ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 266, 9 November 1899, Page 6

ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

By MARY ANGELA DICKENS.

Author of "Prisoners of Silence." "Against the Tide." "Some Women's IWafo* "Crosa Currents," "A Mere CypHa?," "Valiant Ignorance,' etc.

etc., etc,

, ' - CHAPTER I. MR. CECIL. COCHRANE. "Confound it!" he said. "Confound it !" " It's only two miles, sir," suggested the porter. There was a touch of malice about the words. The man did approve, as he subsequently observed to his mate, of " strangers a cormn and cussin' the place like one o'clock, just because there didn't happen to be no fivs.' The stranger in question made uo verbal response to the information; thus bestowed upon him. He gave the porter a glance which was not a pleasant one, and went out of the little country station on to the high-road. It was. mid-day in September, and very" hot. There was little or no breeze, dust whitened the hedges on either side, and dust lay thick on the road. They were not inviting circumstances for a two-mile wajk, and the man to whom they presented themselves was particularly unfitted to dope with them. His dress was all wrong to begin with. He wore the narrow patentleather boots, the grey suit and the top-hat or London life—all distinctly Shabby, as his linen was somewhat dingy, and presenting a most incongruous appearance among his present surroundings. His physique, too, did not seem calculated for physical endurance. He was short and slight. Hia eyes were brown and were rather large and well-set. They were shaded by very full lids, and the sharo of his straight-"■well-cut nose w ras spoiled by too full a development of the nostrils. His mouth was loose-lipped and rather heavy. His complexion was pale. He was smooth-shaven, and he wore his brown hair rather long, which helped to accentuate something effeminate that pervaded his whole appearance. He ploughed his way along the dusty road with more determination than might have been looked for, but as he grew* hotter and more weary, his expression grew increasingly unpleasant. He had turned out of the high-road, according to directions ■ given him at the station, and had walked about three-quarters of a mile along a lane in an exceedingly poor (State of repair, when he stopped, pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face. The hedge had ceased abruptly on his right hand, and at a little distance,, standing back amongst some trees, a house was visible. The man looked at it hesitatingly for a moment. He made 'an instinctive attempt to brush the dust from his coat, and to arrangs his hair, almost as a woman might have clone. Then he walked the few yards that remained and swung open a gate which led into a drive. It was a well-kept place through which he passed, strictly orthodox ■both as to the shrubs which bordered the drive itself and the lawns and flower-beds which could be seen beyond. And the house, when it came fully into view, was strictly orthodox also : a large, comfortable, roomylooking house covered with creepers. , The new-comer gave a comprehensive glance or two about him as he walked up to the front door and pulled the bell. It was opened by a particularly neat and staid-looking parlour maid. " Is Mr Drummond at home ?" said the visitor. • It was a very well-bred voice, though a little thin, and high-pitched in quality. The words were spoken with an easy authoritativeness which neutralised the effect of the woman's first .conception of his appearance. " Yes, sir," she said, instantly. tl Will you walk this way ?" A momentary spasm which was very lik^ a grin passed across the vistor's face as he followed her. She led the way through a large, square hall, on one side of which an open door gave a glimpse of a very pretty drawingroom, and arriving at a closed door at the opposite end, she knocked. "What name shall I say, sir?" she asked. ■ I ".Mr. Cecil Cochrane," said' the new comer, again with that fleeting grin. A voice from within the room said, -"Come, inv ;'the woman opened the 'door and stood aside as she repeated (the name: • ■•■■ • - "Mr.'Cecil; Cochrane." The room was a study, very handsomely and even luxuriously furnished, like the rest of the house; on two sides of the room large winSows looked on to the garden. They were wide open, and well shaded from, the sun, and the atmosphere (was <leliciously cool and fresh; The room had two occupants. The first of these was a young man in clerical dress, who.had risen as the .'door opened, and was busy putting together some papers that lay on fthe table at which he had been sitting. He did not turn round; the name announced had evidently no meaning for him. But with the man who sat on the other -side of the table the case was different. He was a man of about sixty, also a clergyman, rather portly, prosperous-looking, with stern features, and grey eyes. He had remained seated when the door opened, but as Mr. Cecil Cochrane's name was announced, and its owner stepped across the threshold, he pushed back his chair, ; and rose as if involuntarily, an ejaculation dying behind his set lips. It was not an ejaculation of welcome, there could be no doubt about that. Nor did the master of the house make the slightest movement to receive his guest.

Mr. Cecil Cochrane did not appear • to be either surprised or disturbed by his'reception. He advanced com- j posedly into the room, and waited; while the younger clergyman, with; a somewhat surprised glance, gathered ■ up his papers and went out of the room. Then Mr. Cecil Cochrane advanced to the elder man, and held. out his hand jauntily. ; j "How do you do, uncle?" he said. J Mr. Drummond did not seem even< to see the outstretched hand. He. was gazing with his eyes full of a J hard and distant disapproval at the young man. I "How do you come here?" he said.* "I came by the train," was the answer. "Confoundedly long and tedious journey it is, if; you'll allow me to say so!* A more out-of-the-way place doesn't exist, I suppose. And I've had to walk two miles from the , station. I assure you I'm quite knocked up. I must ask you to allow me to sit down." He sat down accordingly, without waiting for the permission, which indeed, was not forthcoming. Mr. Drummond himself remained standing. "Why have you come?" he said. "Considering that Aye have not met for nine years, and that I am your only sister's only son, I think that's hardly a suitable question." Mr.' Drummond sat down suddenly. His hand was clenched as he rested it on the table. "You need unot remind me of our relationship," he said. "It is a disgrace I am not likely to forget. Nor will you gain anything by reminding me of it. As I told you when I communicated with you last, I have decided to ignore it." The young man leaned forward in his chair. He seemed to be trying to suppress the air of bravado which had developed upon him at his entrance. The ' insolence of his • tone and manner were evidently involuntary and unconscious. He intended to be conciliatory. "Of course," he said. "It's easy enough to understand that that is what you would like. But is the thing to be done? That's the question. Facts can't be ignored, as a rule." "This is the exception to the rule, then," returned the elder man. "You are here [to-day, of course, to ask something of me. Once and for all, I will do nothing more for you. I did my best for you when you were a boy, after your father's death, and it was useless. I shall do nothing more." " You did your best ?" answered the other. " Don't think I'm ungrateful if I say that your best was limited, and it went on the wrong tack. You j paid my fees for three years as a student at the London Hospital, and you kept me for that time. You kept my mother and sister also, not in the lap of luxury. Well, I wasn't cut put for the medical profession, and that annoyed you. But that was hardly my fault." "Yon were cut out for a vicious, dissipated idler," retorted Mr Drummond " You know as well s as I do—better, probably —why your name was taken off the books of the hospital. You know the disreputable habits which finally decided me to wash my hands of you. Mr Cecil Cochrane shrugged his shoulders, and leaned back nonchant- " I was unable to give you satisfaction," he said. "Really I regret it very much. But that hardly alters the" present position of affairs. The fact is that Rachel and I are at the end of our tether. All markets are so confoundedly overstocked nowadays that it is impossible to make one's way without some amount of capital. She does her best, I do my best ; but the long and short of it"is we can't keep our heads above water any longer. It's not to be expected." "For yourself, you have my answer already," said Mr Drummond. "As for'your sifter, she made her choice nineyears ago when your mother died. I offered then to find her suitable employment and to give her a home when she* needed one. She refused my offer and preferred to stay among the—the associates to whom she was accustomed. I can't do nothing more.". "You can't let us go under altogether," returned the younger man with s-iuve insolence. " I've an opportunity now of getting straight with the world, getting my foot in and making my way. If I don't take it we're done. And to be able to take it I must have a few hundred pounds. That's what I'm here for." Mr Drummond rose with a grim smile. " You've wasted your time," he said, emphatically. " I should no more think of givjng you a few hundred; pounds than I should think of throwing, them into the river." The young man bit his lip savagely. "You're well off," he said: "very well off. ItfVvvould be no tremendous matter to you. Why shouldn't you give it to me ?" ■ .-■• < " I am well off," said Mr Drummond. " But I hold .my money in trust, to be used to worthy ends ; and to be passed on at my death to one who willunderstand its possession in the same way." " My cousin ?" said the young man airily. "Well, she could spare me five hundred, or ten I should think. But you haven't heard yet the use to which I want to put the money. A very good friend of mine is the managing director of a syndicate running a theati'e." The other man interrupted with a peremptory gesture. . "Stop !" he said. "Is it necessary that I should remind you that under no circumstances should one penny of mine go to the upholding of places of entertainment which I consider iniquitous ? Have I not expressed, myself emphatically on these subjects both to you and your sister-"? How do you dare to come here and ask me for money to put to such uses !" The old man was white with anger, and the other rose, the instinctive insolence of his manner developing as its suavity disappeared. ;.: "It did not occur to me as particularly daring," he said ; " for a poor devil of a nephew to come and ask a rich xincle to save him practically from starvation. Do you quite understand what you are doing ? And do yem wish me to understand that you absolutely refuse to help us ?" "I absolutely refuse," was the emphatic answer. " And I beg that you will Ipdvp my house without any further delay." . ....'".. The young man shrugged his shotilders, picked up his hat and gloves in a leisurely fajshion, and then said : ".May I.not pay my respects to my cousin before Igo ? You will remember that we have never met." "I hope you never may meet," said Mr Drummond.'as he rang the bell. " Will you go ?"

The j'oung man paused a moment,

looking at the averted figure. Then he said :

"'Well, good-bye, uncle. I'm sorry I that this interview has not been pleasanter. It's possible that some j ciav you will be sorry, too.": •

Then he went out of the room, across ! the hall in which the staid parlourmaid was waiting, and out of tne front door. With the door closed behind him, however, he paused. \ His mouth was heavy and lowering,' and there was an evil look in his eyes. He glanced about him uncertainly, but the drive stretched out before him as the only possible path, and he. began to move slowly down it. He had passed the turn which hid him from the house when he stopped short. The border of shrubs was somewhat wide at this point and on the other side was a hedge of privet and nut trees. On the other side of this again was a lawn, and from this lawn had come the sound of a voice which had at- j tracted Mr Cecil Cochrane's attention, i " Where is papa, Lucian ?" j It was a girl's voice, musical, but rather slow and expressionless. And a pleasant man's voice answered it. " I left him in the study, darling, with a visitor." Mr Cecil Cochrane looked furtively about him. There was no one in sight, and he was not overlooked from the house. He stepped on to the box--der. through the shrubs up to the ! hedge,, and cautiously parting the branches, looked through. A few paces from him, with her face turned three-quarters towards him. sat a girl in a basket chair. She was a tall girl, with a statuesque grace of pose. "Her face was singularly beautiful, regularly modelled, delicately coloured. But though it was sweet in expression, there was a certain dullness about it. The large blue eyes were rather too pale, and the masses of hair were too fair. Seated on the arm of her chair, in an unmistakeable lover-like attitude, was the young clergyman who had been in the study on Mr Cecil Cochrane's arrival. Her face was upturned to him, and her unsuspected watcher heard her say : " A visitor ? Who was it ?" " I don't know, Violet," was the answer. " I think your father was a little annoyed. It was a Mr Cecil Cochrane." " Cochrane ?" repeated the girl, reflecting. " I wonder who it was ? I'm sorry papa was vexed." Mr Cecil Cochrane let the boughs fall softly together, and stepped back quickly on to the drive. " Doesn't even know her cousin's name," he sairl to himself. "Well, cousin Violet. I'm glad to have seen you. It's always a good thing to know one's relations. And that's the Johnnie who is to take possession, of the money in trust."

CHAPTER 11. A PAIR OF FRIENDS

The room was very close. The window was wide open, but a sultry September afternoon in London has an arid and exhausted atmosphere peculiar to itself. It was an inviting room under any circumstances. It had "lodgings" written large all over it; and lodgings of a not particularly high-class type. Everything in it was shabby, everything in it was more oir less soifed, and there was an untidy and. slipshod, air over the whole, as though no one thought it worth while to put things in order. On the mantelpiece, which boasted a dingy mantel border, torn down a little at one end, was a miscellaneous collection of ugly "ornaments," pipes, cigar cases, a woman's handbag, and photographs of theatrical celebrities. On the little chiffonier, which had a cracked look-ing-glass back, were cruets, work materials, and a collection of books, principally playbooks and all more or less battered. The horsehair sofa, which faced the fireplace on the other side of the table, was littered with an old dress, which was apparently being unpicked; and spread over the centre table was some cheap dress material and a paper pattern.

The only occ\ipant of the room was standing at the table, scissors in hand. She was a young woman, and at the first glance she gave an impression of slight deformity. But this effect was only produced by a certain disproportion between her figure, which was conspicuously short and slight, and her head. It was a fine head, covered with a quantity of beautiful black hair, coiled very simply and even carelessly about it. But the face, again, did not fulfil the promise of good looks thus held out. The colouring was sallow, though the skin itself was fine. The features were irregular to ugliness, and the expression did nothing to help them. Every line of the face, seen in repose, told of cynicism and bitterness. Even the beautiful brown eyes had. a hard glance, and the wide forehead was wrinkled with petty cares and discontent.

She was working rapidly, with a curious indifference and a preoccupation which was not incompatible with precision. She sighed once or twice, an involuntary, impatient sigh of physical oppression, but she made no other sound or movement until a quick rap fell on the door, when she lifted her head abruptly and said: "Come in." The door was opened, and a man appeared on the threshold. "May I come in?" he said. "Shall I be a nuisance?" The woman looked at him with a smile. It was very slight, but it transformed her face for a moment in an extraordinary way. "I shan't let you be a nuisance," she said, uncompromisingly. "You can ■come and sit down if you don't mind being half-stifled." She pointed to an easy chair near the window, and went on with her work. Even the few words which the visi-. tor had spoken had been curiously impulsive and vigorous in tone, and his personality was altogether, in keeping with his voice. He was a tall man, rather loosely made, with sensitive, powerful-looking hands. His chin and jaw were very well and firmly modelled, and he had a sweet, sudden smile. The nose was too broad for. beauty, and the dark blue eyes were not conspicuous in repose, except inasmuch as they were very deep set. But the forehead was very good, and it was shadowed by close-crop,ped, thickly-curling, light brown hair. The whole face looked rather worn and haggard, and he flung I himself into his chair with a sigh.

"It's stifling everywhere," he said. "But it's peaceful here, at any rate."

She shot a shrewd glance at him. He was not looking at her, but gazing straight before him. She did not speak, and in a moment he went on:

"I have just come from the theatre. I feel like a toad under a harrow,

whatever that may mean." : "What's the matter?" she said. | He did not seem to find her cool , tone unsympathetic. ! is the matter," he answered. ""I'm sick of the whole concern. The piece is a failure; they knew it was a failure three weeks ago, on the first night that is to say. And my piece is to;follow— perhaps." "Why perhaps?" she said, quickly. "Because the Ffolliotts want to back out. Hang these leading ladies and their airs, I say! .She doesn't want to play the part, and she doesn't want anyone else to play'it!"' "Ffolliott wants' to be' out of the whole thing," she said. "He wants to take his money out. The failure's frightened him." " Her lips curled contemptuously. "He can't understand a failure when his wife's playing lead," she added, drily. "I can!" said the man, tempestu- j ously, flinging himself round in his chair. "Upon my soul, that woman's : position is a mystery to me! There's j no more nature in her than there is in this table. She's fis full of tricks as she can be! She's always the same , —she " "If you want to be a successful dramatist," she interposed, "it's time you cultivated a little judicious reserve! Is , Clare Ffolliott aware of your opinion lof her?" :'.■- ■:>:■'■ ■ ■ He flung out an arm carelessly. "Who cares?" he said. "I daresay she is. She doesn't seem to like me much, anyway.' 1 "She doesn't like you, and she won't plaj* in your piece unless she's pretty sure there's money in itj" was the answer. "I'll be shot if she should play in it if I could prevent it," he said. "She'd spoil the whole thing. She's no more like my Virginie-i—why-- you- know the play as well as I :do. Just imagine what the last/act will be like with those artificial airs and graces thrown in!" She wrinkled her forehead quickly into a movement of keen comprehension and involuntary sympathy. "She would be all wrong," she said, the indifference of her voice giving way, as she spoke quickly and decisively. "Not a bit like it. But it's not an easy part to cast, you know. I told you that from the beginning." He leaned back, clasping his hands above his head. "You're right," he said. "But one can't think of that kind of thing while one's writing, you know. It doesn't seem to matter a rap, so long as one gets the Idea off one's mind." It matters a good many raps when one comes to business." He laughed. "What a head you have for business!" he said. "Well, the thing would never have been fit for anything without your practical experience. But come, suppose we were casting the piece ourselves, who would you suggest?" She had laid down her work and was drawing patterns on the table cloth with her scissors absorbed and, serious, falling in with his whim with an instantaneous sympathy.

"I haven't the slightest idea," she daclared. "I've often wondered. There's Margaret Allison, but she's not tall enough. And there's Mrs Lester, but she "

"She hasn't an ounce of poetry in her composition," he interrupted, ruffling his hair till it stood on end. "There are two or three more, but I'd rather see my play behind the fire than murdered by any of them. Upon my word I don't know what we are going to do, unless you play the part yourself." The point of the scissors was suddenly and noiselessly driven deep into the table, as her hand clenched round them. A deep flush passed across her face, and her eyes rested- upon him with an indescribable expression. There was a moment's pause, and then she said in her original cool, half scoffing tone:

"And meanwhile, in real life, as children say, Rastrick won't produce the . piece at all ■ without Clare Ffolliott."

He drew himself up impatiently, the geniality which had developed upon him disappeared, and he was once more weary and irritated.

"Knstrick doesn't know, what he'll do, or what he won't do —I think he wants to product the piece, but he wants to keep the Ffolliotts if he can. He's shuffled and temporised this afternoon until I've half- a mind to throw the whole thing- up." "That's where the amateur comes in," she said; "if you were a poor devil depend big on jour work for yoiir bread and butter you'd be very much more patient. Do you mean that you'd take the piece out of Eastrick's hands?" j, ■'. "No no", he said hurriedly, and a little shamefacedly. "I wanted to, but he made rather a fuss about it, and seemed to think it wouldn't be quite the straight thing. No, I shall just get away, I think, and let them fight it out among themselves. .What does it matter, anyway?" "Not much to anyone but yourself," she said. She was watching him curiously. "Where do you mean to go?" He rose with a laugh and stood looking aimlessly;out of the window. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "I've not made up my mind." "I wonder when you ever do make up your mind," she retorted, parenthetically, and he went on: :"I daresay I shall run .over to Paris to begin with, and I might go to St. Petersburg. There's a young fellow, a cousin of mine there." j "Or;you might go to .Egypt, or India, or the North Pole,' she said. "And when do you start?" j "To-morrow," he said, promptly. ' "That's certain, anyway." There was a pause, and then he said, abruptly: "And you'll look after Virginie, and do the best you can for her for me?' 1 . She started, and her. brows cpn.tracted. ..-,. . "I," she said. "What has an extra lady to do with the management?" •"Oh, I don't know," was the vague answer.! "Cecil ajicl Ratetri'ck are very good friends, yon. Icn'ow^ Eastrick thinks a good deal.of Cecil's opinion. By-the-bye, -vvhexe is he?" | Her lips tightened slightly. "He's gone into the country," she said, briefly. He glanced at her, and his lips parted to psk another question, but" he did riot do so. Instead, he came up to the table. . "I'm afraid I shan"t see him before t' go',- .-then,"- he said, quietly. "It's awfully good of you to let me come andprose to-yon- like this. I wonder whether you know how you have helped things along for me?" She laughed cynically. ■•..'■ I "I've given you a 'sight of good ad-

vice,' " she said, "which you have treated as people generally do treat good advice. That's all." "Xot quite" he said. He was standing with his' hands in his pockets, looking down at her. "If Virginie should ever turn into a success it will be your doing."

"And when Virginie turns into a success you'll turn up again, I suppose? If there's a land where roasted pigeons il.v into people's mouths you certainly ought to be there. Goodbye." ' " ."

She held out her hand, and he took it and shook it heartily..

"Good-bye,' he .said. "You'll let me come and prose, again when I come back, won't you? My love to Cecil."

She did not go on with her dressmaking when he was gone. She gathered it together and disappeared into another room. When she came back she had changed her dress for one a little smarter and more showy, but not less shabby than that which she had worn before. She gave a comprehensive glance of disgxist round the room, went out of it again, and left the house.

It was late when she returned, past twelve o'clock at nig-ht. The gas was burning brightly in the sittingroom, and at the table, on which a dingy-looking supper was laid, sat Mr Cecil Cochrane. She looked at him sharply. His face was sullen and morose, and he neither looked up nor spoke, as she entered. She took off her hat and cloak in silence, flung them on the sofa, and sat down opposite to him. "What luck?" she asked. "None." "He won't do anything?" "He won't do anything." She drew the loaf towards her and cut a piece of bread. There was no surprise in her face, only.a contemptuous bitterness. . There was a silence while she ate her supper. Her companion had poured himself out a tumbler of whisky and water, flung himself on the sofa, and lighted a cheap cigar. "Anything happened?" he asked, moodily. "Seen anyone?" "Andrew Hamer was here this afternoon," she answered. "That's nothing new," he growled. "Anything settled about his piece?" "Not a thing," she answered. "He's going away." "Leaving it to Eastrick?" ejaculated Mr Cecil Cochrane. "Well, he is a fool!" (To be continued daily.)