ON THE EDGE OF A PRECIPICE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue XIX, 4 November 1899, Page 805

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 XVIII.

TWO OF A TRADE. “She’s no business here at all tonight, it’s my opinion.” “I never saw a girl look so ill in all my life.” “It isn’t so much that she looks so ill; she’s so awfully odd.” The speakers were a group of girls waiting in the wings of the Victorian Theatre that night for their cue, and the object of their comments was Violet Drummond, who stood at a little distance from them at another entrance. Her reappearance after her illness had naturally caused a good deal of excitement in the theatre; the more so as her health was not considered by her critics to be by any means restablished. The girl who had spoken last cast a furtive glance at her and then went on: “She seems quite stupid! Have you noticed ?” “She’s never what you’d call lively,” interposed the first speaker with a little sneer. “I know; but she seems quite dazed to-night. She hardly answered when I asked how she was. She looked at me like an owl.” “And yet she’s playing just the same as usual. It’s very odd.” “She looks frightened, if you ask me,” put in another girl, “thoroughly scared. I wonder whether those Cochranes bully her?” “Have you seen Rachel Cochrane tonight?” said the first speaker eagerly. “She’s like a demon! There’s nothing else for it. Everyone who opens their lips before her gets simply scarified. And she looks—well, my goodness, she looks diabolical!”

Of course they may pitch into her in private,” said the third girl with a laugh. “But there’s nothing of that about Cochrane —at any rate —in public. He’s sugar itself to her lately. Haven’t you noticed? It’s my belief he’s making up to her. Hullo, that’s us!”

And they trooped on to the stage. Violet Drummond meanwhile stood perfectly motionless. She had still some minutes to wait, and she was evidently listening mechanically for her cue. The comments of the girls —as such rough judgments are apt to be—were amply justified by her appearance. She had lost flesh, and there was an almost transparent delicacy about her fair face, which no doubt served to heighten the strange effect of its expression. It looked numb and stupid. The only sign of feeling about it was in her eyes, and the feeling there was a nervous fear. She started violently as a man’s step came towards her, and looked around apprehensively. The new comer was Rastrick, and as she saw him the apprehension faded slightly out of her face. “Why do you wait here?” he said, in a low voice. “You should have gone to your room and let them call you again. You must not over-tax your strength.”

Rastrick’s manner was consideration itself. Nothing could have been more solicitious than his reception of her had been, and he had made every arrangement possible for her comfort. But there was a new note in his manner to-night, nevertheless, a touch of protection which seemed to outweigh the deference of a manager towards a valuable leading lady. Violet looked at him vaguely. “I would rather stop here,” she said. “As you like,” returned Rastrick with an easy smile. “Then they must

give you a chair—a comfortable chair. By-the-bye, can you tell me whether Cochrane is in the theatre to-night? Ah, how opportune! Here he comes!” He looked away from her, towards a figure which was just coming into sight. Then a slight movement caused him to turn towards her again, and he uttered a sharp, though lowtoned exclamation:

“Miss Maynard, what are you thinking of? It’s not your cue.” Violet had moved swiftly to the entrance to the stage and was trying with trembling hands, that refused to do her will, to open the door. On Rastrick’s words she turned her face, looking at him over her shoulder with scared eyes. Then, as he laid an imperative hand on her arm, she shrank away. “I forgot,” she said. “I wanted to go away. Oh!”

Cecil Cochrane reached them at this moment, and she became suddenly very still. Cecil nodded to Rastrick and addressed her, directly. “Are you all right?” he said, solicitously. “Is there anything you would like?”

“Some champagne,” said Rastrick, promptly. “Would that be the right thing, Miss Maynard? Let me send for some for you.” “Not unless you wish to send her into a raving fever,” returned Cochrane coolly. “My dear fellow, it's necessary to keep Miss Maynard quiet: not to stimulate her.”

Violet had never taken her hand from the fastening of the door. Her whole attention seemed concentrated in following the scene. As Cochrane spoke the last word a little sigh of relief came from her. She had heard her cue. She opened the door and glided on to the stage, leaving the two men alone. They eyed one another for a moment, and in the glance of each there was a covert challenge and defiance; then Rastrick said:

“I want to have a talk with you, Cochrane. Come to my room after the curtain’s down, will you?” He spoke rather brusquely, but no change in Cochrane’s face betrayed that he noticed this.

“Always delighted to have a chat,” he said smoothly. “But won’t it do before the curtain’s down? I propose to see Miss Maynard home. We’re rather anxious about the effect of her work on her to-night.” “Very sorry,” was the answer, “but what I have to say is strictly private. We are likely to be disturbed any time in the evening.” Cochrane shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” he said, “I suppose I must stretch a point for you, dear boy. Only don’t keep me long.” “No, I won’t keep you long,” returned Rastrick, with a little smile. About five minutes after the fall of the curtain, accordingly, Coehrane made his appearance in the manager’s room, elegant, suave, slightly supercilious, as usual. If there were any curiosity in his mind as to the subject of the interview before him it would have, been impossible to detect it from his tone or manner. Rastrick on the other hand seemed to be a little nervous. There was a furtive triumph in his shifty eyes, but he was evidently by no means easy. He tried to cover any embarrassment he might feel with an air of business-like decision and comnosure.

“That’s all right, Cochrane,” he said. Come in and sit down and let us get to business nt once.” “Oh. it’s business, is it?” snid Cochrane. nonchnlently, as he threw himself into a chair.

“Yes. it’s business. Deuced unpleasant business you’ll call it, 1 daresay, before we’ve done. Now, look here, Cochrane, you remember what we said at Brighton?” “I remember that we—disagreed,” said Cochrane. “You had an idea that you would like to put your hand into Miss Maynard's pocket and I didn’t see it from the same point of view.” “You preferred to keep your own hand in sole possession,” retorted Rastrick. “You made a mistake. You’d better have taken me into the business then, for I want a larger share now. Yes. my boy, I want a great deal larger share and you'll have to give it me.” And Cochrane smiled blandly. “Really!” he said. “Really. You remember that I told you I would find out your little game with Miss—with, let us call her Miss Maynard? I’ve done it. my boy.” Cecil Cochrane did not change colour. but his eyes seemed to narrow themselves slightly. “That sounds very clever,” he said. “At least you evidently think it very clever. What does it mean, exactly?” “It means that I have traced out the whole thing.” returned the other. “You were a flat. Cochrane, clever fellow though I always thought you. Didn't you realise how easy it would he tn anyone who cared to do it?” “When you can leave off rejoicing in your own keenness, and tell me the facts we shall be more at leisure to discuss my brains,” returned Cochrane. with a sneer. “Confound it, when some men think they’ve brought off a sharp thing what a noise they do make about it, to be sure. It's the novelty, I suppose.” “That’s as it may be,” said Rastrick, angrily. His strong point did not lie in repartee. “Anyhow, here’s the faet for you. T know all about —Miss Mavnard. I know how you got hold of her.”

“Very interesting, of course, but I don’t see that it does you much good. You can publish it in next week’s ‘Era’ if you like, as far as I’m concerned.” Rastrick took no notice.

“I know where she eame from.” he went on, watching Cochrane all the time. “I know her name. It’s not Sylvia Maynard. She's never seen France in her life, and she has no necessity whatever to earn her own living.” “Anything more?” enquired Cochrane. “Really, this is almost exciting in its freshness and originality.”

“It’s a neat little thing in family history.” said Rastrick. slowly. “Mr Drummond would have done better to fork out when you wanted those few hundreds in the autumn, wouldn’t he?”

Cecil Cochrane leant suddenly back in his chair, and there was a dead silence. At last Cochrane rose abruptly. The suavity had died out of his lace, and with it much of the effeminacy. It looked coarse, calculating and even brutal. “You've done me,” he sadd, between his teeth. “Curse you, you've done He turned and began to pace roughly up and down the room, and there was another silence. “How did you do it?" he asked. Coehrane threw out the words violently, but Rastrick took them up as though relieved by the opportunity for speech. He had been watching Coehrane almost breathlessly and he had allowed his previous words to pass almost unanswered. It was evidently not part of his plan to quarrel with the man he hail beaten.

“It was easy enough," he said. “I put on a detective and he interviewed your old landlady. Then they turned up Miss Drummond as missing, pieced the affair together—photographs and that kind of thing—and there you are. The bicycle was the final link—the number and the name of the agent, you know.” Cochrane turned upon him savagely. “How did you trace the bicycle?” “Well, that was rather a lucky fluke. Your landlady’s servant overheard my man asking about it, and offering a little reward, and she heard Mrs Simmons say that she couldn't remember what had become of it. The girl did remember, as it happened, and she slipped out after my man. and told him the name of the people who took it away. And, by the merest chance, you know, they'd stored it away with some others instead of breaking it up.” A muttered oath came from Cochrane. and he continued his walk for a few moments in silence, then he /threw himself into the chair once more.

“Well,” he said, insolently, “that’s your hand, is it? Now. what do you propose to do with it?”

“That depends upon you,” was the answer. “There are two alternatives, you see. I can take my Information to Mr Drummond. Kirk Mary, Westmoreland. and get the reward, which is not to be sneezed at, or I can stand in with you and take half profits. There ought to be a good haul for each of us, if we work the girl properly.”

“There’s another alternative,” said Cochrane, “which you seem to have overlooked. Take your information to this Mr Drummond and claim your thousand pounds. You’ll have to prove first that Sylvia Maynard is his daughter. And if I deny it, I think you’ll have some difficulty in doing that.” Rastrick sprang to his feet with an oath. “Deny it!” he said. “Confound it, you’ve just admitted it.” “Possibly,” said Coehrane, “to you alone. But you certainly wouldn’t be able to prove that! ' And I think you'd have considerable difficulty in making out a case.” “But the girl herself!” cried Rastrick. "Do you mean to tell me that she would deny her own father?” Coehrane smiled. He had not felt sure whether or no Rastrick’s knowledge extended to Violet Drummond's mental condition, and he saw now that there were limits to his opponent's grasp of the situation. Exactly what value was to be set upon this fact he would not have been prepared to say, but the ignorance of an adversary was always to be reckoned upon as a trump card. “I think I may say that she certainly would,” he said. “You don't suppose we’ve kept her all this time against her will, do you?” Rastrick collapsed for the moment. There are many men, capable of any amount of meanness and falsehood on their own account who are yet staggered by the idea of anything not perfectly ideal in the conduct of a woman, especially if the said woman’s capacity for lying collides with their own. Then he revived a little. “The bicycle!” he said. “The bicycle would do for you, if nothing else would.”

“It might,” said Cochrane, callously; but I haven't had time to see all round it yet, and I don’t feel sure.”

“We shall be cutting our own throats if we let it come to a trial at all,” said Rastrick, boldly. "The girl must be as hard as they’re made, and that kind of woman is never to be. trusted; but there’s no doubt about it that she has caught on! Look here, Coehrane, I've done you. as you said. But it’s all in the day's work, and you'd better make the best of it. Halfprofit is not to be sneezed at, and that’s your game. We’ve got to go into it together.” “You’re very cock-sure,” said Cochrane. He rose as he spoke, and stood surveying the other man with evil eyes. “Perhaps you’re too cock-sure. I’ve got to think it over, anyway. Am I to understand that, half-shares is your modest request?” “Half-shares," returned Rastrick. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours; until to-morrow night, that is. Take my advice and don’t make a fool of yourself.” “You’re too kind, dear fellow,” was the answer. “That's a piece of advice I should never think of giving you. Until to-morrow night, then.”

CHARTER XIX. RACHEL'S PROPOSAL.

It was not late when Cochrane left the theatre. And as a rule, on those nights when he did not take \ Drummond home, he did not generally go home himself until the small hours of the morning. To-night, however, he hailed a eab at once, shaking his head as he did so at a man who was passing, and who stopped to ask him if he were not coming to his club. “Not to-night, dear boy,” he said.

“I’ve been kept longer than 1 like already. Miss Maynard’s ill, you know, and I’m anxious about her.” “She played to-night, didn’t she?” said the other man.

“Oh, yes,” returned Cochrane; “she played to-night, and I’m anxious to hear how she stood it. She’s too highly strung, you know; altogether too highly strung.” “She wants a rest, I expect,” said the other, eyeing Cochrane curiously. "Well, good night, old fellow.” “Hood night,” answered Cochrane, and jumped into his cab.

It must have taken a remarkable exercise of mental force to keep Cochrane's voice so suave and his expression so easy and unconstrained, even for those few seconds. The change that came upon him as the cab drove away suggested the sudden removal of a deliberately assumed mask. Cecil Cochrane was going home to think. In twenty-four hours he had to take a decisive step, a step whereof the significance had presented itself fully developed in every detail to his keen and highly developed perceptive faculties. Twenty-four hours was time enough. A man who could not arrive at a conclusion in that time would never know his own mind, in Cochrane’s opinion. But it was not too long. He had no intention of wasting any of it, and he was marshalling the facts of the case before him as he was driven through the rapidly emptying streets. Arrived at home, he went straight to his own room, changed to a smoking jacket and slippers, and then went into the sitting-room. It was not Rachel’s custom to sit up for him, and he had told her that he should be late. He was rather surprised, therefore, when he opened the door, to see her standing at the other end of the room, halfturned towards the door, as though its opening had taken her by surprise.

Rachel was dressed in black, and either the colour or form of her dress enhanced her peculiarities of figure and made her look smaller and slighter even than usual. By contrast with her almost dwarf-like physique her head and face seemed to stand out to-night with absolutely weird effect. Her face Was perfectly colourless even to the lips, and it looked drawn and haggard. Her brows were contracted until the dark eyebrow’s met, and under them the great brown eyes flashed and gleamed as though with a fire which was consuming her. She had evidently been pacing up and down the room.

“I thought you said you weren’t coming in till late,” she said. Her voice was high-pitched and thin.

Cochrane looked at her for a moment. He had not lived for ten years by his wits without learning that it is not wise to neglect even apparently irrelevant factors in facing a problem.

“What’s the matter?” he said. She turned fiercely away from him. “Nothing!” she said. “Why have you come home?”

Cecil Cochrane did not press this question. lie was accustomed to wait for any information he desired and could not at once acquire. Nor did he answer her directly.

“How is she?” he asked. Rachel caught her lip savagely between her teeth.

“Sylvia?” she said. “Oh. she’s all right! She was hysterical when I got her home, but I gave her her sleeping draught, and she went to sleep directly.” She moved towards the door as she spoke, as though she intended to leave her brother alone, but Cochrane stopped her.

“Stop a little. Rachel: since you’re here you may as well know what’s going on. You’ve got your share of brains when you choose to use them, ami I may as well see how the matter strikes you. Come and sit down.” Rachel hesitated a moment, and then—a curious testimony to the force latent in Cecil Cochrane’s nature —she obeyed him. She retraced her steps slowly and sat down.

“Don’t be long.” she said. “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

“You wont want to go to bed when I’ve finished,” said her brother. “We’re in a hole, my girl, and I’ve got to find out which is the best way out. Do you remember that I said to you a little while ago that if the truth came out about this girl we should find ourselves in the wrong box?”

The fierce indifference of Rachel’s expression gave way in a flash. She looked at him, and her eyes seemed literally to blaze. “What do you mean?” she said. “1 mean that Rastrick’s got hold of it—curse him!” he said.

Rachel’s hand, clenched until the knuckles showed white, lay on the table by which she sat. It suddenly relaxed.

“Rastrick!” she said. “Rastrick has found it out?” "He's been on the trail some time,” said her brother, “and he's done the trick, as a fool will now and then. He's got the whole story—who she is —where she comes from—her connection with us. and how we got hold of her. He can give the whole thing away to-morrow if he likes.”

"How did he get at it?” said Rachel, eagerly. “Did Sylvia tell him anything?”

Cochrane stared at her.

“Sylvia!” he said, impatiently; “what could she tell him?” “Why, about her accident; her loss of memory, and all that,” retorted Rachel. “Did he get on the scent in that wav?”

Cochrane shook his head decisively. “No," he said; “that’s the only part of the story he didn’t know. 1 don’t know what put him up to the game originally. He thought she was odd, and he got hold of the idea that you taught her, only he didn’t know what to make of it. And he’s always looking out for fishy things that he can get a bit out of. He showed me his hand about a fortnight ago; wanted me to take him in with us and threatened to unearth the whole affair. I thought he might turn out dangerous, then, fool though he is, but I didn’t reckon on his getting it through so quickly.” Rachel was tracing patterns on the table-cloth with her finger, and frowning intently. “That was when the idea of marrying her came into your head,” she said, abruptly. “That was it,” he said. “I thought I could have made it all safe before Rastrick began to move in the matter. But it’s no good crying over spilt milk. The point is, what’s the next move?” “What does Rastrick want?” asked Rachel.

“Oh. he opens his mouth as wide as it will go,” said Cochrane coolly. “Trust an ass like that. He wants a half-share —not even a third. You and I to have half the money and all the work —he to have the other half the money and do nothing for it.” “And if you don’t close with him?” “He goes to old Drummond and gets the thousand pounds reward.”

Rachel made no comment, and there was a moment’s silence. Then Cochrane went on, laying out the facts before him as it were, as much for his own use as for Rachel’s.

“There are two side issues,” he said: “one of which he does not take into quite sufficient account, I think, and the other of which he ignores altogether. Really, it’s hard to be done by such a Juggins. We might deny his story altogether. It’s not an easy thing to prove identity under any circumstances; and if we worked it well, got up some witnesses to our statements, and so on, the other side would find it very awkward. But it would be an expensive business and a risky one. The other point, which Rastrick has altogether overlooked, is that I might go to Mr Drummond to-morrow and get the thousand pounds myself. But I’m bound to say that I don’t incline to that any more than Rastrick himself does. The thousand pounds is not enough.”

“You’re inclined to be in with Rastrick, then?” said Rachel. Her voice was rather odd, and preoccupied.

“I’m inclined—yes; on the first blush that seems to me the wisest thing to do,” said Cochrane slowly.

“It’s a cursed nuisance, but I’m inclined to think that it's the least of two evils.” “And what about the idea of marrying her?” said Rachel. “Do you mean to give that up?” Cochrane smiled, unpleasantly. “Not altogether,” he said. “But you see it seems likely to take time.

At present the notion appears to give her convulsions, and that won’t pay. By and by I shall try again.” “And meanwhile,” said Rachel, in a low, scornful tone, “you let Rastrick beat you, you gave in to a girl, and you cut away the ground from under your feet by throwing her into Andrew Hamer’s arms. I did not think you were such a fool, Cecil.” Cochrane had stirred slightly as she began to speak. He was leaning over the table now, with his arms folded, watching her intently. “What do you mean?” he said. “What would you do?” “If I were you?” said Raehel. She lifted her head at last and flashed a look at him so full of burning life, so instinct with passion, that Cochrane felt his own pulses quicken vaguely as he met it. “If I were you I would do them all. I’d marry her to-mor-row. Where would they be then?”

Cochrane leaned back in his chair and began to drum lightly with one hand on the table.

“That’s all very fine, my good girl!’’ he said rather contemptuously. “But those things are not so easily managed. I can’t drag her to church, or before the registrar, by the hair of her head. And it would take considerably more than twenty-four hours to get her to go quietly.” “Bah!” cried Rachel. She sprang to her feet as she spoke. Her eyes were blazing and her face worked with excitement. “Where’s your spirit, Cecil? Where’s your resource? She loathes you—yes, of course, she does. And she thinks she loves Andrew Hamer. She’s engaged to him. Did you know that? But it only means a little management, after all. You can’t marry her absolutely by force—of course I know that. But she can be made to marry you all the same, and she shall.”

“Explain,” said Cochrane. He had not moved, but he was looking up at her, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Engaged to Hamer, is she? That won’t do, of course. What have you got in your head?” “You’ll want time,” she went on rapidly; “two or three days to make her understand what she’s got to do. How long have you to make up your mind?”

“Until to-morrow night.” “Very well, then. Before to-morrow night we must take her away. We must disappear. Oh, it’s not easy, I

know, but it can be managed. She’s not known out of London at all. We have never had her photographed, you see, and we must go to some out of the way place where we shan’t be noticed.”

“An out of the way place won’t do for that,” interposed Cochrane quickly. “It bad better be a town. Well?” “Well, we shall have her all to ourselves,” went on Rachel, recklessly, “and she’s used to doing as we tell her. She’s not at her brightest, either, just now.” “She can become a little stupider if you like,” said Cochrane. “It’s the medicine she’s taking, and it can easily be made a little stronger. Raehel paused abruptly, and looked at him with a flash of repulsion passing across her face. “That won’t be necessary, 1 think,” she said. “I can manage her without that kind of thing. You get a special license of course, and there need be no delay. By the time they’ve hunted her out, Rastrick and her father and her lover, she’ll be Mrs Cecil Cochrane; and the game will be yours. Do you see?” “I see that you’ve got better brains and more daring even than I thought,” said Cochrane, ealmly. “It’s a wild plan, of course. No one but a woman would have thought of it. But it has its merits, and I’ll do it. It’s crude as it stands, and I shall have to work it up a bit, but I think it’ll come out well. There’s only one important point to be considered first. I’ve got to marry her out and out, you see. It won’t serve our purpose if it’s not strictly legal. I shall have to marry her in her own name. And she’ll have to sign herself, not Sylvia Maynard, but Violet Drummond, in the register. Shall we ever be able to make her do this? It seems a little thing, but it might easily upset the whole apple-cart.” A harsh laugh broke from Rachel.

“When she’s come to a state of mind to marry you quietly,” she said, “she will have come to a state of mind in which she'll do anything she’s told. Let's settle the details.”

She sat down at the table again, propping her chin on her clenched hands, as she confronted her brother, eager, resolute and reckless. Two hours had passed, and they were still sitting there, talking in low, rapid tones.

(To be continued.)