ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue XVI, 14 October 1899, Page 659

ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

(Published by Special Arrangement.)

By

Mary Angela Dickens.

Author of “Prisoners of Silence." “Against the Tide,” “Some Women's Ways.” “Cross Currents, “A Mere Cypher,' “Valiant Ignorance,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER XII. IN THE GREEN ROOM.

Andrew Hainer was living at high pressure. This was not an uncommon state of things for his was one of those fervid natures to which existence is hardly possible on any other lines. Nevertheless, the present white heat at which the fire of life glowed within him was something distinctly out of the common, even with him. He had come back to England from his Russian travels, to be caught straight away into a very whirlpool of excitement. It was not the success of his play. With the curious indifference to accomplished facts sometimes characteristic of such a temperament he had passed that by almost carelessly. It was not his position as the lion of the season; he had no time to spare even for realising-. much less for cultivating, this position. The aspect of the situation which had seized upon him and dominated him was personified by Miss Sylvia Maynard. She stood for him in flesh and blood, the perfect materialisation of the creature of his brain: she represented to him his ideal, and he prostrated himself promptly at the feet of that ideal, and adored it with a whole-hearted, unreasoning, unconsidering devotion which was natural to him. He had set to work instantly upon a second play for Miss Maynard. All his faculties were stimulated to the highest pitch, and his new creations. pervaded, as it were, by Violet Drummond's personality, absorbed his every thought. After the matinee at Brighton he disappeared for two days. During those two days he hardly ate or slept; he never left his rooms except at night, and he wrote the last act of his play. It was about two o'clock in the morning when he finished it. and haggard, white, and wildly excited, Hamer threw down his pen and went out of the house. He wandered about the streets Tor nearly three hours; then he went home again, threw himself down on his bed, and fell into a heavy, exhausted sleep. It was about twelve o’clock on the following day when he awoke, desponding, inclined to be irritable and very hungry. His mornings tub did something towards restoring him, and a substantial meal did yet more. He lighted a cigar afterwards and went out. It was a Saturday; there was a matinee at the Victorian Theatre, and his first impulse was to go to Violet Drummond. He was in no hurry, however; there was a curious sense upon him of being out of work—of having come to the end of all things — and he sauntered along, taking an unconscious pleasure in the fresh, sharp air and sunshine. He was going along the Strand, paying little heed to his surroundings and noticing the passers-by not at all, when a vonce suddenly cried: “Why, Hamer, is it you?”

Andrew Hamer started, looked in the direction of the voice, and held out his hand with a quick gesture of surprise and satisfaction. “Hullo, Sternhold.” he exclaimed. “Where did vou come from?”

The man thus greeted was in clerical dress. He was tall and dark, with well-cut features, which should have been handsome, in a somewhat too typical style. They were haggard, however; as those of a man worn out by pain or suspense. The eyes were sunken, and the mouth set into a kind of rigid endurance. To Andrew Hamer, Lucian Sternhold was simply a college friend, of whom he had lost sight for several years. But Cecil

Cochrane would have known the face, had he seen it —changed and aged as it was —for that of the man he had seen with Violet Drummond in her father’s garden. “I have come up on business,” said Sternhold, in reply to Hamer's question. “I’m not in these parts once in two years. It is good to have knocked up against you like this.” “Capital!” returned Hamer, heartily. “Let's hear all your news, old boy. Come and have some lunch.” Sternhold made a slight gesture in the negative. He had turned, and they were walking slowly down the Strand side by side. “I can’t, thanks,” he said. “I have an engagement. What are you doing with yourself, Hamer? You haven’t written that book yet?” Hamer laughed. “I’ve written a play,” he said. “It‘s been rather a success. And what about yourself? Working yourself to death, I suppose, as all you parsons do nowadays. Sternhold smiled, rather faintly. “No,” he said, “I’ve an easy curacy in the country—much too easy.” “And are you married? Last time I heard of you, somebody told me you were engaged.” There was a silence; a silence so prolonged that Andrew Hamer turned his head and looked at the other man. And what he saw in his face drew from him an ejaculation. “My dear old fellow,” he said, “I beg your pardon!” Lucian Sternhold’s wmte lips moved stiffly. “No, no!” he said; and his voice was hoarse. “I have had troubles, Hamer. She—has gone.” “My dear fellow!” muttered Hamer. There was a pause. Andrew Hamer, with every nerve in his sympathetic nature quivering, was calling himself all the names he could think of, for having been “such a confounded brute,” as he expressed it. Lucian Sternhold looked straight before him. They had walked on until they had reached and passed the Victorian Theatre, when Sternhold said in quiet, everv-dav tones:

“Where are you off to? I’m afraid I must turn back directly.”

Hamer brought back the sense of sight to his eyes and looked about him.

“Well,” he said, “I was going to the theatre—the Victorian. We’ve passed it, as a matter of fact. They’re playing my piece there. Couldn't you come and see it this evening?” Sternhold shook his head.

“I don’t go to the theatre,” he said. “Did you say it was successful? I know nothing about such things nowadays. but I congratulate you with all my heart.” Hamer shook his head. “The success isn’t due to me.” he said. “There’s a most wonderful girl playing the leading part. By Jove, Sternhold, you ought to see her! She’s the most beautiful creature and the most magnificent actress I ever saw! And at the same time she’s as modest, gentle, and sweet a girl as you could find in any parsonage in England. You couldn’t speak to her and hold your prejudice against the stage for half a minute. Come in. old man. and see her now.”

They had retraced their steps while Andrew Hamer spoke. They stood now on the pavement just outside the Victorian, and Lucian Sternhold gave one quick glance, half-curi-ous. half-tenmted. towards its open doors. He had not always disapproved of theatres. He had been rather an enthusiastic playgoer in his college days, and Andrew Hamer’s

words had stirred old memories in him. It was only one glance, however, and as he looked away again even the faint desire had died in him.

“No thanks,” he said simply. "Goodbye, Hamer; it’s been a great pleasure to meet you.” The two men shook hands heartily, and then Lucian Sternhold turned and walked away along the Strand, and Andrew Hamer went into the theatre, in which a crowded audience was hanging breathless on every word ami look of Violet Drummond. There was little more than two hours' interval after the performance was over, and Violet had changed her dress, before it was time for her to dress again for the evening performance. And Rachel Cochrane had decided that it was better for her to stay in her dressing-room and dine and rest at the theatre. Rachel herself, of course, stayed with her.

Rachel had never emerged from that state of mind which her brother had characterised on reaching Brighton as “a devil of a temper.” Sometimes she was fierce and scornful, visiting every word and action of those who came in contact with her with scathing sarcasm; sometimes she was silent and morose. Always she was restless, irritable, at war with her world. She did not stay long in the dressing-room this evening. Violet’s very neighbourhood seemed to have become an annoyance to her. They dined together, practically in silence, and then Rachel rose abruptly and went away. She walked up and down the passage for some time, her brows knit, her lips compressed. Then

she wandered downstairs into the green-room. There was nobody there —there were only two or three carpenters left in the theatre, indeed—and she sat down at the piano and began to play. She had been there for perhaps a quarter of an hour when the door was flung open and Andrew Hamer came in. There was a- long glass let into the wall against which the piano stood, and in it Rachel could see who it was who had come into the room. She did not turn round, nor did she stop playing; she passed from one air to another and played with unusual dash and effect. Andrew Hamer had patffeed as he saw her; or paused, perhaps, because he saw no one else. Then he strolled across the room and leaned his folded arms on the top of the piano. He was looking stormy and dejected, and there was, moreover, a certain unconscious resentment in his eyes as he fixed them on Rachel. She did not look up. and when she passed into yet a fresh air he interrupted her unceremonious! v.

“I wish you would leave off making that noise,” he said. “I think you might find something to say to me.” Rachel did not attempt to leave off. On the contrary she made more noise than ever, as she said, speaking through it:

“What do you want?” “I’ve got the blues,” he said. “I’ve finished the play.”

“Well?” “Well?” he echoed. “Is that all you have to say about it? Upon my word, of all the unreliable women! Look here, I wanted Miss Maynard to read the part through for me, and she won’t. Rachel lifted her hands from the keys and let them fall into her lap. as she wheeled round on the music stool and faced him. “Oh. she won’t?” she said. “Well. I don't see what that’s got to do with me.”

“Can’t you persuade her?” he demanded. wrathfiilly. “I’ve written the part for her. don’t you see? I want to hear the speeches in her voice: T

want to see the woman in her face. Can't you persuade her?" "Is that the manuscript?” He held a thick roll, and as sh» stretched out her hand for it with an imperative gesture, he gave it to her. "Yes," he said. Rachel was turning it over with a rapid assured touch, glancing through it with quick comprehension. At last she paused, read a page attentively, turned another, and yet another. They she rolled the manuscript impetuously together, and looked up at him. Her face was pale with excitement. Her eyes flashed scornfully. “And you imagine that Sylvia Maynard's capable of playing that!” she said. He flushed darkly. “I know she is,” he said hotly. “She is capable of playing anything. Why are you always making light of her? Is it possible that you don't know u great genius when you see one?" Rachel tilted herself backwards on the music stool, clasping her hands behind her head, and broke into a long laugh.

“A great genius!” she cried. "Oh you men! You bats, vou idiots.!”

Her voice rang with a passion of derision, and Andrew Hamer, already jarred and overstrung, and with a certain undeveloped and unconscious antagonism towards her in his mind, caught fire at the flame in her eyes.”

"Where are your eyes?” he exclaimed. “How is it that you don't see what she is? Simply the greatest actress we’ve had on the English stage for years.”

“When; are your senses?” she retorted storniily. Oh. it maddens me to think that a man with any sense, a man who should know good from bad. and black from white, should be sueh a fool as you are! Is it possible you don't realise that she hasn't two ideas in her head? Has she ever made one single observation to you worthy of the name of thought? She listens—oh, yes, I grant you she listens, and looks lovely! But is that enough for you? Is that all you want? Don't you feel, don't you know, that she's u stick—a stick—a stick!” She bear her hand as she repeated the word against the ease of the piano. And Hamer caught the phrase from her with a laugh.

“A stick!” he repeated. “And what about Virginie?” She paused, her passion arrested, as it were, at full flood, and looked up into his face. “One swallow does not make a summer.” she said. "You think too much of Virginie.” “That's not possible!" he retorted “And. look here; since we're, taking this opportunity to speak our minds. I've something to say, too. You choose to sneer at me for my appreciation of the cleverest actress of her day, what can you say for yourself for the way you treat that wretched Allen?” Rachel’s hand clenched as it rested on the piano. She looked up at him defiantilv.

“What do you mean?” she said, recklessly. “Alien's a friend of mine!” “There's no need to tell me that,” said Hainer. “I was a friend of yours once! As we’re speaking pretty plainly I may as well say that if I'd known I should be succeeded by an emptyheaded fool like that I shouldn't have thought so much of the privilege. What pleasure do you find in his society? That's what I don't understand. You have brains. 1 should have thought it would have taken a man with brains to please you. What dies Allen talk to you about? You’ll be the laughing stock of the whole company. Do vou know that?”

“Mr Allen talks to me politely." Rachel said. She rose as she spoke, and it would have been difficult to say which of the two faces thus confronted was the whiter or the more enraged. “And this is more than all my acquaintances do.” She turned towards the door, but before she could move in that direction Andrew Hamer strode, across the room and flung it open. “Don't let me drive you away.” he said. “I’m going.” And he went. CHAPTER XIII. A NEW IDEA. “Rachel!” The voice was very timid, very uncertain. even inclined to tremble a little, ft was about three o'clock on the following Saturday afternoon, and Violet had come into the Cochrane's

Fitting room some twenty minutes before. She was looking pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, ns though she had slept little. She carrier! a thick roll of manuscript in her hand, and she had seated her self by the window with a glance halffurtive and half-wistful towards the onlv other occupant of the room. Rachel Cochrane. Rachel, however, made no response whatever to the glance. She did not even seem to have observed Violet’s entrance. In a few minutes the girl rose again from her chair, and began to move about the room, wijh a restlessness that was most unlike her usual placidity. But if she hoped to attract Rachel's attention she was disappointed. Rachel’s eves were never lifted from the theatrical magazine she was reading. There was something like desperation on Violet’s face at last, as she came up to the tireplace by which the other girl sat. and made her timid tippe, . It was unheeded, and she repcSted it. ••Rachel!” Rachel Cochrane lifted her head. Her face was set like a stone. "Weir?" she said. "1 don’t know what to do. Rachel." Violet went on. "Mr Hamer gave me this, last night.” She held out the manuscript as she spoke, but Rachel did not even glanc<. at it. -Well?”

"It—it’s the new play he has written. He’s finished it. He asked me to read it. and—and tell him what I thought of it." "Read it. then,” returned Rachel,' and tell him what you think df it.” Violet flushed painfully. •T have read it." she said. "I read it last night, and Cm sure it’s beautiful. But there’s something else.” She paused, but Rachel made no comment, ami she went on: "He wants me to read the part to him. He’s coming—to-morrow. Rachel. what am I to do?" "Why. read it to him. of course.” "Rut 1 can’t!” cried Violet, pressing her hands painfully together. "I’ve been awake all night, thinking about it. Rachael, you know —it makes me so ashamed to say it —you know 1 ca n’t.” Rachel put down her paper sudden"Why does it make you ashamed ?" she said, mercilessly. "You weren t ashamed when I taught you Virginie." ”1 have deceived him so," Violet said, piteously, and as the quivering tones fell on her ear. Rachel s lips tightened. ”1 couldn't help it—but he’ll be so disappointed." Rachel surveyed her coolly. "Yes,” she said. "He will be disappointed.” There was a moment's silence, and, then Violet said, in little more than a whisper: "Aren't you going to help me any more?" "Not at present." returned Rachel. "1 think you shall see what yon can ilo for yourself.” Violet'drew a long, quivering sigh. Then she straightened her slight figure and lifted her head. ”1 think I’m glad." she said, simply, "because now. he must know all about it. lie must know that it’s you, and not I." She turned away as she spoke, and walked across the room to the window. She did not see the sudden movement with which Rachel leaned forward in her chair, gripping its two arms. She did not see the extraordinary tempest of emotion that swept across Rachel’s face, or the battle that fought itself out there. “Sylvia! ” The summons was harsh and imperious. and the girl started as she heard it. Almost before she could turn. Rachel’s voice went on: "I’ve changed mv mind. Hive me the play" ’ \ iolet went swiftly across the room and stood beside her. “I don’t understand. Rachel,” she said. ncrvouslv. "How have you changed your mind?" “1 shall teach you the part." said Rachel. She stretched out her hand and took the manuscript from the girl’s hand. "(io away,” she went on. "1 don't w: tit you here while I read it." Violet was looking down into her hard, dark face, with dilated eyes in which the helpless tears were rising "Oh Rachel. no," she faltered. “Please. I do so want him to know.” "And I do not want him to know,” returned Rachel, suddenly and fierce-

ly. "1 say that he’s never to know — never! Now go away.” She leaned back in her chair, opening the manuscript deliberately at the first page. Violet hesitated a moment ami then walked submissively towards the door. Before she reached it. however, it was opened from outside. ami Cecil Cochrane came in. He paused on seeing Violet, and then, contrary to his usual habit, he went up to her and held out his hand. "Hood morning,” he said. "I hope you’re not over-tired after your hard week's work. Eight performances are more than we ought to allow, I think!”

He spoke with a certain efl'usion of manner which was new in him where Violet Drummond was concerned, and he held her hand an instant longer than was necessary. She drew it away directly he released it. "Thank you." she said, shyly and hurriedly. "1 am not at all tired.” She made an instinctive movement suggestive of a vague desire to escape, and he followed her and opened the door for her. "It was hardly necessary to ask. perhaps.” he said, suavely. "For you look—as usual. Is it possible to find a term of higher praise’?” She looked up at him. half-frighten-ed. half-perplexed, murmured something under her breath, and disappeared. Cecil Cochrane shut the door after her. walked deliberately to the fireplace. drew up a chair, and. sat down. "What’s the matter with her?" he said, coolly. "She looks haggard."

Rachel had let the roll of manuscript fell into her lap. and was leaning back in her chair, staring into the fire.

"She's worried," she said. "She's beginning to find the inconvenience of being a walking and talking doll. Hamer’s finished his new play.” "Oh!” said Cochrane, with a glance at the manuscript in her lap. "Got it there?"

She nodded, and he went on: "Any good?" "It seems to be—all right,” she said slowly.

"Ah!" said Cochrane, examining his delicately trimmed nails with great interest. “Well. I don’t feel sure that she'll play it. But we’U talk about that afterwards. It rather belongs to what I’ve got to say. Look here. Rachel, has it ever occurred to you that the present arrangement is altogether too insecure?" She turned her head on its cushion and looked at him.

"I never supposed it was calculated to last for ever,” she said. "What do you mean? Are you tired of it? Do you think the time has come when she might be returned with thanks?” There was a certain uncontrolled eagerness in her look and tone, and her brother stared at her.

"Not much.’ he said. “I don't get tired of a fortune. I didn’t realise at first what a fortune there was in her. But I'm very well a.were of it now, and 1 m?an to kep her. "You mean to keep her altogether? You don’t intend to take her back to her father—ever?”

"My dear girl, why should I? There was money to be made in that way certainly—a little. But there are pots of money to be made in this way, and I prefer pots.” "There are pots of money if I go on teaching her," corrected Rachel. “Not otherwise. We’d better not forget 1 hat.” Cecil Cochrane was nursing one leg tenderly as it rested on the other. "I don’t forget it,” he protested. "That’s why I want to talk over my little plans with you. The whole thing depends on you, I know; but it’s to your interest as well as mine to keep it going. You share the money—you like that?” He spoke blandly, but he was watching her intently from under his eyelashes. Very little of the money made through Violet Drummond had gone to Rachel, and her brother knew it: but it was characteristic of the wide gulf that lay between the natures of the brother and sister, that Rachel swept the question of money aside with an imperious gesture.

"1 like the power,” she said. “If I can’t carry out my own ideas, I like to feel that I can make someone else do it. I like to make myself tell, at last.”

Her hand tightened unconsciously round the manuscript she held, and her whole face glowed. It was the

enthusiasm of the artist, and as such, quite incomplrehensible to Cecil Cochrane. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“You don’t particularly wish her to drift out of our hands, then?” he said. Raehel lifted her arm and let it fall heavily on the arm of her chair. “She shan’t!” she said. And the words came almost vindictively. “She's my mouthpiece—the means by which I can make a fool of that great gull that thinks itself so clever —the public. She’s my doll, and she and I, at least, know it.”

"That being the case,” said Cochrane. smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me in thinking that things should be put on a sounder footing. Observe that as things are at present, we have no hold whatever over this young woman.” “Only this much.” she answered, “that’s she’s nothing without us.” “I don't mean that.” returned her brother. “I mean supposing the facts should come out—supposing anyone should find out who she is—and you must remember that Miss Maynard is distinguished enough to be speculated about—where do we come in then?" Raehel did not speak. Her brows were knit. She was following his words intently, but she had evidently not caught the drift of his argument. “If once our worthy uncle should be brought upon the scene.” pursued Cochrane, “we should be distinctly out of it as things are at present. He would hasten to remove his daughter from our contaminating influence aid the pernicious atmosphere of the theatre, and we should lose our income and—your mouthpiece.” "Is there any chance of Mr Drummond’s appearing upon the scene?" demanded Rachel, hastily. “None whatever.' answered her brother, carefully touching and retouching his hair. “Still, it is well to be on the safe side, and as things are at present, we should be distinctly in the wrong’ box.” "What do you propose to do?” Rachel had turned away from her brother, and was looking straight before her. “I propose to marry her.” said he. There was a moment’s dead silence. Rachel’s figure was so motionless as to look almost rigid. Then her hand began to move slowly to and fro on the arm of her chair. “Y’ou propose to marry her?” she

.said. “You—to marry that girl?" Her tone was very strange, partly because she was evidently making so great an effort to keep it absolutely impassive. “The rights of a husband,” went on < oehrane, ignoring her words, “are superior to the rights of a father. If our uncle should turn up after she is my wife ” Rachel moved —the sharp, slight movement of uncontrollable repugnance. ‘ghr hates you!” she said briefly. .( evil Cochrane grinned. "She doesn't like me much,” he said. “She’ll have to get over that. And I suppose she fancies she does like Hamer? He must be choked off, you see, and that’s where the question of his play comes in.” Rachel was leaning forward in her ehair so that her brother could not see her face. The movement of her hand ha.d ceased.

“Y es,” she said. “He would have to be choked off.”

"The question is how that is to be done.” said Cochrane. “We ean’t have him hanging about here any longer.” He paused, and began to trace patterns on the earpet with his foot. “Of course, there’s one easy way,” he said. "There might be circumstances under which he would not be likely to wish ”

He paused again. Rachel turned suddenly in her ehair. He lifted his eyes, full of evil meaning, and met hers. The next instant he dropped them again, as her response came, low and vibrating with emphasis: “No,” she said. “Once for all. no.” She said no more, and there was a moment’s dead silence. It was broken by Rachel.

“Rastrick must refuse his play,” she said, brusquely. “It won’t take much to put him off.”

“Or she might refuse to play in it,” suggested Cochrane. Rachel shook her head. “Dangerous!” she said. “Bu£ it’s to be managed somehow.” "There’s no difficulty about it when you set your brains to work,” said Cochrane. “Then you think the idea’s a good one?” “The idea that you should marry her?” said Rachel, recklessly. She rose as she spoke, and tossed Andrew Hamer’s manuscript on to a table. “I think it’s capital!” (To be continued.)