The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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Something of this yearning she betrayed on the following morning
when Burke told her that he was making arrangements to leave by the
evening train for Ritzen.

"Can't we go sooner?" she said.

He looked at her as if surprised by the question. "There is a
train at midday," he said. "But it is not a good time for
travelling."

"Oh, let us take it!" she said feverishly. "Please let us take it!
We might get back to the farm by to-night then."

He had sent his horse back to Ritzen the previous day in the care
of a man he knew, so that both their animals would be waiting for
them.

"Do you want to get back?" said Burke.

"Oh, yes--yes! Anything is better than this." She spoke rapidly,
almost passionately. "Let us go! Do let us go!"

"Very well," said Burke. "If you wish it."

He paused at the door of the office a few minutes later, when they
descended, to tell the girl there that they were leaving at noon.

She looked up at him sharply as he stood looking in. "Heard the
latest?" she asked.

"What is the latest?" questioned Burke.

"That dirty dog you thrashed last night--Kieff; he's dead," she
told him briefly. "Killed himself with an overdose of opium, died
at Hoffstein's early this morning." She glanced beyond him at
Sylvia who stood behind. "And a good job, too," she said
vindictively. "He's ruined more people in this town than I'd like
to be responsible for--the filthy parasite. He was the curse of
the place."

Burke turned with a movement that was very deliberate. He also
looked at Sylvia. For a long moment they stood so, in the man's
eyes a growing hardness, in the woman's a horror undisguised.
Then, with a very curious smile, Burke put his hand through his
wife's arm and turned her towards the room where breakfast awaited
them.

"Come and have something to eat, partner!" he said, his voice very
level and emotionless.

She went with him without a word; but her whole being throbbed and
quivered under his touch as if it were torture to her. Stark and
hideous, the evil thing reared itself in her path, and there was no
turning aside. She saw him, as she had seen him on the night of
her arrival, as she had seen him the night after, as she believed
that she would always see him for the rest of her life. And the
eyes that looked into hers--those eyes that had held her, dominated
her, charmed her--were the eyes of a murderer. Go where she would,
there could be no escape for her for ever. The evil thing had her
enchained.

CHAPTER V

THE LAND OF BLASTED HOPES

They were still at breakfast when Kelly came dashing in full of the
news of the death of Kieff. No one knew whether it had been
accidental or intentional, but he spoke--as the girl in the office
had spoken--as if a curse had been lifted from the town. And
Sylvia sat at the table and listened, feeling as if her heart had
been turned to ice. The man had died by his own hand, but she
could not shake from her the feeling that she and Burke had been
the cause of his death.

She saw Kelly for a few minutes alone when the meal was over, and
whispered her thanks to him for what he had done with regard to
Guy. He would scarcely listen to her, declaring it had been a
pleasure to serve her, that it had been the easiest thing in the
world, and that now it was done she must not worry any more.

"But was it really easy?" she questioned.

"Yes--yes! He was glad enough of the chance to give it back. He
only acted on impulse, ye see, and Kieff was pushing behind. He'd
never have done it but for Kieff. Very likely he'll pull round now
and lead a respectable life," said Kelly cheerily. "He's got the
stuff in him, ye know, if he'd only let it grow."

She smiled wanly at his optimism. "Oh, do beg him to try!" she
said.

"I'll do me best," promised Kelly. "Anyway, don't you worry! It's
a sheer waste of time and never helped anybody yet."

His cheerful attitude helped her, small as was her hope for Guy's
reformation. Moreover, she knew that Kelly would keep his word.
He would certainly do his best for Guy.

He took his leave of her almost immediately, declaring it was the
busiest day of his life, but assuring her that he would ride over
to Blue Hill Farm to see her on the earliest opportunity with the
greatest pleasure in the world.

She asked him somewhat nervously at parting if the death of Kieff
were likely to hinder their return, but he laughed at the notion.
Why, of course not! Burke hadn't killed the man. Such affairs as
the one she had witnessed the night before were by no means unusual
in Brennerstadt. Besides, it was a clear case of opium poisoning,
and everyone had known that he would die of it sooner or later. It
was the greatest mercy he had, gone, and so she wasn't to worry
about that! No one would have any regrets for Kieff except the
people he had ruined.

And so with wholesome words of reassurance he left her, and she
went to prepare for her journey.

When Burke joined her again, they spoke only of casual things,
avoiding all mention of Guy or Kieff by tacit consent. He was very
considerate for her, making every possible provision for her
comfort, but his manner was aloof, almost forbidding. There was no
intimacy between them, no confidence, no comradeship.

They reached Ritzen in the late afternoon. Burke suggested
spending the night there, but she urged him to continue the
journey. The heat of the day was over; there was no reason for
lingering. So they found their horses, and started on the long
ride home.

They rode side by side along the dusty track through a barren waste
that made the eyes ache. A heavy stillness hung over the land,
making the loneliness seem more immense. They scarcely spoke at
all, and it came to Sylvia that they were stranger to each other
now than they had been on that day at the very beginning of their
acquaintance when he had first brought her to Blue Hill Farm. She
felt herself to be even more of an alien in this land of cruel
desolation than when first she had set foot in it. It was like a
vast prison, she thought drearily, while the grim, unfriendly
_kopjes_ were the sentinels that guarded her, and the far blue
mountains were a granite wall that none might pass.

The sun was low in the sky when they reached the watercourse. It
was quite dry with white stones that looked like the skeletons of
the ages scattered along its bed.

"Shall we rest for a few minutes?" said Burke. But she shook her
head. "No--no! Not here. It is getting late."

So they crossed the _spruit_ and went on.

The sun went down in an opalescent glow of mauve and pink and pearl
that spread far over the _veldt_, and she felt that the beauty of
it was almost more than she could bear. It hid so much that was
terrible and cruel.

They came at length, when the light was nearly gone, to a branching
track that led to the Merstons' farm.

Burke broke his silence again. "I must go over and see Merston in
the morning."

She felt the warm colour flood her face. How much had the Merstons
heard? She murmured something in response, but she did not offer
to accompany him.

A deep orange moon came up over the eastern hills and lighted the
last few miles of their journey, casting a strange amber radiance
around them, flinging mysterious shadows about the _kopjes_,
shedding an unearthly splendour upon the endless _veldt_. It
spread like an illimitable ocean in soundless billows out of which
weird rocks stood up--a dream-world of fantastic possibilities, but
petrified into stillness by the spell of its solitudes--a world
that once surely had thrilled with magic and now was dead.

As they rode past the last _kopje_--her _kopje_ that she had never
yet climbed, they seemed to her to enter the innermost loneliness
of all, to reach the very heart of the desert.

They arrived at Blue Hill Farm, and the sound of their horses' feet
brought the Kaffirs buzzing from their huts, but the clatter that
they made did not penetrate that great and desolate silence. The
spell remained untouched.

Burke went with Joe to superintend the rubbing down and feeding of
their animals, and Sylvia entered the place alone. Though it was
exactly the same as when she had left it, she felt as if she were
entering a ruin.

She went to her own room and washed away the dust of the journey.
The packet that Kelly had given her she locked away in her own box.
Burke might enter at any moment, and she did not dare to attempt to
open the strong-box then. She knew the money must be returned and
speedily; she would not rest until she had returned it. But she
could not risk detection at that moment. Her courage was worn down
with physical fatigue. She lacked the nerve.

When Burke came in, he found her bringing in a hastily prepared
supper. He took the tray from her and made her sit down while he
waited upon her. Her weariness was too great to hide, and she
yielded without demur, lacking the strength to do otherwise.

He made her eat and drink though she was almost too tired even for
that, and when the meal was done he would not suffer her to rest in
a chair but led her with a certain grim kindliness to the door of
her room.

"Go to bed, child!" he said. "And stay there till you feel better!"

She obeyed him, feeling that she had no choice, yet still too
anxious to sleep. He brought her a glass of hot milk when she was
in bed, remarking that her supper had been a poor one, and she
drank in feverish haste, yearning to be left alone. Then, when he
had gone, she tormented herself by wondering if he had noticed
anything strange in her manner, if he thought that she were going
to be ill and so would perhaps mount guard over her.

A chafing sense of impotence came upon her. It would be terrible
to fail now after all she had undergone. She lay listening,
straining every nerve. He would be sure to smoke his pipe on the
_stoep_ before turning in. That was the opportunity that she must
seize. She dared not leave it till the morrow. He might ask for
the key of the strong-box at any time. But still she did not hear
him moving beyond the closed door, and she wondered if he could
have fallen asleep in the sitting-room. A heavy drowsiness was
beginning to creep over her notwithstanding her uneasiness. She
fought against it with all her strength, but it gained ground in
spite of her. Her brain felt clogged with weariness.

She began to doze, waking with violent starts and listening,
drifting back to slumber ever more deeply, till at last actual
sleep possessed her, and for a space she lay in complete oblivion.

It must have been a full hour later that she became suddenly
conscious again, with every faculty on the alert, and remembered
the task still unfulfilled. It was almost as if a voice--Guy's
voice--had called her, urging her to action.

The room was full of moonlight, and she could see every object in
it as clearly as if it had been day. The precious packet was under
her pillow with the key of the strong-box. She felt for and
grasped them both almost instinctively before she looked round, and
then, on the verge of raising herself, her newly awakened eyes
lighted upon something which sent all the blood in a wild rush to
her heart. A man's figure was kneeling motionless at the foot of
the bed.

She lay and gazed and gazed, hardly believing her senses, wondering
if the moonlight could have tricked her. He was so still, he might
have been a figure wrought in marble. His face was hidden on his
arms, but there was that in his attitude that sent a stab of wonder
through her. Was it--was it Guy kneeling there in an abandonment
of despair? Had he followed her like a wandering outcast now that
his master Kieff was gone? If so, but no--but no! Surely it was a
dream. Guy was far away. This was but the fantasy of her own
brain. Guy could never have come to her thus. And yet, was it not
Guy's voice that had called her from her sleep?

A great quiver went through her. What if Guy had died in the night
far away in Brennerstadt? What if this were his spirit come to
hold commune with hers. Was she not dearer to him than anyone else
in the world? Would he not surely seek her before he passed on?

Trembling, she raised herself at last and spoke his name. "Guy, is
that you? Dear Guy, speak to me!"

She saw an answering tremor pass through the kneeling figure, but
the face remained hidden. The moonlight lay upon the dark head,
and she thought she saw streaks of white upon it. It was Guy in
the flesh then. It could be none other. A yearning tenderness
thrilled through her. He had come back--in spite of all his
sinning he had come back. And again through the years there came
to her the picture of the boy she had known and loved--ah, how
dearly! in the days of his innocence. It was so vivid that for the
moment it swept all else aside. Oh, if he would but move and show
her once more the sparkling eager face of his youth! She longed
with a passionate intensity for one glimpse, however fleeting, of
that which once had filled her heart with rapture. And in her
longing she herself was swept back for a few blind seconds into the
happy realms of girlhood. She forgot all the bitterness and the
sorrow of this land of strangers. She Stretched out her arms to
the golden-winged Romance that had taught her the ecstasy of first
love.

"Oh, Guy--my own Guy--come to me!" she said.

It moved then, moved suddenly, even convulsively, as a wounded man
might move. He lifted his head, and looked at her.

Her dream passed like the rending of a veil. His eyes pierced her,
but she had to meet them, lacking power to do otherwise.

So for a space they looked at one another in the moonlight, saying
no word, scarcely so much as breathing.

Then, at last he got to his feet with the heavy movements of a
tired man, stood a while longer looking down at her, finally turned
in utter silence and left her.

When Sylvia slept, many hours later, there came again to her for
the third and last time the awful dream of two horsemen who
galloped towards each other upon the same rocky path. She saw
again the shock of collision and the awful hurtling fall. She went
again down into the stony valley and searched for the man who she
knew was dead. She found him in a deep place that no other living
being had ever entered. He lay with his face upturned to the
moonlight, and his eyes wide and glassy gazing upwards. She drew
near, and stooped to close those eyes; but she could not. For they
gazed straight into her own. They pierced her soul with the mute
reproach of a silence that could never be broken again.

She turned and went away through a devastating loneliness. She
knew now which of the two had galloped free and which had fallen,
and she went as one without hope or comfort, wandering through the
waste places of the earth.

Late in the morning she awoke and looked out upon a world of
dreadful sunshine,--a parched and barren world that panted in vain
for the healing of rain.

"It is a land of blasted hopes," she told herself drearily.
"Everything in it is doomed."

CHAPTER VI

THE PARTING

Sylvia entered the sitting-room that day with the feeling of one
returning after a prolonged absence. She had been almost too tired
to notice her surroundings the previous night upon arrival. Her
limbs felt leaden still, but her brain was alive and throbbing with
a painful intensity.

Mary Ann informed her that the big _baas_ was out on the lands, and
she received the news thankfully. Now was her chance! She took
it, feeling like a traitor.

Once more she went to Burke's room. She opened the strong-box
stealthily, listening intently for every sound. She slipped the
packet of notes inside, and shut it again quickly with a queer
little twist of the heart as she caught sight of the envelope
containing the cigarette which once he had drawn from between her
lips. Then with a start she heard the sound of hoofs outside the
window, and she knew that Burke had returned.

She hurried from the room with the key in her hand, meeting him in
the passage. He had his back to the light, but she thought he
looked very grim. The past weeks had aged and hardened him. She
wondered if they had wrought a similar change in her.

He spoke to her at once, before she had time to formulate a
greeting.

"Ah, here you are! Will you come in here? I want to speak to you."

She went into the sitting-room with a curious feeling of
fatefulness that outweighed her embarrassment. There was no
intimacy in his speech, and that helped her also. She saw that he
would not touch upon that which had happened in the night.

He gave her a critical look as he entered. "Are you rested? Have
you had breakfast?"

She answered him nervously. "Yes, I am quite all right to-day.
Mary Ann brought me some breakfast in bed."

He nodded, dismissing the matter. "I have been over to see
Merston. He is on his legs again, practically well. But she is
not feeling up to the mark. She wants to know if you will go over.
I told her I thought you would. But don't go if you would rather
not!"

"Of course I will go," Sylvia said, "if I can do any good."

And then she looked at him with a sudden curious doubt. Had this
suggestion originated with him. Did he feel, as she felt, that the
present state of affairs was intolerable? Or was he, for her sake
alone, offering her the only sanctuary in his power?

His face told her nothing. She had not the faintest idea as to
whether he wished her to go or stay. But he accepted her decision
at once.

"I will take you over in the cart this evening," he said. "I
thought you would probably wish to go. They are more or less
expecting you."

His tone was practical, wholly free from emotion. But the wonder
still lingered in her mind. She spoke after a moment with slight
hesitation.

"You--will be able to manage all right without me?"

"I shall try," said Burke.

There was no perceptible cynicism in his tone, yet she winced a
little, for in some fashion it hurt her. Again she wondered, would
it be a relief to him when she had gone? Ah, that terrible barrier
of silence! If she could but have passed it then! But she lacked
the strength.

"Very well," she said, and turned away. "I will be ready."

His voice arrested her at the door of her room. "May I have the
key of the strong-box?"

She turned back. Her face was burning. He had taken her unawares.

"I have it here," she said, and gave it to him with a hand that
shook uncontrollably.

"Thank you," he said, and put it in his pocket. "I should take it
easy to-day if I were you. You need a rest."

And that was all. He went out again into the blazing sunshine, and
a little later she heard him talking to Schafen as they crossed the
yard to the sheep-pens.

She saw him again at the midday meal, but he ate in haste and
seemed preoccupied, departing again at the earliest moment
possible. Though he did not discuss the matter with her, she knew
that the cruel drought would become a catastrophe if it lasted much
longer. She prepared for departure with a heavy heart.

He came in again to tea, but went to his room to change and only
emerged to swallow a hasty cup before they started. Then, indeed,
just at the last, as she rose to dress for the journey, she
attempted shyly to penetrate the armour in which he had clad
himself.

"Are you sure you want me to go?" she said.

He turned towards her, and for a moment her heart stood still.
"Don't you want to go?" he said.

She did not answer the question. Somehow she could not. Neither
could she meet the direct gaze of the keen grey eyes upturned to
hers.

"I feel almost as if I am deserting my post," she told him, with a
rather piteous smile.

"Oh, you needn't feel that," he said quietly. "In any case you can
come back whenever you want to. You won't be far away."

Not far away! Were they not poles asunder already--their
partnership dissolved as if it had never been,--their
good-fellowship--their friendship--crumbled to ashes? Her heart
was beating again quickly, unevenly. She knew that the way was
barred.

"Well, send for me if you want me at any time!" she said, and
passed on to her room.

There was no need and small opportunity for talk during the drive,
for Burke had his hands full with a pair of young horses who tried
to bolt upon every conceivable occasion that offered, and he had to
keep an iron control upon them throughout the journey.

So at length they came to the Merstons' farm, and with a mingling
of relief and dissatisfaction Sylvia realized that any further
discussion was out of the question.

Merston came out, full of jovial welcome, to meet them, and in a
moment she was glad that she had come. For she saw that he was
genuinely pleased to see her.

"It's most awfully good of you to come," he said, as he helped her
down. "You've been having a strenuous time at Brennerstadt, I'm
told. I wondered if you were going in for Kelly's diamond that he
was so full of the other day. How the fellow did talk to be sure!
He's a walking advertisement. I should think he must have filled
Wilbraham's coffers for him. And you didn't hear who won it?"

It was Burke who answered. "No, we didn't stop for that. We
wanted to get away."

Merston looked at Sylvia. "And you left young Guy behind? It was
very sporting of you to go after him like that. Burke told me
about it. I blame myself that he wasn't on the spot to help. I
hope the journey wasn't very infernal?"

He spoke with so kindly an interest that but for Burke's presence
she would have felt no embarrassment. He evidently thought that
she had acted with commendable courage. She answered him without
difficulty, though she could not restrain a quick flush at his
words. It was thus then that Burke had defended her honour--and
his own!

"It wasn't a very nice Journey of course, but I managed it all
right. Mr. Kelly has promised to look after Guy."

"He'll do it then," said Merston reassuringly. "He's a grand chap
is Kelly. A bit on the talkative side of course, but a real good
sort. Come in now! Come and see my wife! Burke, get down! You
must have a drink anyway before you start back."

But Burke shook his head. "Thanks, old chap! I won't wait. I've
things to do, and it's getting late. If you can just get my wife's
baggage out, I'll be off."

The last of the sunset light shone upon him as he sat there.
Looking back at him, Sylvia saw him, brown, muscular, firm as a
rock, and an odd little thrill went through her. There was a
species of rugged magnificence about him that moved her strangely.
The splendid physique of the man had never shown to fuller
advantage. Perhaps the glory of the sunset intensified the
impression, but he seemed to her great.

Merston was dragging forth her belongings. She went to help him.
Burke kept his seat, the reins taut in his hands.

Merston abruptly gripped him by the knee. "Look here, old boy!
You must have a drink! Wait where you are while I fetch it!"

He was gone with the words, and they were left alone. Sylvia bent
over her suit-case, preparing to pick it up. A tumult of strange
emotion had swept over her. She was quivering all over. The
horses were stamping and chafing at their bits. He spoke to them
with a brief command and they stood still.

Then, very suddenly, he spoke to her. "Good-bye!" he said.

She lifted her face. He was smiling faintly, but his smile hurt
her inexplicably. It seemed to veil something that was tragic from
her eyes.

He bent towards her. "Good-bye!" he said again.

She moved swiftly, seized by an impulse she could not pause to
question. It was as if an unknown force compelled her. She
mounted the wheel, and offered him her lips in farewell.

For a moment his arms encircled her with a close and quivering
tension. He kissed her, and in that kiss for the first time she
felt the call of the spirit.

Then she was free, and blindly feeling for the ground. As she
reached it, she heard Merston returning, and without a backward
look she took up her suit-case and turned to enter. There was a
burning sensation as of tears in her throat, but she kept them from
her eyes by sheer determination, and Merston noticed nothing.

"Go straight in!" he said to her with cheery hospitality. "You'll
find my wife inside. She's cooking the supper. She'll be awfully
pleased to see you."

If this were indeed the case, Mrs. Merston certainly concealed any
excess of pleasure very effectually. She greeted her with a
perfunctory smile, and told her it was very good of her to come but
she would soon wish she hadn't. She was looking very worn and
tired, but she assured Sylvia somewhat sardonically that she was
not feeling any worse than usual. The heat and the drought had
been very trying, and her husband's accident had given her more to
do. She had fainted the evening before, and he had been frightened
for once and made a fuss--quite unnecessarily. She was quite
herself again, and she hoped Sylvia would not feel she had been
summoned on false pretences.

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