The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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

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"No--no!" Painfully she broke in upon him. "My marriage is--more
than that. I am his wife--and the keeper of his honour. I am
going back to him--to-morrow."

"You are not! You are not!" Hotly he contradicted her. "By
to-morrow we shall be far away. Listen, Sylvia! I haven't told
you all. I am rich. My luck has turned. You'll hardly believe
it, but it's true. It was I who won the Wilbraham diamond. We've
kept it secret, because I didn't want to be dogged by parasites.
I've thought of you all through. And now--and now--" his voice
vibrated again on that note of triumph--"I've come to take you
away. Mine at last!"

He would have drawn her to him, but she resisted him. She pushed
him from her. For the first time in her life she looked at him
with condemnation in her eyes.

"Is this--true?" Her voice held a throb of anger.

He stared at her, his triumph slowly giving place to a half-formed
doubt. "Of course it's true. I couldn't invent anything so
stupendous as that."

She looked back at him mercilessly. "If it is true, how did you
find the money for the gamble?"

The doubt on his face deepened to something that was almost shame.
"Oh, that!" he said. "I--borrowed that."

"You borrowed it!" She repeated the words without pity. "You
borrowed it from Burke's strong-box. Didn't you?"

The question was keen as the cut of a whip. It demanded an answer.
Almost involuntarily, the answer came.

"Well--yes! But---I hoped to pay it back. I'm going to pay it
back--now."

"Now!" she said, and almost laughed. Was it for this that she had
staked everything--everything she had--and lost? There was bitter
scorn in her next words. "You can pay it back to Donovan Kelly,"
she said. "He has replaced it on your behalf."

"What do you mean?" His hands were clenched. Behind his cloak of
shame a fire was kindling. The glancing lightning seemed reflected
in his eyes.

But Sylvia knew no fear, only an overwhelming contempt. "I mean,"
she said, "that to save you--to leave you a chance of getting back
to solid ground--Donovan and I deceived Burke. He supplied the
money, and I put it back."

"Great Jove!" said Guy. He was looking at her oddly, almost
speculatively. "But Donovan never had any money to spare!" he
said. "He sends it all home to his old mother."

"He gave it to me nevertheless." Sylvia's voice had a scathing
note. "And--he pretended that it had come from you--that you had
returned it."

"Very subtle of him!" said Guy. He considered the point for a
moment or two, then swept it aside. "Well, I'll settle up with
him. It'll be all right. I always pay my debts--sooner or later.
So that's all right, isn't it? Say it's all right!"

He spoke imperiously, meeting her scorn with a dominating
self-assurance. There followed a few moments that were tense with
a mental conflict such as Sylvia had never deemed possible between
them. Then in a very low voice she made answer.

"No. It is not all right. Nothing can ever make it so again.
Please say good-bye--and go!"

He made a furious movement, and caught her suddenly and violently
by the wrists. His eyes shone like the eyes of a starving animal.
Before she had time to resist him, her hands were gripped behind
her and she was fast locked in his arms.

He spoke, his face close to hers, his hot breath seeming to consume
her, his words a mere whisper through lips that almost moved upon
her own.

"Do you think I'm going--now? Do you think you can send me away
with a word like that--fling me off like an old glove--you who have
belonged to me all these years? No, don't speak! You'd better not
speak! If you dare to deny your love for me now, I believe I shall
kill you! If you had been any other woman, I wouldn't have stopped
to argue. But--you are you. And--I--love you so."

His voice broke unexpectedly upon the words. For a moment--one
sickening, awful moment--his lips were pressed upon hers, seeming
to draw all the breath--the very life itself--out of her quivering
body. Then there came a terrible sound--a rending sound like the
tearing of dry wood--and the dreadful constriction of his hold was
gone. She burst from it, gasping for air and freedom with the
agonized relief of one who has barely escaped suffocation. She
sprang for the door though her knees were doubling under her. She
reached it, and threw it wide. Then she looked back. . . .

He was huddled against the wall, his head in his hands, writhing as
if in the grip of some fiendish torturer. Broken sounds escaped
him--sounds he fought frantically to repress. He seemed to be
choking; and in a second her memory flashed back to that anguish
she had witnessed weeks before when first she had seen Kieff's
remedy and implored him to use it.

For seconds she stood, a helpless witness, too horrified to move.
Then, her physical strength reviving, pity stirred within her,
striving against what had been a sick and fearful loathing.
Gradually her vision cleared. The evil shadow lifted from her
brain. She saw him as he was--a man in desperate need of help.

She flung her repugnance from her, though it dung to her, dragging
upon her as she moved like a tangible thing. She closed the door
and went slowly back into the room, mastering her horror, fighting
it at every step. She readied the struggling, convulsed figure,
laid her hands upon it,--and her repulsion was gone.

"Sit down!" she said. "Sit down and let me help you!"

Blindly he surrendered to her guiding. She led him to the bed, and
he sank upon it. She opened his shirt at the throat. She brought
him water.

He could not drink at first, but after repeated effort he succeeded
in swallowing a little. Then at length in a hoarse whisper,
scarcely intelligible, he asked for the remedy which he always
carried.

She felt in his pockets and found it, all ready for use. The
lightning had begun to die down, and the light within the room was
dim. She turned the lamp higher, moving it so that its ray fell
upon Guy. And in that moment she saw Death in his face. . . .

She felt as if a quiet and very steady Hand had been laid upon her,
checking all agitation. Calmly she bent over the bared arm he
thrust forth to her. Unflinchingly she ran the needle into the
white flesh, noting with a detached sort of pity his emaciation.

He put his other arm about her like a frightened, dinging child.
"Stay with me! Don't leave me!" he muttered.

"All right," she made gentle answer. "Don't be afraid!"

He leaned against her, shuddering violently, his dark head bowed,
his spasmodic breathing painful to hear. She waited beside him for
the relief that seemed so slow in coming. Kieff's remedy did not
act so quickly now.

Gradually at last the distress began to lessen. She felt the
tension of his crouched body relax, the anguished breathing become
less laboured. He still clung to her, and her hand was on his head
though she did not remember putting it there. The dull echoes of
the thunder reverberated far away among the distant hills. The
night was passing.

Out of a deep silence there came Guy's voice. "I want--" he said
restlessly--"I want----"

She bent over him. Her arm went round his shoulders. Somehow she
felt as if the furnace of suffering through which he had come had
purged away all that was evil. His weakness cried aloud to her;
the rest was forgotten.

He turned his face up to her; and though the stamp of his agony was
still upon it, the eyes were pure and free from all taint of
passion.

"What do you want?" she asked him softly.

"I've been--horrible to you, Sylvia," he said, speaking rather
jerkily. "Sometimes I get a devil inside me--and I don't know what
I'm doing. I believe it's Kieff. I never knew what hell meant
till I met him. He taught me practically everything I know in that
line. He was like an awful rotting disease. He ruined everyone he
came near. Everything he touched went bad." He paused a moment.
Then, with a sudden boyishness, "There, it's done with, darling,"
he said. "Will you forget it all--and let me start afresh? I've
had such damnable luck always."

His eyes pleaded with her, yet they held confidence also. He knew
that she would not refuse.

And because of that which the lamplight had revealed to her, Sylvia
bent after a moment and kissed him on the forehead. She knew as
she did it that the devil, that had menaced her had been driven
forth.

So for a space they remained in a union of the spirit that was
curiously unlike anything that had ever before existed between
them. Then Guy's arm began to slip away from her. There came from
him a deep sigh.

She bent low over him, looking into his face. His eyes were
closed, but his lips moved, murmuring words which she guessed
rather than heard.

"Let me rest--just for a little! I shall be all right--afterwards."

She laid him back very gently upon the pillow, and lifted his feet
on to the bed. He thanked her almost inaudibly, and relaxed every
muscle like a tired child. She turned the lamp from him and moved
away.

She dressed in the dimness. Guy did not stir again. He lay
shrouded in the peace of utter repose. She had watched those deep
slumbers too often to fear any sudden awakening.

A few minutes later she went to the door, and softly opened it.

The sullen clouds were lifting; the night had gone. Very far away
a faint orange light spread like the reflected glow from a mighty
furnace somewhere behind those hills of mystery. The _veldt_ lay
wide and dumb like a vast and soundless sea.

She stood awed, as one who had risen out of the depths and scarcely
yet believed in any deliverance. But the horror had passed from
her like an evil dream. She stood in the first light of the
dawning and waited in a great stillness for the coming of the day.

CHAPTER IX

THE MEETING

Joe, the Kaffir boy, bestirred himself to the sound of Mary Ann's
shrill rating. The hour was still early, but the big _baas_ was in
a hurry and wanted his boots. Joe hastened to polish them to the
tune of Mary Ann's repeated assurance that he would be wanting his
whip next, while Fair Rosamond laid the table with a nervous speed
that caused her to trip against every chair she passed. When Burke
made his appearance, the whole bungalow was as seething with
excitement as if it had been peopled by a horde of Kaffirs instead
of only three.

He was scarcely aware of them in his desire to be gone, merely
throwing an order here and there as he partook of a hasty
breakfast, and then striding forth to their vast relief to mount
into the Cape cart with its two skittish horses that awaited him
beyond the _stoep_.

He departed in a cloud of dust, for still the rain did not fall,
and immediately, like the casting of a spell, the peace of a great
somnolence descended upon the bungalow. The Kaffirs strolled back
to their huts to resume their interrupted slumbers.

The dust slowly settled upon all things, and all was quiet.

Down the rough track Burke jolted. The horses were fresh, and he
did not seek to check them. All night long he had been picturing
that swift journey and the goal that awaited him, and he was in a
fever to accomplish it. Their highest speed was not swift enough
for him.

Through the heavy clouds behind him there came the first break of
the sunshine transforming the _veldt_. It acted like a goad upon
him. He wanted to start back before the sun rose high. The track
that led to Bill Merston's farm was even rougher than his own, but
it did not daunt him. He suffered the horses to take their own
pace, and they travelled superbly. They had scarcely slackened
during the whole ten-mile journey.

He smiled faintly to himself as he sighted the hideous iron
building that was Bill Merston's dwelling-place. He wondered how
Sylvia appreciated this form of life in the wilderness. He slowed
down the animals to a walk as he neared it, peering about for some
sign of its inhabitants. The clouds had scattered, and the son was
shining brilliantly behind him. He reflected that Merston was
probably out on the lands. His wife would be superintending the
preparation of breakfast. And Sylvia----

Something jerked suddenly within him, and a pulse awoke to a
furious beating in his throat. Sylvia was emerging at that very
moment from the doorway of the humble guest-chamber. The sun was
in her eyes, blinding her, and she did not see him. Yet she paused
a moment on the threshold.

Burke dragged in his horses and sat watching her across the yard.
She looked pale and unspeakably weary in the searching morning
light. For a second or two she stood so, then, slightly turning,
she spoke into the room behind her ere she closed the door:

"Stay here while I fetch you something to eat! Then you shall go
as soon as you like."

Clearly her voice came to him, and in it was that throb of
tenderness which he had heard once before when she had offered him
her dreaming face to kiss with the name of another man upon her
lips. He sat quite motionless as one transfixed while she drew the
door after her and stepped forth into the sunshine. And still she
did not see him for the glory of the morning.

She went quickly round to the back of the bungalow and disappeared
from his sight.

Two minutes later Burke Ranger strode across the yard with that in
his face which made it more terrible than the face of a savage
beast. He reached the closed door, opened it, and stepped within.

His movements were swift and wholly without stealth, but they did
not make much sound. The man inside the room did not hear
immediately.

He was seated on the edge of the bed adjusting the strap of one of
his gaiters. Burke stood and watched him unobserved till he lifted
his head. Then with a curt, "Now!" he turned and bolted the door
behind him.

"Hullo!" said Guy, and got to his feet.

They stood face to face, alike yet unlike, men of the same breed,
bearing the same ineradicable stamp, yet poles asunder.

The silence between them was as the appalling pause between the
lightning and the thunder-clap. All the savagery of which the
human heart is capable was pent within its brief bounds. Then
Burke spoke through lips that were white and strangely twisted:

"Have you anything at all to say for yourself?"

Guy threw a single glance around. "Not here," he said. "And not
now. I'll meet you. Where shall I meet you?"

"Why not here--and now?" Burke's hands were at his sides, hard
clenched, as if it took all his strength to keep them there. His
eyes never stirred from Guy's face. They had the fixed and cruel
look of a hawk about to pounce upon its prey and rend it to atoms.

But there was no fear about Guy, neither fear nor shame. Whatever
his sins had been, he had never flinched from the consequences.

He answered without an instant's faltering: "Because we shall be
interrupted. We don't want a pack of women howling round. Also,
there are no weapons. You haven't even a _sjambok_." His eyes
gleamed suddenly. "And there isn't space enough to use it if you
had."

"I don't need even a _sjambok_," Burke said, "to kill a rat like
you."

"No. And I shan't die so hard as a rat either. All the same," Guy
spoke with quiet determination, "you can't do it here. Damn it,
man! Are you afraid I shall run away?"

"No!" The answer came like a blow. "But I can't wait, you
accursed blackguard! I've waited too long already."

"No, you haven't!" Guy straightened himself sharply, braced for
violence, for Burke was close to him and there was something of the
quality of a coiled spring in his attitude, a spring that a touch
would release. "Wait a minute, Burke! Do you hear? Wait a
minute? I'm everything you choose to call me. I'm a traitor, a
thief, and a blackguard. But I'm another thing as well." His
voice broke oddly and he continued in a lower key, rapidly, as if
he feared his strength might not last. "I'm a failure. I haven't
done this thing I tried to do. I never shall do it now.
Because--your wife--is incorruptible. Her loyalty is greater than
my--treachery."

Again there sounded that curious catch in his voice as if a
remorseless hand were tightening upon his throat. But he fought
against it with a fierce persistence. He faced Burke with livid,
twitching lips.

"God knows," he said in a passionate whisper, "whether she loves
you. But she will be true to you--as long as you live!"

His words went into silence--a silence so tense that it seemed as
if it must end in furious action--as if a hurtling blow and a
crashing, headlong fall could be the only outcome.

But neither came. After several rigid seconds Burke spoke, his
voice dead level, without a hint of emotion.

"You expect me to believe that, do you?"

Guy made a sharp movement that had in it more of surprise than
protest. His throat worked spasmodically for a moment or two ere
he forced it to utterance.

"Don't you think," he said then, in a half-strangled undertone,
"that it would be a million times easier for me to let you
believe--otherwise?"

"Why?" said Burke briefly.

"Because--" savagely Guy flung back the answer--"I would rather be
murdered for what I've done than despised for what I've failed to
do."

"I see," Burke said. "Then why not let me believe the obvious
without further argument?"

There was contempt in his voice, but it was a bitter self-contempt
in which the man before him had no share. He had entered that room
with murder in his heart. The lust was still there, but he knew
now that it would go unsatisfied. He had been stopped, by what
means he scarcely realized.

But Guy knew; and though it would have been infinitely easier, as
he had said, to have endured that first mad fury than to have
stayed it with a confession of failure, for some reason he forced
himself to follow the path of humiliation that he had chosen.

"Because what you call the obvious chances also to be the
impossible," he said. "I'm not such a devil as to want to ruin her
for the fun of the thing. I tell you she's straight--as straight
as I am crooked. And you've got to believe in her--whether you
want to or not. That--if you like--is the obvious." He broke off,
breathing hard, yet in a fashion oddly triumphant, as if in
vindicating the girl he had somehow vindicated himself also.

Burke looked at him fixedly for a few seconds longer. Then,
abruptly, as if the words were hard to utter, he spoke; "I believe
you."

Guy relaxed with what was almost a movement of exhaustion, but in a
moment he braced himself again. "You shall have your satisfaction
all the same," he said. "I owe you that. Where shall I meet you?"

Burke made a curt gesture as if dismissing a matter of but minor
importance, and turned to go.

But in an instant, as if stung into action, Guy was before him. He
gripped him by the shoulder. "Man! Don't give me any of your
damned generosity!" He ground out the words between his teeth.
"Name a place! Do you hear? Name a place and time!"

Burke stopped dead. His face was enigmatical as he looked at Guy.
There was a remote gleam in his stern eyes that was neither of
anger nor scorn. He stood for several seconds in silence, till the
hand that clutched his shoulder gripped and feverishly shook it.

Then deliberately and with authority bespoke: "I'll meet you in my
own time. You can go back to your old quarters and--wait for me
there."

Guy's hand fell from him. He stood for a moment as if irresolute,
then he moved aside. "All right. I shall go there to-day," he
said.

And in silence Burke unbolted the door and went out.

CHAPTER X

THE TRUTH

When Burke presented himself at the door of the main bungalow he
found it half-open. The whirr of a sewing-machine came forth to
him, but it paused in answer to his knock, and Mrs. Merston's voice
bade him enter.

He went in to find her seated at a plain wooden table with grey
flannel spread around her, her hand poised on the wheel of her
machine, which she drove round vigorously as he entered. Her light
eyes surveyed him in momentary surprise, and then fell straight
upon her work. A slightly deeper colour suffused her face.

"You've come early," she said.

"Good morning!" said Burke.

She nodded without speaking, absorbed in her work.

He came to a stand on the opposite side of the table, watching her.
He was quite well aware that Matilda Merston did not like him. She
had never scrupled to let him know it. The whirr of the machine
rose between them. She was working fast and furiously.

He waited with absolute patience till she flung him a word. "Sit
down!"

He seated himself facing her.

Faster and faster spun the wheel. Matilda's thin lips were
compressed. Tiny beads appeared on her forehead. She was
breathing quickly. Suddenly there was a check, a sharp snap. She
uttered an impatient sound and stopped, looking across at her
visitor with undisguised hostility in her eyes.

"I didn't do it," said Burke.

She got up, not deigning a reply. "I suppose you'd like a drink,"
she said. "Bill is out on the lands."

His eyes comprehended her with a species of grim amusement. "No.
I won't have anything, thanks. I have come for my wife. Can you
tell me where she is ?"

"You're very early," Matilda remarked again.

He leaned his arms upon the table, looking up at her. "Yes. I
know. Isn't she up?"

She returned his look with obvious disfavour. And yet Burke Ranger
was no despicable figure of manhood sitting there. He was broad,
well-knit, well-developed, clean of feature, with eyes of piercing
keenness.

He met her frown with a faint smile. "Well?" he said.

"Yes. Of course she is up." Grudgingly Matilda made answer.
Somehow she resented the clean-limbed health of these men who made
their living in the wilderness. There was something almost
aggressive about it. Abruptly she braced herself to give utterance
to her thoughts. "Why can't you leave her here a little longer?
She doesn't want to go back."

"I think she must tell me that herself," Burke said.

He betrayed no discomfiture. She had never seen him discomfited.
That was part of her grievance against him.

"She won't do that," she said curtly. "She has old-fashioned ideas
about duty. But it doesn't make her like it any the better."

"It wouldn't," said Burke. A gleam that was in no way connected
with his smile shone for a moment in his steady eyes, but it passed
immediately. He continued to contemplate the faded woman before
him very gravely, without animosity. "You have got rather fond of
Sylvia, haven't you?" he said.

Matilda made an odd gesture that had in it something of vehemence.
"I am very sorry for her," she said bluntly.

"Yes?" said Burke.

"Yes." She repeated the word uncompromisingly, and closed her lips.

"You're not going to tell me why?" he suggested.

Her pale eyes grew suddenly hard and intensely bright. "Yes. I
should like to tell you," she said.

He got up with a quiet movement. "Well, why?" he said.

Her eyes flashed fire. "Because," she spoke very quickly, scarcely
pausing for breath, "you have turned her from a happy girl into a
miserable woman. I knew it would come. I saw it coming, I
knew--long before she did--that she had married the wrong man. And
I knew what she would suffer when she found out. She tried hard
not to find out; she did her best to blind herself. But she had to
face it at last. You forced her to open her eyes. And now--she
knows the truth. She will do her duty, because you are her husband
and there is no escape. But it will be bondage to her as long as
she lives. You have taken all the youth and the joy out of her
life."

There was a fierce ring of passion in the words. For once Matilda
Merston glowed with life. There was even something superb in her
reckless denunciation of the man before her.

He heard it without stirring a muscle, his eyes fixed unwaveringly
upon her, grim and cold as steel. When she ceased to speak, he
still stood motionless, almost as if he were waiting for something.

She also waited, girt for battle, eager for the fray. But he
showed no sign of anger, and gradually her enthusiasm began to
wane. She bent, panting a little and began to smooth out a piece
of the grey flannel with nervous exactitude.

Then Burke spoke. "So you think I am not the right man for her."

"I am quite sure of that," said Matilda without looking up.

"That means," Burke spoke slowly, with deliberate insistence, "that
you know she loves another man better."

Matilda was silent.

He bent forward a little, looking straight into her downcast face.
"Mrs. Merston," he said, "you are a woman; you ought to know. Do
you believe--honestly--that she would have been any happier married
to that other man?"

She looked at him then in answer to his unspoken desire. He had
refused to do battle with her. That was her first thought, and she
was conscious of a momentary sense of triumph. Then--for she was a
woman--her heart stirred oddly within her, and her triumph was
gone. She met his quiet eyes with a sudden sharp misgiving. What
had she done?

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