The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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As she sat there waiting feverishly to start, her whole being was
in a passion of supplication that she might be in time. Even in
her sleep she had prayed that one prayer with a fierce urging that
had rendered actual repose an impossibility. She had never in her
life prayed with so intense a force. It was as if she were staking
the whole of her faith upon that one importunate plea, and though
no answer came to her striving spirit, she told herself that it
could not be in vain. In all her maddening anxiety and impatience
she never for a moment dwelt upon the chance of failure. God could
not suffer her to fail when she had fought so hard. Her very brain
seemed on fire with the urgency of her mission, and again for a
space the thought of Burke was crowded out. He occupied the back
of her mind, but she would not voluntarily turn towards him. That
would come later when her mission was fulfilled, when she could
look him in the face again with no sense of a charge neglected, or
trust betrayed. She must stand straight with Burke, but she must
save Guy first, whatever the effort, whatever the cost. She felt
she had forfeited the right to think of her own happiness till her
negligence--and the terrible consequences thereof--had been
remedied. Perhaps it was in a measure self-blame that inspired her
frantic prayer, the feeling that the responsibility was hers, and
therefore that she was a sharer of the guilt. That was another
plea, less worthy perhaps; but one to which Guy could not refuse to
listen. It could not be his intention to wreck her happiness. He
could not know all that hung upon it. Her happiness! She shivered
suddenly in the chill of the morning air. Could it be that
happiness--the greatest of all--had been actually within her grasp,
and she had let it slip unheeded? Sharply she turned her thoughts
back. No, she must not--must not think of Burke just then.

The chance would come again. The chance must come again. But she
must not suffer herself to contemplate it now. She had forfeited
the right.

Time passed. She thought the train would never start. The long
waiting had become almost a nightmare. She felt she would not be
able to endure it much longer. The night had seemed endless too, a
perpetual dozing and waking that had seemed to multiply the hours.
Now and then she realized that she was very tired; but for the most
part the fever of impatience that possessed her kept the
consciousness of fatigue at bay. If only she could keep moving she
felt that she could face anything.

The day broke over the _veldt_ and the scattered open town, with a
burning splendour like the kindling of a great fire. She watched
the dawn-light spread till the northern hills shone with a
celestial radiance. She leaned from the train to watch it; and as
she watched, the whole world turned golden.

Burke's words flashed back upon her with a force irresistible.
"Let us go to the top of the world by ourselves!" Her eyes filled
with sudden tears, and as she sank down again in her seat the train
began to move. It bore her relentlessly southwards, and the land
of the early morning was left behind.

She reflected later that that journey must have been doomed to
disaster from the very outset. It was begun an hour late, and all
things seemed to conspire to hinder them. After many halts, the
breaking of an engine-piston rendered them helpless, and the heat
of the day found them in a desolate place among _kopjes_ that
seemed to crowd them in, cutting off every current of air, while
the sun blazed mercilessly overhead and the sand-flies ceaselessly
buzzed and tormented. It was the longest day that Sylvia had ever
known, and she thought that the smell of Kaffirs would haunt her
all her life. Of the few white men on the train she knew not one,
and the desolation of despair entered into her.

By the afternoon, when she had hoped to be on her way back, tardy
help arrived, and they crawled into Brennerstadt station, parched
and dusty and half-starved, some three hours later.

Hope revived in her as at length she left the train. Anything was
better than the awful inactivity of that well-nigh interminable
journey. There was yet a chance--a slender one--that by an early
start or possibly travelling by a night train she and Guy might yet
be back at Blue Hill Farm by the following evening in time to meet
Burke on his return.

Yes, the chance was there, and still she could not think that all
this desperate effort of hers could be doomed to failure. If she
could only find Guy quickly--oh, quickly! She almost ran out of
the station in her haste.

She turned her steps instinctively towards the hotel in which she
had stayed for her marriage, It was not far from the station, and
it was the first place that occurred to her. The town was full of
people, men for the most part, men it seemed to her, of all
nationalities and colours. She heard Dutch and broken English all
around her.

She went through the crowds, shrinking a little now and then from
any especially coarse type, nervously intent upon avoiding contact
with any. She found the hotel without difficulty, but when she
found it she checked her progress for the first time. For she was
afraid to enter.

The evening was drawing on. She felt the welcome chill of it on
her burning face, and it kept her from yielding to the faintness
that oppressed her. But still she could not enter, till a great,
square-built Boer lounging near the doorway came up to her and
looked into her eyes with an evil leer.

Then she summoned her strength, drew herself up, and passed him
with open disgust.

She had to push her way through a crowd of men idling in the
entrance, and one or two accosted her, but she went by them in
stony unresponsiveness.

At the little office at the end she found a girl, sandy-haired and
sandy-eyed, who looked up for a moment from a great book in front
of her, and before she could speak, said briskly, "There's no more
accommodation here. The place is full to overflowing. Better try
at the Good Hope over the way."

She had returned to her occupation before the words were well
uttered, but Sylvia stood motionless, a little giddy, leaning
against the woodwork for support.

"I only want to know," she said, after a moment, speaking with an
effort in a voice that sounded oddly muffled even to herself, "if
Mr. Ranger is here."

"Who?" The girl looked up sharply. "Hullo!" she said. "What's the
matter?"

"If Mr. Ranger--Mr. Ranger--is here," Sylvia repeated through a
curious mist that had gathered unaccountably around her.

The girl got up and came to her. "Yes, he's here, I believe, or
will be presently. He's engaged a room anyhow. I didn't see him
myself. Look here, you'd better come and sit down a minute. I
seem to remember you. You're Mrs. Ranger, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Sylvia.

She was past explanation just then, and that simple affirmative
seemed her only course. She leaned thankfully upon the supporting
arm, fighting blindly to retain her senses.

"Come and sit down!" the girl repeated. "I expect he'll be in
before long. They're all mad about this diamond draw. The whole
town is buzzing with it. The races aren't in it. Sit down and
I'll get you something."

She drew Sylvia into a small inner sanctum and there left her,
sitting exhausted in a wooden armchair. She returned presently
with a tray which she set in front of her, observing practically,
"That's what you're wanting. Have a good feed, and when you've
done you'd better go up and lie down till he comes."

She went back to her office then, closing the door between, and
Sylvia was left to recover as best she might. She forced herself
after a time to eat and drink, reflecting that physical weakness
would utterly unfit her for the task before her. She hoped with
all her heart that Guy would come soon--soon. There was a night
train back to Ritzen. She had ascertained that at the station.
They might catch that. The diamond draw was still two days away.
She prayed that he had not yet staked anything upon it, that when
he came the money might be still in his possession.

She finished her meal and felt considerably revived. For a while
she sat listening to the hubbub of strange voices without, then the
fear that her presence might be forgotten by the busy occupant of
the office moved her to rise and open the intervening door.

The girl was still there. She glanced round with the same alert
expression. "That you, Mrs. Ranger? He hasn't come in yet. But
you go up and wait for him! It's quieter upstairs. I'll tell him
you're here as soon as he comes in."

She did not want to comply, but certainly the little room adjoining
the office was no place for private talk, and she dreaded the idea
of meeting Guy before the curious eyes of strangers. He would be
startled; he would be ashamed! None but herself must see him in
that moment.

So, without protest, she allowed herself to be conducted upstairs
to the room he had engaged, her friend in the office promising
faithfully not to forget to send him up to her at once.

The room was at the top of the house, a bare apartment but not
uncomfortable. It possessed a large window that looked across the
wide street.

She sat down beside it and listened to the tramping crowds below.

Her faintness had passed, but she was very tired, overwhelmingly
so. Very soon her senses became dulled to the turmoil. She
suffered herself to relax, certain that the first sound of a step
outside would recall her. And so, as night spread over the town,
she sank into sleep, lying back in the cane-chair like a worn-out
child, her burnished hair vivid against the darkness beyond.

She did not wake at the sound of a step outside, or even at the
opening of the door. It was no sound that aroused her hours later,
but a sudden intense consciousness of expediency, as if she had
come to a sharp comer that it needed all her wits to turn in
safety. She started up with a gasp. "Guy!" she said. And then,
as her dazzled eyes saw more clearly, a low, involuntary
exclamation of dismay. "Ah!"

It was Burke who stood with his back against the closed door,
looking at her, and his face had upon it in those first waking
moments of bewilderment a look that appalled her. For it was to
her as the face of a murderer.

CHAPTER XII

THE COST

He did not speak in answer to her exclamation, merely stood there
looking at her, almost as if he had never seen her before. His
eyes were keen with a sort of icy fierceness. She thought she had
never before realized the cruelty of his mouth.

It was she who spoke first. The silence seemed so impossible.
"Burke!" she said. "What--is the matter?"

He came forward to her with an abruptness that was like the
breaking of bonds. He stopped in front of her, looking closely
into her face. "What are you doing here?" he said.

In spite of herself she shrank, so terrible was his look. But she
was swift to master her weakness. She stood up to her full height,
facing him. "I have come to find Guy," she said.

He threw a glance around; it was like the sweep of a rapier. "You
are waiting for him--here?"

Again for a moment she was disconcerted. She felt the quick blood
rise to her forehead. "They told me he would come here," she said.

He passed on, almost as if she had not spoken, but his eyes were
mercilessly upon her, marking her confusion. "What do you want
with him?"

His words were like the snap of a steel rope. They made her flinch
by their very ruthlessness. She had sprung from sleep with
bewildered senses. She was not-prepared to do battle in her own
defence.

She hesitated, and immediately his hand closed upon her shoulder.
It seemed to her that she had never known what anger could be like
before this moment. All the force of the man seemed to be gathered
together in one tremendous wave, menacing her.

"Tell me what you want with him!" he said.

She shuddered from head to foot as if she had been struck with a
scourge. "Burke! What do you mean?" she cried out desperately.
"You--you must be mad!"

"Answer me!" he said.

His hold was a grip. The ice in his eyes had turned to flame. Her
heart leapt and quivered within her like a wild thing fighting to
escape.

"I--don't know what you mean," she panted. "I have done nothing
wrong. I came after him to--to try and bring him back."

"Then why did you come secretly?" he said,

She shrank from the intolerable inquisition of his eyes. "I wanted
to see him--alone," she said.

"Why?" Again it was like the merciless cut of a scourge. She
caught her breath with a sharp sound that was almost a cry.

"Why?" he reiterated. "Answer me! Answer me!"

She did not answer him. She could not. And in the silence that
followed, it seemed to her that something within her--something
that had been Vitally wounded--struggled and died.

"Look at me!" he said.

She lifted an ashen face. His eyes held hers, and the torture of
his hell encompassed her also.

"Tell me the truth!" he said. "I shall know if you lie. When did
you see him last?"

She shook her head. "A long while ago. Ages ago. Before you left
the farm."

The memory of his going, his touch, his smile went through her with
the words. She had a sickening sensation as of having been struck
over the heart.

"Where did you spend last night?" he said.

"At Ritzen." Her white lips seemed to speak mechanically. She
herself stood apart as it were, stunned beyond feeling.

"You came here by rail---alone?"

The voice of the inquisitor pierced her numbed sensibilities,
compelling--almost dictating--her answer.

"Yes--alone."

"You had arranged to meet here then?"

Still the scourging continued, and she marvelled at herself, that
she felt so little. But feeling was coming back. She was waiting
for it, dreading it.

She answered without conscious effort. "No--I came after him. He
doesn't know I am here."

"And yet you are posing as his wife?"

She felt that. It cut through her apathy irresistibly. A sharp
tremor went through her. "That," she said rather breathlessly,
"was a mistake."

"It was." said Burke. "The greatest mistake of your life. It is a
pity you took the trouble to lie to me. The truth would have
served you better." He turned from her contemptuously with the
words, setting her free.

For a moment the relief of his going was such that the intention
that lay behind it did not so much as occur to her. Then suddenly
it flashed upon her. He was going in search of Guy.

In an instant her passivity was gone. The necessity for action
drove her forward. With a cry she sprang to the door before him,
and set herself against it. She could not let him go with that
look of the murderer in his eyes.

"Burke!" she gasped. "Burke! What--are you going to do?"

His lips parted a little, and she saw his teeth. "You shall hear
what I have done--afterwards," he said. "Let me pass!"

But she barred his way. Her numbed senses were all awake now and
quivering. The very fact of physical effort seemed to have
restored to her the power to suffer. She stood before him, her
bosom heaving with great sobs that brought no tears or relief of
any sort to the anguish that tore her.

"You--you can't pass," she said. "Not--not--like this! Burke,
listen! I swear to you--I swear----"

"You needn't," he broke in. "A woman's oath, when it is her last
resource, is quite valueless. I will deal with you afterwards.
Let me pass!"

The command was curt as a blow. But still she withstood him,
striving to still her agitation, striving with all her desperate
courage to face him and endure.

"I will not!" she said, and with the words she stood up to her
full, slim height, thwarting him, making her last stand.

His expression changed as he realized her defiance. She was
panting still, but there was no sign of yielding in her attitude.
She was girt for resistance to the utmost.

There fell an awful pause--a silence which only her rapid breathing
disturbed. Her eyes were fixed on his. She must have seen the
change, but she dared it unflinching. There was no turning back
for her now.

The man spoke at last, and his voice was absolutely quiet, dead
level. "You had better let me go," he said.

She made a sharp movement, for there was that in the steel-cold
voice that sent terror to her heart. Was this Burke--the man upon
whose goodness she had leaned ever since she had come to this land
of strangers? Surely she had never met him before that moment!

"Open that door!" he said.

A great tremor went through her. She turned, the instinct to obey
urging her. But in the same instant the thought of Guy--Guy in
mortal danger--flashed across her. She paused for a second, making
a supreme effort, while every impulse fought in mad tumult within
her, crying to her to yield. Then, with a lightning twist of the
hand she turned the key and pulled it from the lock. For an
instant she held it in her hand, then with a half-strangled sound
she thrust it deep into her bosom.

Her eyes shone like flames in her white face as she turned back to
him. "Perhaps you will believe me--now!" she said.

He took a single step forward and caught, her by the wrists.
"Woman!" he said. "Do you know what you are doing?"

The passion that blazed in his look appalled her. Yet some strange
force within her awoke as it were in answer to her need. She flung
fear aside. She had done the only thing possible, and she would
not look back.

"You must believe me--now!" she panted. "You do believe me!"

His hold became a grip, merciless, fierce, tightening upon her like
a dosing trap. "Why should I believe you?" he said, and there was
that in his voice that was harder to bear than his look. "Have I
any special reason for believing you? Have you ever given me one?"

"You know me," she said, with a sinking heart.

He uttered a scoffing sound too bitter to be called a laugh. "Do I
know you? Have I ever been as near to you as this devil who has
made himself notorious with Kaffir women for as long as he has been
out here?"

She flinched momentarily from the stark cruelty of his words. But
she faced him still, faced him though every instinct of her
womanhood shrank with a dread unspeakable.

"You know me," she said again. "You may not know me very well, but
you know me well enough for that."

It was bravely spoken, but as she ceased to speak she felt her
strength begin to fail her. Her throat worked spasmodically,
convulsively, and a terrible tremor went through her. She saw him
as through a haze that blotted out all beside.

There fell a silence between them--a dreadful, interminable silence
that seemed to stretch into eternities. And through it very
strangely she heard the wild beating of her own heart, like the
hoofs of a galloping horse, that seemed to die away. . . .

She did not know whether she fell, or whether he lifted her, but
when the blinding mist cleared away again, she was lying in the
wicker-chair by the window, and he was walking up and down the room
with the ceaseless motion of a prowling animal. She sat up slowly
and looked at him. She was shivering all over, as if stricken with
cold.

At her movement he came and stood before her, but he did not speak.
He seemed to be watching her. Or was he waiting for something?

She could not tell; neither, as he stood there, could she look up
at him to see. Only, after a moment, she leaned forward. She
found and held his hand.

"Burke!" she said.

His fingers closed as if they would crush her own. He did not
utter a word.

She waited for a space, gathering her strength. Then, speaking
almost under her breath, she went on. "I have--something to say to
you. Please will you listen--till I have finished?"

"Go on!" he said.

Her head was bent. She went on tremulously. "You are quite
right--when you say--that you don't know me--that I have given you
no reason--no good reason--to believe in me. I have taken--a great
deal from you. And I have given--nothing in return. I see that
now. That is why you distrust me. I--have only myself to thank."

She paused a moment, but he waited in absolute silence, neither
helping nor hindering.

With a painful effort she continued. "People make
mistaken--sometimes--without knowing it. It comes to them
afterwards--perhaps too late. But--it isn't too late with me,
Burke. I am your partner--your wife. And--I never meant
to--defraud you. All I have--is yours. I--am yours."

She stopped. Her head was bowed against his hand. That dreadful
sobbing threatened to overwhelm her again, but she fought it down.
She waited quivering for his answer.

But for many seconds Burke neither moved nor spoke. The grasp of
his hand was vicelike in its rigidity. She had no key whatever to
what was passing in his mind.

Not till she had mastered herself and was sitting in absolute
stillness, did he stir. Then, very quietly, with a decision that
brooked no resistance, he took her by the chin with his free hand
and turned her face up to his own. He looked deep into her eyes.
His own were no longer ablaze, but a fitful light came and went in
them like the flare of a torch in the desert wind.

"So," he said, and his voice was curiously unsteady also; it
vibrated as if he were not wholly sure of himself, "you have made
your choice--and counted the cost?"

"Yes," she said.

He looked with greater intentness into her eyes, searching without
mercy, as if he would force his way to her very soul. "And for
whose sake this--sacrifice?" he said.

She shrank a little; for there was something intolerable in his
words. Had she really counted the cost? Her eyelids fluttered
under that unsparing look, fluttered and sank. "You will
know--some day," she whispered.

"Ah! Some day!" he said.

Again his voice vibrated. It was as if some door that led to his
innermost being had opened suddenly, releasing a savage, primitive
force which till then he had held restrained.

And in that moment it came to her that the thing she valued most in
life had been rudely torn from her. She saw that new, most
precious gift of hers that had sprung to life in the wilderness and
which she had striven so desperately to shield from harm--that holy
thing which had become dearer to her than life itself--desecrated,
broken, and lying in the dust. And it was Burke who had flung it
there, Burke who now ruthlessly trampled it underfoot.

Her throat worked again painfully for a moment or two; and then
with a great effort of the will she stilled it. This thing was
beyond tears--a cataclysm wrecking the whole structure of
existence. Neither tears nor laughter could ever be hers again.
In silence she took the cup of bitterness, and drank it to the
dregs.

PART IV

CHAPTER I

SAND OF THE DESERT

Donovan Kelly was out of temper. There was no denying it, though
with him such a frame of mind was phenomenal. He leaned moodily
against the door-post at the hotel-entrance, smoking a short pipe
of very strong tobacco, and speaking to no one. He had been there
for some time, and the girl in the office was watching him with
eyes round with curiosity. For he had not even said "Good morning"
to her. She wanted to accost him, but somehow the hunch of his
shoulders was too discouraging even for her. So she contented
herself with waiting developments.

There were plenty of men coming and going, but though several of
them gave him greeting as they passed, Kelly responded to none. He
seemed to be wrapped in a gloomy fog of meditation that cut him off
completely from the outside world. He was alone with himself, and
in that state he obviously intended to remain.

But the girl in the office had her own shrewd suspicions as to the
reason of his waiting there, suspicions which after the lapse of
nearly half an hour she triumphantly saw verified. For presently
through the shifting, ever-changing crowd a square-shouldered man
made his appearance, and without a glance to right or left went
straight to the big Irishman lounging in the doorway, and took him
by the shoulder.

Kelly started round with an instant smile of welcome. "Ah, and is
it yourself at last? I've been waiting a devil of a time for ye,
my son. Is all well?"

The girl in the office did not hear Burke's reply though she craned
far forward to do so. She only saw his shoulders go up slightly,
and the next moment the two men turned and entered the public
dining-room together.

Kelly's ill-temper had gone like an early morning fog. He led the
way to a table reserved in a corner, and they sat down.

"I was half afraid ye wouldn't have anything but a kick for Donovan
this morning," he said, with a somewhat rueful smile.

Burke's own brief smile showed for a moment. "I shouldn't start on
you anyway," he said. "You found young Guy?"

Kelly made an expressive gesture. "Oh yes, I found him, him and
his master too. At Hoffstein's of course. Kieff was holding one
of his opium shows, the damn' dirty skunk. I couldn't get the boy
away, but I satisfied myself that he was innocent of this. He
never engaged a room here or had any intention of coming here.
What Kieff's intentions were I didn't enquire. But he had got the
devil's own grip on Guy last night, He could have made him
do--anything." Kelly ended with a few strong expressions which
left no doubt as to the opinion he entertained of Kieff and all his
works.

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