldn’t you be on the stage now?”*

“Yes. But I’m sick of it all. I told that I was coming to sec you and that he could play the part himself if he wanted to. The understudy ’ll be glad of the chance, anyway. And she’s quite good.” “Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” he* said as he sat down by the fire. “Very funny!” she said quietly, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I’m working in this town, as Sternberg had probably told you.” She nodded: “He’s in a vei'y ugly mood about you.” “Why?”

Again she shrugged her shoulders: “I ’don’.t quite, know. Something to do with an emerald necklace.”

Ferguson smiled. “Apparently he was behind the burglary at Murray’s house that week-end. One of his varied activities.”

“He’s through with that sort of thing ndvv.” “I think he’d better be. Has he given up drugs, too?”

She looked round startled. “She isn’t listening, is she?” “No. She’s probably rather annoyed that you are here, though. It wouldn’t seem quite proper to her.” “Oh, that,” she said contemptuously.

He glanced at his watch. l r ou’ll appear at the second house, I suppose?”

“I don’t know. The houses are rotten here, anyway. It’s the infernal pictures! The people are spoon-fed. They can’t stand an interval even if it’s only a few minutes. You mean to stay on here?”

“I hope so.” . “Pretty dull, won’t it be?” ' “I’ve got used to dullness,” h<* said with a smile.

“Poor boy!” she murmured. “I used to think of you.”

“Sez you!” “I wish you wouldn’t adopt that stupid, cynical tone. I hate it!” “Sorry. , I suppose I am cynical. But surely it’s understandable?”

“Not with me. Your smash did for me, too, remember.” “Particularly with you,” he insisted? “There are genuine, things in life, though. Genuine, loyal people. People worth while.”

“Will you believe me when I say that I wished I had waited for you?” she asked quietly.

“If you say so. It would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?”.

“I do say so. And it’s true.” “It would have been excellent publicity. Can’t'you see the headlines: ‘Actress meets criminal at prison gate and marries him!’”

“I’ve told you I hate this cheap cynicism.”

“That wasn’t cynicism, Lucia,” he smiled. “It was irony. Still, I’m glad you came here to-night.” “Why?” she asked in obvious surprise.

“Because it showed me that the old lifo is dead. That it doesn’t matter in the least.”

“You mean you don’t love me? I’d gathered that,” she said quietly.

“I do not. It’s incredible to me that I ever did. You’re as beautiful as ever, but I seem to see more clearly. And beauty—superficial beauty, anyway — just doesn’t matter. There are other things far more important.”

She thought over this a moment before she said:- “It was my husband who suggested that I should come here to-night.” “Whv ?”

She shrugged her shoulders: “I fancy he thought I could get the hiding place of the emeralds out of you.” “Why do you tel! me this?” he asked.

“Because I’ve made a strange discovery to-night.” “Oh?” lie said doubtfully.

“Yes. You won’t believe it. You’ll probably laugh. But I love you. ! It is funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s certainly a strange statement.”

“You don’t believe it?” “I don’t quite see why you should lie to me. I can’t see any object in it!” “In the old days you were just like a dozen different men I knew. I thought that you were going to make money and that was all 1 wanted.” “I gathered that.” “But you’re not the man you were. You’re a different person.” “To a great extent,” he agreed.

“To a- very "great extent,” she said. “What a swine I was,” she added with a sudden bitterness.

“I’ve no hard feelings, Lucia. I didn’t expect you to act other than you did.”

“I should have stuck to you! If I’d loved you then as I do to-night, J should have.”

“This is all very embarrassing,” lie said, uneasily. “Yes. The tables are tYirned, John. In the old days you loved me, remember. All, well,” she went on as she stood up, “I may as well be going. You’ve got your revenge, if you wanted it.”

“I didn’t. As far as the hiding place of the emeralds is concerned, 1 don’t know anything about it.”

“He's got a bee in his bonnet that you do.” “Well, I don’t —1 assure you.” “Good-bye!” she said. “I hope that you have better luck. Don’t think worse of me than you must.”

“We’ve both been perilously near the rocks, I’m afraid,” he said. “You’ll miss them,” she said. “And I’m glad you’ve found loyalty in someone else. You always were loyal. Who is she?” “No one in particular.”

“There is,” she said quietly. “And I’m glad. It’s funny that I should have come here to-night to try and bluff you into telling me where the emeralds were and ended up by giving Sternberg away.” 7 • “It is,” he agreed. “There will be a first class row when I get back.”

“I’m sorry about that. But in any case you couldn’t have succeeded, because I really don’t know anything about them. If I did I. should hand them's over to the police.” She watched him quietly for a moment. “I shall remember you like you arh now,” she said. “Here in this room. Good-bye, my dear.” She turned to the door and lie followed her into the little hall.

He opened the door for her and she passed out into the misty night without a word. From the open door he watched her as she hurried away until the bend of the 'road bid her from his sight. Quietly he closed the door. In a way, the act was symbolic. Mrs Gaddesdeh came in to clear away a few minutes later. “So she’s .gone, l see,” she said. “Yes.” “She looked like an. actress,” she went on with an almost inaudible sniff. “She is an actress,” he. said. “She’s the leading lady this week at the Theatre Royal.” “An old friend of yours, she said she was.” “I’ve known her several years,” he said non-committally. “It takes all sorts to make a world,” she .said, at which he smiled, but remained silent. (To be Continued - ).