The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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"I see," said Burke slowly. "That's to be my _role_, is it?"

She turned to him impulsively with extended hand. "I think you can
fill it if you try."

He took the hand, grasping it strongly. "All right. I'll try," he
said.

"You don't mind?" she said half-wistfully. "You see, it makes such
a difference to feel there's someone like that to turn to in
trouble--someone who won't let you down."

"I shan't let you down," said Burke.

Her fingers closed hard on his. "You're a brick," she said. "Now
let's have some lunch, and then, if you don't mind, I'm going to
sleep!"

"Best thing you can do," said Burke.

They rested for the greater part of the afternoon in the shadow of
their boulder. Sylvia lay with her head on a light rug that he
spread for her, and he sat with his back to the rock and smoked
with eyes fixed straight before him.

Sleep came to the girl very quickly for she was tired, and her
healthy young body was swift to find repose. But the man, watching
beside her, did not even doze. He scarcely varied his position
throughout his vigil, scarcely glanced at the figure nestled in the
long grass so close to him. But his attitude had the alertness of
the man on guard, and his brown face was set in grimly resolute
lines. It gave no indication whatever of that which was passing in
his mind.

CHAPTER IX

THE ARRIVAL

It was drawing towards evening when Sylvia at length stirred,
stretched, and opened her eyes. A momentary bewilderment showed in
them, then with a smile she saw and recognized her companion.

She sat up quickly. "I must have been asleep for ages. Why didn't
you wake me?"

"I didn't want to," he said.

She looked at him. "What have you been doing? Have you been
asleep?"

He raised his shoulders to the first question. To the second he
replied merely, "No."

"Why didn't you smoke?" she asked next.

For an instant he looked half-ashamed, then very briefly, "I don't
live on tobacco," he said.

"How very silly of you!" said Sylvia. "It wouldn't have disturbed
me in the least. I smoke cigarettes myself."

Burke said nothing. After a moment he got to his feet.

"Time to go?" she said.

"Yes. I think we ought to be moving. We have some miles to go
yet. You sit still while I get the horses in!"

But Sylvia was on her feet. "No. I'm coming to help. I like to
do things. Isn't it hot? Do you think there will be a storm?"

He looked up at the sky. "No, not yet. It'll take some time to
break. Are you afraid of storms?"

"Of course not!" said Sylvia.

He smiled at her prompt rejoinder. "Not afraid of anything?" he
suggested.

She smiled back. "Not often anyway. And I hope I don't behave
like a muff even when I am."

"I shouldn't think that very likely," he observed.

They put in the horses, and started again across the veldt. The
burning air that blew over the hot earth was like a blast from a
furnace. Over the far hills the clouds hung low and menacing, A
mighty storm seemed to be brewing somewhere on the further side of
those distant heights.

"It is as if someone had lighted a great fire just out of sight,"
said Sylvia. "Is it often like this?"

"Very often," said Burke.

"How wonderful!" she said.

They drove on rapidly, and as they went, the brooding cloud-curtain
seemed to advance to meet them, spreading ominously across the sky
as if it were indeed the smoke from some immense conflagration.

Sylvia became silent, awed by the spectacle.

All about them the veldt took on a leaden hue. The sun still
shone; but vaguely, as if through smoked glass. The heat seemed to
increase.

Sylvia sat rapt. She did not for some time wake to the fact that
Burke was urging the horses, and only when they stretched
themselves out to gallop in response to his curt command did she
rouse from her contemplation to throw him a startled glance. He
was leaning slightly forward, and the look On his face sent a
curious thrill through her. It was the look of a man braced to
utmost effort. His eyes were fixed steadily straight ahead,
marking the road they travelled. His driving was a marvel of skill
and confidence. The girl by his side forgot to watch the storm in
front of them in her admiration of his ability. It was to her the
most amazing exhibition of strength and adroitness combined that
she had ever witnessed. The wild enjoyment of that drive was
fixed in her memory for all time.

At the end of half-an-hour's rapid travelling a great darkness had
begun to envelope them, and obscurity so pall-like that even near
objects were seen as it were through a dark veil.

Burke broke his long silence. "Only two miles more!"

She answered him exultantly. "I could go on for ever!"

They seemed to fly on the wings of the wind those last two miles.
She fancied that they had turned off the track and were racing over
the grass, but the darkness was such that she could discern nothing
with any certainty. At last there came a heavy jolting that flung
her against Burke's shoulder, and on the top of it a frightful
flash and explosion that made her think the earth had rent asunder
under their feet.

Half-stunned and wholly blinded, she covered her face, crouching
down almost against the foot-board of the cart, while the dreadful
echoes rolled away.

Then again came Burke's voice, brief yet amazingly reassuring.
"Get down and run in! It's all right."

She realized that they had come to a standstill, and mechanically
she raised herself to obey him.

As she groped for the step, he grasped her arm. "Get on to the
_stoep_! There's going to be rain. I'll be with you in a second."

She thanked him, and found herself on the ground. A man in front
of her was calling out unintelligibly, and somewhere under cover a
woman's voice was uplifted in shrill tones of dismay. This latter
sound made her think of the chattering of an indignant monkey, so
shrill was it and so incessant.

A dark pile of building stood before her, and she blundered towards
it, not seeing in the least where she was going. The next moment
she kicked against some steps, and sprawled headlong.

Someone--Burke--uttered an oath behind her, and she heard him leap
to the ground. She made a sharp effort to rise, and cried out with
a sudden pain in her right knee that rendered her for an instant
powerless. Then she felt his hands upon her, beneath her. He
lifted her bodily and bore her upwards.

She was still half-dazed when he set her down in a chair. She held
fast to his arm. "Please stay with me just a moment--just a
moment!" she besought him incoherently.

He stayed, very steady and quiet beside her. "Are you hurt?" he
asked her.

She fought with herself, but could not answer him. A ridiculous
desire to dissolve into tears possessed her. She gripped his arm
with both hands, saying no word.

"Stick to it!" he said.

"I--I'm an awful idiot!" she managed to articulate.

"No, you're not. You're a brave girl," he said. "I was a fool not
to warn you. I forgot you didn't know your way. Did you hurt
yourself when you fell?"

"My knee--a little," she said. "It'll be all right directly." She
released his arm. "Thank you. I'm better now. Oh, what is that?
Rain?"

"Yes, rain," he said.

It began like the rushing of a thousand wings, sweeping
irresistibly down from the hills. It swelled into a pandemonium of
sound that was unlike anything she had ever heard. It was as if
they had suddenly been caught by a seething torrent. Again the
lightning flared, dancing a quivering, zigzag measure across the
verandah in which she sat, and the thunder burst overhead, numbing
the senses.

By that awful leaping glare Sylvia saw her companion. He was
stooping over her. He spoke; but she could not hear a word he
uttered.

Then again his arms were about her and he lifted her. She yielded
herself to him with the confidence of a child, and he carried her
into his home while the glancing lightning showed the way.

The noise within the house was less overwhelming. He put her down
on a long chair in almost total darkness, but a few moments later
the lightning glimmered again and showed her vividly the room in
which she lay. It was a man's room, half-office, half-lounge,
extremely bare, and devoid of all ornament with the exception of a
few native weapons on the walls.

The kindling of a lamp confirmed this first impression, but the
presence of the man himself diverted her attention from her
surroundings. He turned from lighting the lamp to survey her. She
thought he looked somewhat stern.

"What about this knee of yours?" he said. "Is it badly damaged?"

"Oh, not badly," she answered. "I'm sure not badly. What a lot of
trouble I am giving you! I am so sorry."

"You needn't be sorry on that account," he said. "I blame myself
alone. Do you mind letting me, see it? I am used to giving
first-aid."

"Oh, I don't think that is necessary," said Sylvia. "I--can quite
easily doctor myself."

"I thought we were to be comrades," he observed bluntly.

She coloured and faintly laughed, "You can see it if you
particularly want to."

"I do." said Burke.

She sat up without further protest, and uncovered the injured knee
for his inspection. "I really don't think anything of a tumble
like that," she said, as he bent to examine it. But the next
moment at his touch she flinched and caught her breath.

"That hurts, does it?" he said. "It's swelling up. I'm going to
get some hot water to bathe it."

He stood up with the words and turned away. Sylvia leaned back
again, feeling rather sick. Certainly the pain was intense.

The rain was still battering on the roof with a sound like the
violent jingling together of tin cans, She listened to it with a
dull wonder. The violence of it would have made a deeper
impression upon her had she been suffering less. But she felt as
one immersed in an evil dream which clogged all her senses save
that of pain.

When Burke returned she was lying with closed eyes, striving hard
to keep herself under control. The clatter of the rain had abated
somewhat, and she heard him speak over his shoulder to someone
behind him. She looked up and saw an old Kaffir woman carrying a
basin.

"This is Mary Ann," said Burke, intercepting her glance of
surprise. "A useful old dog except when there is any dope about!
Hope you don't mind niggers."

"I shall get used to them," said Sylvia rather faintly.

"There's nothing formidable about this one," he said, "She can't
help being hideous. She is quite tame."

Sylvia tried to smile. Certainly Mary Ann was hideous, but her
lameness was equally obvious. She evidently stood in considerable
awe of her master, obeying his slightest behest with clumsy
solicitude and eyes that rolled unceasingly in his direction.

Burke kept her in the room while he bathed the injury. He was very
gentle, and Sylvia was soon conscious of relief. When at length he
applied a pad soaked in ointment and proceeded to bandage with a
dexterity that left nothing to be desired, she told him with a
smile that he was as good as a professional.

"One has to learn a little of this sort of thing," he said. "How
does it feel now?"

"Much better," she answered. "I shall have forgotten all about it
by to-morrow."

"No, you won't," said Burke. "You will rest it for three days at
least. You don't want to get water on the joint."

"Three days!" she echoed in dismay, "I can't--possibly--lie up
here."

He raised his eyes from his bandaging for a moment, and a curious
thrill went through her; it was as if his look pierced her. "The
impossible often happens here," he said briefly.

She expressed a sharp tremor that caught her unawares. "What does
that mean?" she asked, striving to speak lightly.

He replied with his eyes lowered again to his task. "It means
among other things that you can't get back to Ritzen until the
floods go down. Ritter Spruit is a foaming torrent by this time."

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "But isn't there--isn't there a
bridge anywhere?"

"Forty miles away," said Burke Ranger laconically.

"Good--heavens!" she gasped again.

He finished his bandaging and stood up. "Now I am going to carry
you to bed," he said, "and Mary Ann shall wait on you. You won't
be frightened?"

She smiled in answer. "You've taken my breath away, but I shall
get it again directly. I don't think I want to go to bed yet.
Mayn't I stay here for a little?"

He looked down at her. "You've got some pluck, haven't you?" he
said.

She flushed. "I hope so--a little."

He touched her shoulder unexpectedly, with a hint of awkwardness.
"I'm afraid I can only offer you--rough hospitality. It's the best
I can do. My guests have all been of the male species till now.
But you will put up with it? You won't be scared anyhow?"

She reached up an impulsive hand and put it into his. "No, I
shan't be scared at all. You make me feel quite safe. I'm
only--more grateful than I can say."

His fingers closed upon hers. "You've nothing to be grateful for.
Let me take you to the guestroom and Mary Ann shall bring you
supper. You'll be more comfortable there. Your baggage is there
already."

She clung to his hand for an instant, caught by an odd feeling of
forlornness. "I will do whatever you wish. But--but--you will let
me see Guy in the morning?"

He stooped to lift her. For a moment his eyes looked straight into
hers. Then: "Wait till the morning comes!" he said quietly.

There was finality in his tone, and she knew that it was no moment
for discussion. With a short sigh she yielded to the inevitable,
and suffered him to carry her away.

CHAPTER X

THE DREAM

She had no further communication with Burke that night. The old
Kaffir woman helped her, brought her a meal on a tray, and waited
upon her until dismissed.

Sylvia had no desire to detain her. She longed for solitude. The
thought of Guy tormented her perpetually. She ached and
yearned--even while she dreaded--to see him. But Burke had decreed
that she must wait till the morning, and she had found already that
what Burke decreed usually came to pass. Besides, she knew that
she was worn out and wholly unfit for any further strain.

Very thankfully she sank down at last upon the bed in the bare
guest-room. Her weariness was such that she thought that she must
sleep, yet for hours she lay wide awake, listening to the rain
streaming down and pondering--pondering the future. Her romance
was ended. She saw that very clearly. Whatever came of her
meeting with Guy, it would not be--it could not be--the
consummation to which she had looked forward so confidently during
the past five years. Guy had failed her. She faced the fact with
all her courage. The Guy she had loved and trusted did not exist
any longer, if he ever had existed. Life had changed for her. The
path she had followed had ended suddenly. She must needs turn back
and seek another. But whither to turn she knew not. It seemed
that there was no place left for her anywhere.

Slowly the long hours dragged away. She thought the night would
never pass. Her knee gave her a good deal of pain, and she
relinquished all hope of sleep. Her thoughts began to circle about
Burke Ranger in a worried, confused fashion. She felt she would
know him better when she had seen Guy. At present the likeness
between them alternately bewildered her or hurt her poignantly.
She could not close her mind to the memory of having taken him for
Guy. He was the sort of man--only less polished--that she had
believed Guy would become. She tried to picture him as he must
have been when younger, but she could see only Guy. And again the
bitter longing, the aching disappointment, tore her soul.

Towards morning she dozed, but physical discomfort and torturing
anxiety went with her unceasingly, depriving her of any real
repose. She was vaguely aware of movements in the house long
before a low knock at the door called her back to full
consciousness.

She started up on her elbows. "Come in! I am awake."

Burke Ranger presented himself. "I was afraid Mary Ann might give
you a shock if she woke you suddenly," he said. "Can I come in?"

"Please do!" she said.

The sight of his tanned face and keen eyes came as a great relief
to her strained and weary senses. She held out a welcoming hand,
dismissing convention as superfluous.

He came to her side and took her hand, but in a moment his fingers
were feeling for her pulse. He looked straight down at her.
"You've had a bad night," he said.

She admitted it, mustering a smile as she did so. "It rained so
hard, I couldn't forget it. Has it left off yet?"

He paid no attention whatever to the question. "What's the
trouble?" he said. "Knee bad?"

"Not very comfortable," she confessed. "It will be better
presently, no doubt."

"I'll dress if again," said Burke, "when you've had some tea. You
had better stay in bed to-day."

"Oh, must I?" she said in dismay.

"Don't you want to?" said Burke.

"No. I hate staying in bed. It makes me so miserable." She spoke
with vehemence. Besides--besides----"

"Yes?" he said.

"I want--to see Guy," she ended, colouring very deeply.

"That's out of the question," said Burke, with quiet decision.
"You certainly won't see him to-day."

"Oh, but I must! I really must!" she pleaded desperately. "My
knee isn't very bad. Have you--have you told him I am here yet?"

"No," said Burke.

"Then won't you? Please won't you?" She was urging him almost
feverishly now. "I can't rest till I have seen him--indeed. I
can't see my way clearly. I can't do anything until--until I have
seen him."

Burke was frowning. He looked almost savage, But she was not
afraid of him. She could think only of Guy at that moment and of
her urgent need to see him. It was all that mattered. With nerves
stretched and quivering, she waited for his answer.

It did not come immediately. He was still holding her hand in one
of his and feeling her pulse with the other.

"Listen!" he said at length. "There is no need for all this
wearing anxiety. You must make up your mind to rest to-day, or you
will be ill. It won't hurt you--or him either--to wait a few hours
longer."

"I shan't be ill!" she assured him earnestly. "I am never ill.
And I want to see him--oh, so much. I must see him. He isn't--he
isn't worse?"

"No," said Burke.

"Then why mustn't I see him?" she urged. "Why do you look like
that? Are you keeping back something? Has--has something happened
that you don't want me to know? Ah, that is it! I thought so!
Please tell me what it is! It is far better to tell me."

She drew her hand from his and sat up, steadily facing him. She
was breathing quickly, but she had subdued her agitation. Her eyes
met his unflinchingly.

He made an abrupt gesture--as if compelled against his will.
"Well--if you must have it! He has gone."

"Gone!" she repeated. "What--do you mean by that?"

He looked down into her whitening face, and his own grew sterner.
"Just what I say. He cleared out yesterday morning early. No one
knows where he is."

Sylvia's hand unconsciously pressed her heart. It was beating very
violently. She spoke with a great effort. "Perhaps he has gone to
Ritzen--to look for me."

"I think not," said Burke drily.

His tone said more than his words. She made a slight involuntary
movement of shrinking. But in a moment she spoke again with a
pathetic little smile.

"You are very good to me. But I mustn't waste any more of your
time. Please don't worry about me any more! I can quite well
bandage my knee myself."

The grimness passed from his face. "I shall have to see it to
satisfy myself it is going on all right," he said. "But I needn't
bother you now. I'll send Mary Ann in with some tea."

"Thank you," said Sylvia. She was gathering her scattered forces
again after the blow; she spoke with measured firmness. "Now
please don't think about me any more! I am not ill--or going to be.
You may look at my knee this evening--if you are very anxious. But
not before."

"Then you will stay in bed?" said Burke.

"Very well; if I must," she conceded.

He turned to go; then abruptly turned back. "And you won't lie and
worry? You've too much pluck for that."

She smiled again--a quivering, difficult smile. "I am not at all
plucky, really. I am only pretending."

He smiled back at her suddenly. "You're a brick! I've never seen
any woman stand up to hard knocks as you do. They generally want
to be carried over the rough places. But you--you stand on your
feet."

The genuine approbation of his voice brought the colour back to her
face. His smile too, though it reminded her piercingly of Guy,
sent a glow of comfort to her chilled and trembling heart.

"I want to if I can," she said. "But I've had rather a--knock-out
this time. I shall be all right presently, when I've had time to
pull myself together."

He bent abruptly and laid his hand upon hers.

"Look here!" he said. "Don't worry!"

She lifted clear eyes to his. "No--I won't! There is always a way
out of every difficulty, isn't there?"

"There certainly is out of this one," he said.

"I'll show it you presently--if you'll promise not to be offended."

"Offended!" said Sylvia. "That isn't very likely, is it?"

"I don't know," said Burke. "I hope not. Good-bye!" He
straightened himself, stood a moment looking down at her, then
turned finally and left her.

There was something in the manner of his going that made her wonder.

The entrance of the old Kaffir woman a few minutes later diverted
her thoughts. She found Mary Ann an interesting study, being the
first of her kind that she had viewed at close quarters. She was
very stout and ungainly. She moved with elephantine clumsiness,
but her desire to please was so evident that Sylvia could not
regard her as wholly without charm. Her dog-like amiability
outweighed her hideousness. She found it somewhat difficult to
understand Mary Ann's speech, for it was more like the chattering
of a monkey than human articulation, and being very weary she did
not encourage her to talk.

There was so much to think about, and for a while her tired brain
revolved around Guy and all that his departure meant to her. She
tried to take a practical view of the situation, to grapple with
the difficulties that confronted her. Was there the smallest
chance of his return? And even if he returned, what could it mean
to her? Would it help her in any way? It was impossible to evade
the answer to that question. He had failed her finally. She was
stranded in a strange land and only her own efforts could avail her
now.

She wondered if Burke would urge her to return to her father's
house. If so, he would not succeed. She would face any hardship
sooner than that. She was not afraid of work. She would make a
living for herself somehow if she worked in the fields with Kaffir
women. She would be independent or die in the attempt. After all,
she reflected forlornly, it would not matter very much to anyone if
she did die. She stood or fell alone.

Thought became vague at last and finally obscured in the mists of
sleep. She lay still on the narrow bed and slept long and deeply.

It must have been after several hours that her dream came to her.
It arose out of a sea of oblivion--a vision unsummoned, wholly
unexpected. She saw Burke Ranger galloping along the side of a dry
and stony ravine where doubtless water flowed in torrents when the
rain came. He was bending low in the saddle, his dark face set
forward scanning the path ahead. With a breathless interest she
watched him, and the thunder of his horse's hoofs drummed in her
brain. Suddenly, turning her eyes further along the course he
followed, she saw with horror round a bend that which he could not
see. She beheld another horseman galloping down from the opposite
direction. The face of this horseman was turned from her, but she
did not need to see it. She knew, as it is given in dreams to know
beyond all doubting, that it was Guy. She recognized his easy seat
in the saddle, the careless grace of his carriage. He was plunging
straight ahead with never a thought of danger, and though he must
have seen the turn as he approached it, he did not attempt to check
the animal under him. Rather he seemed to be urging it forward.
And ever the thunder of the galloping hoofs filled her brain.

Tensely she watched, in a suspense that racked her whole body. Guy
reached the bend first. There was room for only one upon that
narrow ledge. He went round the curve with the confidence of one
who fully expected a clear path ahead. And then--on the very edge
of the precipice--he caught sight of the horseman galloping towards
him. He reined back. He threw up one hand as his animal staggered
under him, and called a warning. But the thudding of the hoofs
drowned all other sound.

Sylvia's heart stood still as if it could never beat again. Her
look flashed to Burke Ranger. He was galloping still--galloping
hard. One glimpse she had of his face as he drew near, and she
knew that he saw the man ahead of him, for it was set and
terrible--the face of a devil.

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