The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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

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Burke ate his breakfast in an absorbed silence. Finally he looked
up to enquire, "Have you any idea what has become of Guy this
morning?"

Kelly shook his head. "Not the shadow of a notion. I shall look
for him presently on the racecourse. He seems to have found some
money to play with, for he told me he had taken two tickets for the
diamond draw, one for himself and one for another. But he was just
mad last night. The very devil had got into him. What will I do
with him if I get him?"

Burke's eyes met his for a moment. "You can do--anything you like
with him," he said.

"Ah, but he saved your life, Burke," said the Irishman pleadingly.
"It's only three days ago."

"I know what he did," said Burke briefly, both before and after
that episode. "He may think himself lucky that I have no further
use for him."

"But aren't you satisfied, Burke?" Kelly leaned forward
impulsively. "I've told you the truth. Aren't you satisfied?"

Burke's face was grim as if hewn out of rock. "Not yet," he said.
"You've told me the truth--what you know of it. But there's more
to it. I've got to know--everything before I'm satisfied."

"Ah, but sure!" protested Kelly. "Women are very queer, you know.
Ye can't tell what moves a woman. Often as not, it's something
quite different from what you'd think."

Burke was silent, continuing his breakfast.

Kelly looked at him with eyes of pathetic persuasion. "I've been
lambastin' meself all night," he burst forth suddenly, "for ever
bringing ye out on such a chase. It was foul work. I see it now.
She'd have come back to ye, Burke lad. She didn't mean any harm.
Sure, she's as pure as the stars."

Burke's grey eyes, keen as the morning light, looked suddenly
straight at him. Almost under his breath, Burke spoke. "Don't
tell me--that!" he said. "Just keep Guy out of my way! That's
all."

Kelly sighed aloud. "And Guy'll go to perdition faster than if the
devil had kicked him. He's on his way already."

"Let him go!" said Burke.

It was his last word on the subject. Having spoken it, he gave his
attention to the meal before him, and concluded it with a
deliberate disregard for Kelly's depressed countenance that an
onlooker might have found somewhat brutal.

"What are you going to do?" asked Kelly meekly, as at length he
pushed back his chair.

Burke's eyes came to him again. He smiled faintly at the woebegone
visage before him. "Cheer up, Donovan!" he said. "You're all
right. You've had a beastly job, but you've done it decently. I'm
going back to my wife now. She breakfasted upstairs. We shall
probably make tracks this evening."

"Ah!" groaned Kelly. "Your wife'll never speak to me again after
this. And I thinking her the most charming woman in the world!"

Burke turned to go, "Don't fret yourself on that account!" he said.
"My wife will treat my friends exactly as she would treat her own."

He spoke with a confidence that aroused Kelly's admiration. "Sure,
you know how to manage a woman, don't ye, Burke, me lad?" he said.

He watched the broad figure till it was out of sight, then got up
and went out into the hot sunshine, intent upon another quest.

Burke went on steadily up the stairs till he reached the top story
where he met a servant carrying a breakfast-tray with the meal
practically untouched upon it. With a brief word Burke took the
tray himself, and went on with the same air of absolute purpose to
the door at the end of the passage.

Here, just for a moment he paused, standing in semi-darkness,
listening. Then he knocked. Sylvia's voice answered him, and he
entered.

She was dressed and standing by the window. "Oh, please, Burke!"
she said quickly, at sight of what he carried. "I can't eat
anything more."

He set down the tray and looked at her. "Why did you get up?" he
said.

Her face was flushed. There was unrest in every line of her. "I
had to get up," she said feverishly. "I can't rest here. It is so
noisy. I want to get out of this horrible place. I can't breathe
here. Besides--besides----"

"Sit down!" said Burke.

"Oh, don't make me eat anything!" she pleaded. "I really can't. I
am sorry, but really----"

"Sit down!" he said again, and laid a steady hand upon her.

She yielded with obvious reluctance, avoiding his eyes. "I am
quite all right," she said. "Don't bully me, partner!"

Her voice quivered suddenly, and she put her hand to her throat.
Burke was pouring milk into a cap. She watched him, fighting with
herself.

"Now," he said, "you can drink this anyway. It's what you're
needing." He gave her the cup, and she took it from him without a
word. He turned away, and stood at the window, waiting.

At the end of a full minute, he spoke. "Has it gone?"

"Yes," she said.

He turned back and looked at her. She met his eyes with an effort.

"I am quite all right," she said again.

"Ready to start back?" he said.

She leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped very tightly in
front of her. "To-day?" she said in a low voice.

"I thought you wanted to get away," said Burke.

"Yes--yes, I do." Her eyes suddenly fell before his. "I do," she
said again. "But--but--I've got--something--to ask of you--first."

"Well?" said Burke.

Her breath came quickly; her fingers were straining against each
other. "I--don't quite know--how to say it," she said.

Burke stood quite motionless, looking down at her. "Must it be
said?" he asked.

"Yes." She sat for a moment or two, mustering her strength. Then,
with an abrupt effort, she got up and faced him. "Burke, I think I
have a right to your trust," she said.

He looked straight back at her with piercing, relentless eyes. "If
we are going to talk of rights," he said, "I might claim a right to
your confidence."

She drew back a little, involuntarily, but the next moment,
quickly, she went to him and clasped his arm between her hands.
"Please be generous, partner!" she said. "We won't talk of rights,
either of us. You--are not--angry with me now, are you?"

He stiffened somewhat at her touch, but he did not repulse her.
"I'm afraid you won't find me in a very yielding mood," he said.

She held his arm a little more tightly, albeit her hands were
trembling. "Won't you listen to me?" she said, in a voice that
quivered. "Is there--no possibility of--of--coming to an
understanding?"

He drew a slow hard breath. "We have a very long way to go first,"
he said.

"I know," she answered, and her voice was quick with pain. "I
know. But--we can't go on--like this. It--just isn't bearable.
If--even if you can't understand me--Burke, won't you--won't you
try at least to give me--the benefit of the doubt?"

It was very winningly spoken, but as she spoke she leaned her head
suddenly against the arm she held and stifled a sob. "For both our
sakes!" she whispered.

But Burke stood, rigid as rock, staring straight before him into
the glaring sunlight. She did not know what was passing in his
mind; that was the trouble of it. But she felt his grim resistance
like a wall of granite, blocking her way. And the brave heart of
her sank in spite of all her courage.

He moved at last, but it was a movement of constraint. He laid his
free hand on her shoulder. "Crying won't help," he said. "I think
we had better be getting back."

And then, for the sake of the old love, she made her supreme
effort. She lifted her face; it was white to the lips, but it bore
no sign of tears. "I can't go," she said, "till--I have seen Guy."

He made a sharp gesture. "Ah!" he said. "I thought that was
coming."

"Yes, you knew it! You knew it!" Passionately she uttered the
words. "It's the one thing that's got to be settled between
us--the only thing left that counts. Yes, you mean to refuse. I
know that. But--before you refuse--wait, please wait! I am asking
it quite as much for your sake as for mine."

"And for his," said Burke, with a twist of the lips more bitter
than the words.

But she caught them up unflinching. "Yes, and for his. We've set
out to save him, you and I. And--we are not going to turn back.
Burke, I ask you to help me--I implore you to help me--in this
thing. You didn't refuse before."

"I wish to Heaven I had!" he said, "I might have known how it would
end!"

"No--no! And you owe him your life too. Don't forget that! He
saved you. Are you going to let him sink--after that?" She reached
up and held him by the shoulders, imploring him with all her soul.
"You can't do it! Oh, you can't do it!" she said. "It isn't--you."

He looked at her with a certain doggedness. "Not your conception
of me perhaps," he said, and suddenly his arms closed about her
quivering form. "But--am I--the sort of man you have always taken
me to be? Tell me! Am I?"

She turned her face aside, hiding it against his shoulder. "I
know--what you can be," she said faintly.

"Yes." Grimly he answered her. "You've seen the ugly side of me
at last, and it's that that you are up against now." He paused a
moment, then very sombrely he ended. "I might force you to tell me
the whole truth of this business, but I shall not--simply because I
don't want to hear it now. I know very well he's been making love
to you, tempting you. But I am going to put the infernal matter
away, and forget it--as far as possible. We may never reach the
top of the world now, but we'll get out of this vile slough at any
cost. You won't find me hard to live with if you only play the
game,--and put that damned scoundrel out of your mind for good."

"And do you think I shall ever be able to forgive you?" She lifted
her head with an unexpectedness that was almost startling. Her
eyes were alight, burning with a ruddy fire out of the whiteness of
her face. She spoke as she had never spoken before. It was as if
some strange force had entered into and possessed her. "Do you
think I shall ever forget--even if you do? Perhaps I am not enough
to you now to count in that way. You think--perhaps--that a slave
is all you want, and that partnership, comradeship, friendship,
doesn't count. You are willing to sacrifice all that now, and to
sacrifice him with it. But how will it be--afterwards? Will a
slave be any comfort to you when things go wrong--as they surely
will? Will it satisfy you to feel that my body is yours when my
soul is so utterly out of sympathy, out of touch, that I shall be
in spirit a complete stranger to you? Ah yes," her voice rang on a
deep note of conviction that could not be restrained--"you think
you won't care. But you will--you will. A time will come when you
will feel you would gladly give everything you possess to undo what
you are doing to-day. You will be sick at heart, lonely,
disillusioned, suspicious of me and of everybody. You will see the
horrible emptiness of it all, and you will yearn for better things.
But it will be too late then. What once we fling away never comes
again to us. We shall be too far apart by that time, too
hopelessly estranged, ever to be more to each other than what we
are at this moment--master and slave. Through all our lives we
shall never be more than that."

She ceased to speak, and the fire went out of her eyes. She
drooped in his hold as if all her strength had gone from her.

He turned and put her steadily down into the chair again. He had
heard her out without a sign of emotion, and he betrayed none then.
He did not speak a word. But his silence said more to her than
speech. It was as the beginning of a silence which was to last
between them for as long as they lived.

She sank back exhausted with closed eyes. The struggle--that long,
fierce battle for Guy's soul--was over. And she had failed. Her
prayers had been in vain. All her desperate effort had been
fruitless, and nothing seemed to matter any more. She told herself
that she would never be able to pray again. Her faith had died in
the mortal combat. And there was nothing left to pray for. She
was tired to the very soul of her, tired unto death; but she knew
she would not die. For death was rest, and there could be no rest
for her until the days of her slavery were accomplished. The sand
of the desert would henceforth be her portion. The taste of it was
in her mouth. The desolation of it encompassed her spirit.

Two scalding tears forced their way through her closed lids and ran
down her white cheeks. She did not stir to wipe them away. She
hoped he did not see them. They were the only tears she shed.

CHAPTER II

THE SKELETON TREE

"Ah, Mrs. Burke, and is it yourself that I see again? Sure, and
it's a very great pleasure!" Kelly, his face crimson with
embarrassment and good-will, took the hand Sylvia offered and held
it hard. "A very great pleasure!" he reiterated impressively,
before he let it go.

She smiled at him as one smiles at a shy child. "Thank you, Mr.
Kelly," she said.

"Ah, but you'll call me Donovan," he said persuasively, "the same
as everyone else! So you've come to Brennerstadt after all! And
is it the diamond ye're after?"

She shook her head. They were standing on a balcony that led out
of the public smoking-room, an awning over their heads and the open
street at their feet. It was from the street that he had spied
her, and the sight of her piteous, white face with its deeply
shadowed eyes had gone straight to his impulsive Irish heart.
"No," she said. "We are not bothering about the diamond. I think
we shall probably start back to Ritzen to-night."

"Ah now, ye might stay one day longer and try your luck," wheedled
the Irishman. "The Fates would be sure to favour ye. Where's
himself?"

"I don't know." She spoke very wearily. "He left me here to rest.
But it's so dusty--and airless--and noisy."

Kelly gave her a swift, keen look. "Come for a ride!" he said.

"A ride!" She raised her heavy eyes with a momentary eagerness, but
it was gone instantly. "He--might not like me to go," she said.
"Besides, I haven't a horse."

"That's soon remedied," said Kelly. "I've got a lamb of a horse to
carry ye. And he wouldn't care what ye did in my company. He
knows me. Leave him a note and come along! He'll understand.
It's a good gallop that ye're wanting. Come along and get it!"

Kelly could be quite irresistible when he chose, and he had
evidently made up his mind to comfort the girl's forlornness so far
as in him lay. She yielded to him with the air of being too
indifferent to do otherwise. But Kelly had seen that moment's
eagerness, and he built on that.

A quarter of an hour later they met again in the sweltering street,
and he complimented her in true Irish fashion upon the rose-flush
in her cheeks. He saw that she looked about uneasily as she
mounted, but with unusual tact he omitted to comment upon the fact.

The sun was slanting towards the west as they rode away. The
streets were crowded, but Kelly knew all the short cuts, and guided
her unerringly till they reached the edge of the open _veldt_.

Then, "Come along!" he cried. "Let's gallop!"

The sand flew out behind them, the parched air rushed by, and the
blood quickened in Sylvia's veins. She felt as if she had left an
overwhelming burden behind her in the town. The great open spaces
drew her with their freedom and their vastness. She went with the
flight of a bird. It was like the awakening from a dreadful dream.

They drew rein in the shadow of a tall _kopje_ that rose abruptly
from the plain like a guardian of the solitudes. Kelly was
laughing with a boy's hearty merriment.

"Faith, but ye can ride!" he cried, with keen appreciation, "Never
saw a prettier spectacle in me life. Was it born in the saddle ye
were?"

She laughed in answer, but her heart gave a quick throb of pain.
It was the first real twinge of homesickness she had known, and for
a moment it was almost intolerable. Ah, the fresh-turned earth and
the shining furrows, and the sweet spring rain in her face! And
the sun of the early morning that shone through a scud of clouds!

"My father and I used to ride to hounds," she said. "We loved it."

"I've done it meself in the old country," said Kelly. "But ye can
ride farther here. There's more room before ye reach the horizon."

Sylvia stifled a quick sigh. "Yes, it's a fine country. At least
it ought to be. Yet I sometimes feel as if there is something
lacking. I don't know quite what it is, but it's the quality that
makes one feel at home."

"That'll come," said Kelly, with confidence. "You wait till the
spring! That gets into your veins like wine. Ye'll feel the magic
of it then. It's life itself."

Sylvia turned her face up to the brazen sky. "I must wait for the
spring then," she said, half to herself. And then very suddenly
she became aware of the kindly curiosity of her companion's survey
and met it with a slight heightening of colour.

There was a brief silence before, in a low voice, she said, "We
can't--all of us--afford to wait."

"You can," said Kelly promptly.

She shook her head. "I don't think by the time the spring comes
that there will be much left worth having."

"Ah, but ye don't know," said Kelly. "You say that because you
can't see all the flowers that are hiding down below. But you
might as well believe in 'em all the same, for they're there all
right, and they'll come up quick enough when God gives the word."

Sylvia looked around her over the barren land. "Are there flowers
here?" she said.

"Millions," said Kelly. "Millions and millions. Why, if you were
to come along here in a few weeks' time ye'd be trampling them
underfoot they'd be so thick, such flowers as only grow here, on
the top of the world."

"The top of the world!" She looked at him as if startled. "Is that
what you call--this place?"

He laughed. "Ye don't believe me! Well, wait--wait and see!"

She turned her horse's head, and began to walk round the _kopje_.
Kelly kept pace beside her. He was not quite so talkative as
usual, but it was with obvious effort that he restrained himself,
for several times words sprang to his eager lips which he swallowed
unuttered. He seemed determined that the next choice of a subject
should be hers.

And after a few moments he was rewarded. Sylvia spoke.

"Mr. Kelly!"

"Sure, at your service--now and always!" he responded with a warmth
that no amount of self-restraint could conceal.

She turned towards him. "You have been very kind to me, and I
want--I should like--to tell you something. But it's something
very, very private. Will you--will you promise me----"

"Sure and I will!" vowed the Irishman instantly. "I'll swear the
solemn oath if it'll make ye any happier."

"No, you needn't do that." She held out her hand to him with a
gesture that was girlishly impulsive. "I know I can trust you.
And I feel you will understand. It's about--Guy."

"Ah, there now! Didn't I know it?" said Kelly. He held her hand
tight for a moment, looking into her eyes, his own brimful of
sympathy.

"Yes. You know--all about him." She spoke with some hesitation
notwithstanding. "You know---just as I do--that he isn't--isn't
really bad; only--only so hopelessly weak."

There was a little quiver in her voice as she said the words. She
looked at him with appeal in her eyes.

"I know," said Kelly.

With a slight effort she went on. "He--Burke--thinks otherwise.
And because of that, he won't let me see Guy again. He is very
angry with me--I doubt if he will ever really forgive me--for
following Guy to this place. But,--Mr. Kelly,--I had a reason--an
urgent reason for doing this. I hoped to be back again before he
found out; but everything was against me."

"Ah! Didn't I know it?" said Kelly. "It's the way of the world in
an emergency. Nothing ever goes right of itself."

She smiled rather wanly. "Life can be--rather cruel," she said.
"Something is working against me. I can feel it. I have forfeited
all Burke's respect and his confidence at a stroke. He will never
trust me again. And Guy--Guy will simply go under."

"No--no!" said Kelly. "Don't you believe it! He'll come round and
lead a decent life after this; you'll see. There's nothing
whatever to worry about over Guy. No real vice in him!"

It was a kindly lie, stoutly spoken; but it failed to convince.
Sylvia shook her head even while, he was speaking.

"You don't know all yet. I haven't told you. But I will tell
you--if you will listen. Once when Burke and I were talking of
Guy--it was almost the first time--he said that he had done almost
everything bad except one thing. He had never robbed him. And
somehow I felt that so long as there was that one great exception
he would not regard him as utterly beyond redemption. But now--but
now--" her voice quivered again--"well, even that can't be said of
him now," she said.

"What? He has taken money?" Kelly looked at her in swift dismay.
"Ye don't mean that!" he said. And then quickly: "Are ye sure now
it wasn't Kieff?"

"Yes." She spoke with dreary conviction. "I am fairly sure
Kieff's at the back of it, but--it was Guy who did it, thanks to my
carelessness."

"Yours!" Kelly's eyes bulged. "Ye don't mean that!" he said again.

"Yes, it's true." Drearily she answered him. "Burke left the key
of the strong-box in my keeping on the day of the sand-storm. I
dropped it in the dark. I was hunting for it when you came.
Then--I forgot it. Afterwards, you remember, Burke and Guy came in
together. He must have found it--somehow--then."

"He did!" said Kelly suddenly. "Faith, he did! Ye remember when
he had that attack? He picked up something then--on the floor
against his foot. I saw him do it, the fool that I am! He'd got
it in his hand when we helped him up, and I never noticed,--never
thought. The artful young devil!"

A hint of admiration sounded in his voice. Kelly the simple-minded
had ever been an admirer of art.

Sylvia went on very wearily. "The box was kept in a cupboard in
the room he was sleeping in. The rest was quite easy. He left the
key behind him in the lock. I found it after you and Burke had
gone to the Merstons'. I guessed what had happened of course. I
went round to his hut, but it was all fastened up as usual. Then I
went to Piet Vreiboom's." She shuddered suddenly. "I saw Kieff as
well as Vreiboom. They seemed hugely amused at my appearance, and
told me Guy was just ahead on the way to Brennerstadt. It was too
late to ride the whole way, so I went to Ritzen, hoping to find him
there. But I could get no news of him, so I came on by train in
the morning. I ought to have got here long ago, but the engine
broke down. We were held up for hours, and so I arrived--too late."

The utter dreariness of her speech went straight to Kelly's heart.
"Ah, there now--there now!" he said. "If I'd only known I'd have
followed and helped ye that night."

"You see, I didn't know you were coming back," she said. "And
anyhow I couldn't have waited. I had to start at once. It was--my
job." She smiled faintly, a smile that was sadder than tears.

"And do ye know what happened?" said Kelly. "Did Burke tell ye
what happened?"

She shook her head. "No. He told me very little. I suppose he
concluded that we had run away together."

"Ah no! That wasn't his doing," said Kelly, paused a moment, then
plunged valiantly at the truth. "That was mine. I thought so
meself--foul swine as ye may very well call me. Kieff told me
so--the liar; and I--like a blasted fool--believed it. At least,
no, I didn't right at the heart of me, Mrs. Ranger. I knew what ye
were, just the same as I know now. But I'd seen ye look into his
eyes when ye begged him off the brandy-bottle, and I knew the
friendship between ye wasn't just the ordinary style of thing; no
more is it. But it was that devil Kieff that threw the mud. I
found him waiting that night when I got back. He was waiting for
Burke, he said; and his story was that he and Vreiboom had seen the
pair of ye eloping. I nearly murdered him at the time. Faith, I
wish I had!" ended Kelly pathetically, with tears in his eyes. "It
would have stopped a deal of mischief both now and hereafter."

"Never mind!" said Sylvia gently. "You couldn't tell. You hadn't
known me more than a few hours."

"It was long enough!" vowed Kelly. "Anyway, Burke ought to have
known better. He's known you longer than that."

"He has never known me," she said quietly. "Of course he believed
the story."

"He doesn't believe it now," said Kelly quickly.

A little quiver went over her face. "Perhaps not. I don't know
what he believes, or what he will believe when he finds the money
gone. That is what I want to prevent--if only I can prevent it.
It is Guy's only chance. What he did was done wickedly enough, but
it was at a time of great excitement, when he was not altogether
master of himself. But unless it can be undone, he will go right
down--and never come up again. Oh, don't you see--" a sudden throb
sounded in her tired voice--"that if once Burke knows of this,
Guy's fate is sealed? There is no one else to help him.
Besides,--it wasn't all his own doing. It was Kieff's. And away
from Kieff, he is so different."

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