The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

E >> Ethel M. Dell >> The Top of the World

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He spoke with absolute fluency but with a foreign accent. His
hands were busy with the bandages, dexterous, clawlike hands that
looked as if they were delving for treasure.

She watched him, speechless and fascinated, for a few seconds.
Then Burke set the lamp upon the chair against which she had leaned
all the night, and bent down to her.

"Let me help you!" he said.

A shuddering horror of the sight before her came upon her. She
yielded herself to him in silence. She was shivering violently
from head to foot. Her limbs were so numb she could not stand. He
raised her and drew her away.

The next thing she knew was that she was sitting on the bed in her
own room, and he was making her drink brandy and water in so
burning a mixture that it stung her throat.

She tried to protest, but he would take no refusal till she had
swallowed what he had poured out. Then he put down the glass,
tucked her feet up on the bed with an air of mastery, and spread a
rug over her.

He would have left her then with a brief injunction to remain where
she was, but she caught and held his arm so that he was obliged to
pause.

"Burke, is that dreadful man a doctor?"

"The only one I could get hold of," said Burke. "Yes, he's a
doctor all right. Saul Kieff his name is. I admit he's a
scoundrel, but anyway he's keen on his job."

"You think he'll save Guy?" she said tremulously. "Oh, Burke, he
must be saved! He must be saved!"

An odd look came into Burke's eyes. She remembered it later,
though it was gone in an instant like the sudden flare of lightning
across a dark sky.

"We shall do our best," he said. "You stay here till I come back!"

She let him go. Somehow that look had given her a curious shock
though she did not understand it. She heard the door shut firmly
behind him, and she huddled herself down upon the pillow and lay
still.

She wished he had not made her drink that fiery draught. All her
senses were in a tumult, and yet her body felt as if weighted with
lead. She lay listening tensely for every sound, but the silence
was like a blanket wrapped around her--a blanket which nothing
seemed to penetrate.

It seemed to overwhelm her at last, that silence, to blot out the
clamour of her straining nerves, to deprive her of the power to
think. Though she did not know it, the stress of that night's
horror and vigil had worn her out. She sank at length into a deep
sleep from which it seemed that nought could wake her. And when
more than an hour later, Burke came, treading softly, and looked
upon her, he did not need to keep that burning hunger-light out of
his eyes. For she was wholly unconscious of him as though her
spirit were in another world.

He looked and looked with a gaze that seemed as if it would consume
her. And at last he leaned over her, with arms outspread, and
touched her sunny, disordered hair with his lips. It was the
lightest touch, far too light to awaken her. But, as if some happy
thought had filtered down through the deeps of her repose, she
stirred in her sleep. She turned her face up to him with the faint
smile of a slumbering child.

"Good night!" she murmured drowsily.

Her eyes half-opened upon him. She gave him her lips.

And as he stooped, with a great tremor, to kiss them, "Good night,
dear--Guy!" Her voice was fainter, more indistinct. She sank back
again into that deep slumber from which she had barely been roused.

And Burke went from her with the flower-like memory of her kiss
upon his lips, and the dryness of ashes in his mouth.

It was several hours later that Sylvia awoke to full consciousness
and a piercing realization of a strange presence that watched by
her side.

She opened her eyes wide with a curious conviction that there was a
cat in the room, and then all in a moment she met the cool,
repellent stare of the black-browed doctor whom Burke had brought
from Ritzen.

A little quiver of repugnance went through her at the sight,
swiftly followed by a sharp thrill of indignation. What was he
doing seated there by her side--this swarthy-faced stranger whom
she had disliked instinctively at first sight?

And then--suddenly it rushed through her mind that he was the
bearer of evil tidings, that he had come to tell her that Guy was
dead. She raised herself sharply.

"Oh, what is it? What is it?" she gasped. "Tell me quickly! It's
better for me to know. It's better for me to know."

He put out a narrow, claw-like hand and laid it upon her arm. His
eyes were like onyxes, Oriental, quite emotionless.

"Do not agitate yourself, madam!" he said. "My patient is better.
I think, that with care--he may live. That is, if he finds it
worth while."

"What do you mean?" she said in a whisper.

That there was a veiled meaning to his words she was assured at the
outset. His whole bearing conveyed something mysterious, something
sinister, to her startled imagination. She wanted to shake off the
hand upon her arm, but she had to suffer it though the man's bare
touch revolted her.

He was leaning slightly towards her, but yet his face was utterly
inanimate. It was obvious that though he had imposed his
personality upon her with a definite end in view, he was personally
totally indifferent as to whether he achieved that end or not.

"I mean," he said, after a quiet pause, "that the desire to live is
sometimes the only medicine that is of any avail. I know Guy
Ranger. He is a fool in many ways, but not in all. He is not for
instance fool enough to hang on to life if it holds nothing worth
having. He was born with an immense love of life. He would not
have done this thing if he had not somehow lost this gift--for it
is a gift. If he does not get it back--somehow--then," the black,
stony eyes looked into hers without emotion--"he will die."

She shrank at the cold deliberation of his words. "Oh no--no! Not
like this! Not--by his own hand!"

"Ah!" He leaned towards her, bringing his sallow, impassive
countenance close to hers, repulsively close, to her over-acute
sensibilities. "And how is that to be prevented? Who is to give
him that priceless remedy--the only medicine that can save him?
Can I?" He lifted his shoulders expressively, indicating his own
helplessness. And then in a voice dropped to a whisper, "Can you?"

She did not answer him. There was something horrible to her in
that low-spoken question, something that yet possessed for her a
species of evil fascination that restrained her from open revolt.

He waited for a while, his eyes so immovably fixed upon hers that
she had a mild wonder if they were lidless--as the eyes of a
serpent.

Then at last, through grim pale lips that did not seem to move, he
spoke again. "Madam, it lies with you whether Guy Ranger lives or
dies. You can open to him the earthly paradise or you can hurl him
back to hell. I have only Drought him a little way. I cannot keep
him. Even now, he is slipping--he is slipping from my hold. It is
you, and you alone, who can save him. How do I know this thing?
How do I know that the sun rises in the east? I--have--seen. It
is you who have taken from him the desire to live--perhaps
unintentionally; that I do not know. It is you--and you alone--who
can restore it. Need I say more than this to open your eyes?
Perhaps they are already open. Perhaps already your heart has been
in communion with his. If so, then you know that I have told you
the truth. If you really desire to save him--and I think you
do--then everything else in life must go to that end. Women were
made for sacrifice, they say." A sardonic flicker that was
scarcely a smile touched his face. "Well, that is the only way of
saving him. If you fail him, he will go under."

He got up with the words. He had evidently said his say. As his
hand left hers, Sylvia drew a deep hard breath, as of one emerging
from a suffocating atmosphere. She had never felt so oppressed, so
fettered, with evil in the whole of her life. And yet he had not
urged her to any line of action. He had merely somewhat baldly,
wholly dispassionately, told her the truth, and the very absence of
emotion with which he had spoken had driven conviction to her soul.
She saw him go with relief, but his words remained like a stone at
the bottom of her heart.

CHAPTER XI

THE REMEDY

When Sylvia went to Guy a little later, she found him installed in
Burke's room. Burke himself was out on the farm, but it was past
the usual hour for luncheon, and she knew he would be returning
soon.

Kieff rose up noiselessly from the bedside at her entrance, and she
saw that Guy was asleep. She was conscious of a surging,
passionate longing to be alone with him as she crept forward. The
silent presence of this stranger had a curious, nauseating effect
upon her. She suppressed a shudder as she passed him.

He stood behind her in utter immobility as she bent over the bed.
Guy was lying very still, but though he was pale, the deathly look
had gone from his face. He looked unutterably tired, but very
peaceful.

Lying so, with all the painful lines of his face relaxed, she saw
the likeness of his boyhood very clearly on his quiet features, and
her heart gave a quick hard throb within her that sent the hot
tears to her eyes. The sight of him grew blurred and dim. She
just touched his black hair with trembling fingers as she fought
back a sob.

And then quite suddenly his eyes were open, looking at her. The
pupils were enormously enlarged, giving him an unfamiliar look.
But at sight of her, a quick smile flashed across his face--his old
glad smile of welcome, and she knew him again. "Hullo--darling!"
he said.

She could not speak in answer. She could only lay her hand over
his and hold it fast.

He went on, his speech rapid, slightly incoherent. Guy had been
like that, she remembered, in moments of any excitement or stress.

"I've had a beastly bad dream, sweetheart. Thought I'd lost
you--somehow I was messing about in a filthy fog, and there were
beastly precipices about. And you--you were calling
somewhere--telling me not to forget something. What was it? I'm
dashed if I can remember now."

"It--doesn't matter," she managed to say, though her voice was
barely audible.

He opened his eyes a little wider. "Are you crying, I say? What's
the matter? What, darling? You're not crying for me? Eh? I
shall get over it. I always come up again. Ask Kelly! Ask Kieff!"

"Yes, you always come up again," Kieff said, in his brief,
mechanical voice.

Guy threw him a look that was a curious blend of respect and
disgust. "Hullo, Lucifer!" he said. "What are you doing here?
Come to show us the quickest way to hell? He's an authority on
that, Sylvia. He knows all the shortest cuts."

He broke off with a sudden hard breath, and Sylvia saw again that
awful shadow gather in his eyes. She made way for Kieff, though
not consciously at his behest, and there followed a dreadful
struggling upon which she could not look. Kieff spoke once or
twice briefly, authoritatively, and was answered by a sound more
anguished than any words. Then at the end of several unspeakable
seconds she heard Burke's footstep outside the door. She turned to
him as he entered, with a thankfulness beyond all expression.

"Oh, Burke, he is suffering--so terribly. Do see if you can help!"

He passed her swiftly and went to the other side of the bed.
Somehow his presence braced her. She looked again upon Guy in his
extremity.

He was propped against Kieff's shoulder, his face quite livid, his
eyes roaming wildly round the room, till suddenly they found and
rested upon her own. All her life Sylvia was to remember the
appeal those eyes held for her. It was as if his soul were crying
aloud to her for freedom.

She came to the foot of the bed. The anguish had entered into her
also, and it was more than she could bear.

She turned from Burke to Kieff. "Oh, do anything--anything--to
help him!" she implored him. "Don't let him suffer--like this!"

Kieff's hand went to his pocket. "There is only one thing," he
said.

Burke, his arm behind Guy's convulsed body, made an abrupt gesture
with his free hand. "Wait! He'll come through it. He did before."

And still those tortured eyes besought Sylvia, urged her, entreated
her.

She left the foot of the bed, and went to Kieff. Her lips felt
stiff and numb, but she forced them to speak.

"If you have anything that will help him, give it to him now!
Don't wait! Don't wait!"

Kieff the impassive, nodded briefly, and took his hand from his
pocket.

"Wait! He is better," Burke said.

But, "Don't wait! Don't wait!" whispered Sylvia. "Don't let him
die--like this!"

Kieff held out to her a small leather case. "Open it!" he said.

She obeyed him though her hands were trembling. She took out the
needle and syringe it contained.

Burke said no more. Perhaps he realized that the cause was already
lost. And so he looked on in utter silence while Sylvia and Kieff
between them administered the only thing that could ease the awful
suffering that seemed greater than flesh and blood could bear.

It took effect with marvellous quickness--that remedy of Kieff's.
It was, to Sylvia's imagination, like the casting forth of a demon.
Guy's burning eyes ceased to implore her. He strained no longer in
the cruel grip. His whole frame relaxed, and he even smiled at her
as they laid him back against the pillows.

"That's better," he said.

"Thank God!" Sylvia whispered.

His eyes were drooping heavily. He tried to keep them open. "Hold
my hand!" he murmured to her.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and took it between her own.

His finger pressed hers. "That's good, darling. Now I'm happy.
Wish we--could go on like this--always. Don't you?"

"No," she whispered back. "I want you well again."

"Ah!" His eyes were closing; he opened them again. "You mean
that, sweetheart? You really want me?"

"Of course I do," she said.

Guy was still smiling but there was pathos in his smile. "Ah, that
makes a difference," he said, "--all the difference. That means
you've quite forgiven me. Quite, Sylvia?"

"Quite," she answered, and she spoke straight from her heart. She
had forgotten Burke, forgotten Kieff, forgotten everyone in that
moment save Guy, the dear lover of her youth.

And he too was looking at her with eyes that saw her alone. "Kiss
me, little sweetheart!" he said softly. "And then I'll know--for
sure."

It was boyishly spoken, and she could not refuse. She had no
thought of refusing.

As in the old days when they had been young together, her heart
responded to the call of his. She leaned down to him instantly and
very lovingly, and kissed him.

"Sure you want me?" whispered Guy.

"God knows I do," she answered him very earnestly.

He smiled at her and closed his eyes. "Good night!" he murmured.

"Good night, dear!" she whispered back.

And then in the silence that followed she knew that he fell asleep.

Someone touched her shoulder, and she looked up. Burke was
standing by her side.

"You can leave him now," he said. "He won't wake."

He spoke very quietly, but she thought his face was stern. A faint
throb of misgiving went through her. She slipped her hand free and
rose.

She saw that Kieff had already gone, and for a moment she
hesitated. But Burke took her steadily by the arm, and led her
from the room.

"He won't wake," he reiterated. "You must have something to eat,"

They entered the sitting-room, and she saw with relief that Kieff
was not there either. The table was spread for luncheon, and Burke
led her to it.

"Sit down!" he said. "Never mind about Kieff! He can look after
himself."

She sat down in silence. Somehow she felt out of touch with Burke
at that moment. Her long vigil beside Guy seemed in some
inexplicable fashion to have cut her off from him. Or was it those
strange words that Kieff had uttered and which even yet were
running in her brain? Whatever it was, it prevented all intimacy
between them. They might have been chance-met strangers sitting at
the same board. He waited upon her as if he were thinking of other
things.

Her own thoughts were with Guy alone. She ate mechanically, half
unconsciously watching the door, her ears strained to catch any
sound.

"He will probably sleep for hours," Burke said, breaking the
silence.

She looked at him with a start. She had almost forgotten his
presence. She met his eyes and felt for a few seconds oddly
disconcerted. It was with an effort she spoke in answer.

"I hope he will. That suffering is so terrible."

"It's bad enough," said Burke. "But the morphia habit is worse.
That's damnable."

She drew a sharp breath. She felt almost as if he had struck her
over the heart. "Oh, but surely--" she said--"surely--having it
just once--like that----"

"Do you think he is the sort of man to be satisfied with just once
of anything?" said Burke.

The question did not demand an answer, she made none. With an
effort she controlled her distress and changed the subject.

"How long will Dr. Kieff stay?"

Burke's eyes were upon her again. She wished he would not look at
her so intently. "He will probably see him through," he said.
"How long that will take it is impossible to say. Not long, I
hope."

"You don't like him?" she ventured.

"Personally," said Burke, "I detest him. He is not out here in his
professional capacity. In fact I have a notion that he was kicked
out of that some years ago. But that doesn't prevent him being a
very clever surgeon. He likes a job of this kind."

Sylvia caught at the words. "Then he ought to succeed," she said.
"Surely he will succeed!"

"I think you may trust him to do his best," Burke said.

They spoke but little during the rest of the meal. There seemed to
be nothing to say. In some curious fashion Sylvia felt paralyzed.
She could not turn her thought in any but the one direction, and
she knew subtly but quite unmistakably that in this they were not
in sympathy. It was a relief to her when Burke rose from the
table. She was longing to get back to Guy. She had an almost
overwhelming desire to be alone with him, even though he lay
unconscious of her. They had known each other so long ago, before
she had come to this land of strangers. Was it altogether
unnatural that meeting thus again the old link should have been
forged anew? And his need of her was so great--infinitely greater
now than it had ever been before.

She lingered a few moments to set the table in order for Kieff;
then turned to go to him, and was surprised to find Burke still
standing by the door.

She looked at him questioningly, and as if in answer he laid his
hand upon her shoulder, detaining her. He did not speak
immediately, and she had a curious idea that he was embarrassed.

"What is it, partner?" she said, withdrawing her thoughts from Guy
with a conscious effort.

He bent slightly towards her. His hold upon her was not wholly
steady. It was as if some hidden force vibrated strongly within
him, making itself felt to his very finger-tips. Yet his face was
perfectly composed, even grim, as he said, "There is one thing I
want to say to you before you go. Sylvia, I haven't asserted any
right over you so far. But don't forget--don't let anyone induce
you to forget--that the right is mine! I may claim it--some day."

That aroused her from preoccupation very effectually. The colour
flamed in her face. "Burke! I don't understand you!" she said,
speaking quickly and rather breathlessly, for her heart was beating
fast and hard. "Have you gone mad?"

"No, I am not mad," he said, and faintly smiled.

"I am just looking after our joint interests, that's all."

She opened her eyes wide. "Still I don't understand you," she
said. "I thought you promised--I thought we agreed--that you were
never to interfere with my liberty."

"Unless you abused it," said Burke.

She flinched a little in spite of herself, so uncompromising were
both his tone and attitude. But in a moment she drew herself
erect, facing him fearlessly.

"I don't think you know--quite--what you are saying to me," she
said. "You are tired, and you are looking at things--all crooked.
Will you please take a rest this afternoon? I am sure you need it.
And to-night--" She paused a moment, for, her courage
notwithstanding, she had begun to tremble--"to-night,"--she said
again, and still paused, feeling his hand tighten upon her, feeling
her heart quicken almost intolerably under its weight.

"Yes?" he said, his voice low, intensely quiet, "Please finish!
What am I to do to-night?"

She faced him bravely, with all her strength. "I hope," she said,
"you will come and tell me you are sorry."

He threw up his head with a sharp gesture. She saw his eyes kindle
and burn with a flame she dared not meet.

A swift misgiving assailed her. She tried to release herself, but
he took her by the other shoulder also, holding her before him.

"And if I do all that," he said, a deep quiver in his voice that
thrilled her through and through, "what shall I get in return? How
shall I be rewarded?"

She gripped her self-control with a great effort, summoning that
high courage of hers which had never before failed her.

She smiled straight up at him, a splendid, resolute smile. "You
shall have--the kiss of peace," she said.

His expression changed. For a moment his hold became a grip that
hurt her--bruised her. She closed her eyes with an involuntary
catch of the breath, waiting, expecting she knew not what. Then,
very suddenly, the strain was over. He set her free and turned
from her.

"Thank you." he said, in a voice that sounded oddly strangled.
"But I don't find that--especially satisfying--just now."

His hands were clenched as he left her. She did not dare to follow
him or call him back.

PART III

CHAPTER I

THE NEW ERA

Looking back later, it almost seemed to Sylvia that the days that
followed were as an interval between two acts in the play of life.
It was a time of transition, though what was happening within her
she scarcely realized.

One thing only did she fully recognize, and that was that the old
frank comradeship between herself and Burke had come to an end.
During all the anxiety of those days and the many fluctuations
through which Guy passed, Burke came and went as an outsider,
scarcely seeming to be interested in what passed, never
interfering. He never spoke to Kieff unless circumstances
compelled him, and with Sylvia herself he was so reticent as to be
almost forbidding. Her mind was too full of Guy, too completely
occupied with the great struggle for his life, to allow her
thoughts to dwell very much upon any other subject. She saw that
Burke's physical wants were attended to, and that was all that she
had time for just then. He was sleeping in the spare hut which she
had prepared for Guy with such tender care, and she was quite
satisfied as to his comfort there. It came to be something of a
relief when every evening he betook himself thither. Though she
never actually admitted it to herself, she was always more at ease
when he was out of the bungalow.

She and Kieff were fighting inch by inch to save Guy, and she could
not endure any distractions while the struggle lasted. For it was
a desperate fight, and there was little rest for either of them.
Her first sensation of repugnance for this man had turned into a
species of unwilling admiration, His adroitness, his resource, the
almost uncanny power of his personality, compelled her to a curious
allegiance. She gave him implicit obedience, well knowing that,
though in all else they were poles asunder, in this thing they were
as one. They were allied in the one great effort to defeat the
Destroyer. They fought day and night, shoulder to shoulder, never
yielding, never despairing, never slacking.

And very gradually at last the tide that had ebbed so low began to
turn. Through bitter suffering, often against his will, Guy Ranger
was drawn slowly back again to the world he had so nearly left.
Kieff never let him suffer for long. He gave him oblivion whenever
the weakened endurance threatened to fail. And Sylvia, seeing that
the flickering strength was always greater under the influence of
Kieff's remedy, raised no protest. They fought death with the
weapon of death. It would be time enough when the battle was won
to cast that weapon aside.

During those days of watching and conflict, she held little
converse with Guy. He was like a child, content in his waking
hours to have her near him, and fretful if she were ever absent.
Under Kieff's guidance, she nursed him with unfailing care,
developing a skill with which she had never credited herself. As
gradually his strength returned, he would have her do everything
for him, resenting even Kieff's interference though never actively
resisting his authority. He seemed to stand in awe of Kieff,
Sylvia noticed, a feeling from which she herself was not wholly
free. For there was a subtle mastery about him which influenced
her in spite of herself. But she had put aside her instinctive
dislike of the man because of the debt she owed him. He had
brought Guy back, had wrenched him from the very jaws of Death, and
she would never forget it. He had saved her from a life-long
sorrow.

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