The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

The next instant she heard the awful crash of collision. There was
a confusion indescribable, there on the very brink of the ravine.
Then one horse and its rider went hurling headlong down that wall
of stones. The other horseman struck spurs into his animal and
galloped up the narrow path to the head of the ravine without a
backward glance.

She was left transfixed by horror in a growing darkness that seemed
to penetrate to her very soul. Which of the two had galloped free?
Which lay shattered there, very far below her in an abyss that had
already become obscure? She agonized to know, but the darkness hid
all things. At last she tore it aside as if it had been a veil.
She went down, down into that deep place. She stumbled through a
valley of awful desolation till she came to that which she
sought;--a fallen horse, a rider with glassy eyes upturned.

But the hand of Death had wiped out every distinguishing mark. Was
it Guy? Was it Burke? She knew not. She turned from the sight
with dread unspeakable. She went from the accursed spot with the
anguish of utter bewilderment in her soul. She was bereft of all.
She walked alone in a land of strangers.

CHAPTER XI

THE CROSS-ROADS

When Sylvia started awake from that terrible dream it was to hear
the tread of horses' feet outside the house and the sound of men's
voices talking to each other. As she listened, these drew nearer,
and soon she heard footsteps on the _stoep_ outside. It was
drawing towards sunset, and she realized that she had slept for a
long time.

She felt refreshed in spite of her dream and very thankful to
regain possession of her waking senses. Her knee too was decidedly
better. She found with relief that with care she could use it.

The smell of tobacco wafted in, and she realized that the two men
were sitting smoking together on the _stoep_. One of them, she
felt sure, was Burke Ranger, though it very soon dawned upon her
that they were conversing in Dutch. She lay for awhile watching
the orange light of evening gleaming through the creeper that
entwined the comer of the _stoep_ outside her window. Then,
growing weary of inaction, she slipped from her bed and began to
dress.

Her cabin-trunk had been placed in a corner of the bare room. She
found her key and opened it.

Guy's photograph--the photograph she had cherished for five
years--lay on the top. She saw it with a sudden, sharp pang,
remembering how she had put it in at the last moment and smiled to
think how soon she would behold him in the flesh. The handsome,
boyish face looked straight into hers. Ah, how she had loved him.
A swift tremor went through her. She closed her eyes upon the
smiling face. And suddenly great tears welled up from her heart.
She laid her face down upon the portrait and wept.

The voices on the _stoep_ recalled her. She remembered that she
had a reputation for courage to maintain. She commanded herself
with an effort and finished her dressing. She did not dare to look
at the portrait again, but hid it deep in her trunk.

Mary Ann seemed to have forsaken her, and she was in some
uncertainty as to how to proceed when she was at length ready to
leave her room. She did not want to intrude upon Burke and his
visitor, but a great longing to breathe the air of the _veldt_ was
upon her. She wondered if she could possibly escape unseen.

Finally, she ventured out into the passage, and followed it to an
open door that seemed to lead whither she desired to go. She
fancied that it was out of sight of the two men on the _stoep_, but
as she reached it, she realized her mistake. For there fell a
sudden step close to her, and as she paused irresolute, Burke's
figure blocked the opening. He stood looking at her, pipe in hand.

"So--you are up!" he said.

His voice was quite friendly, yet she was possessed by a strong
feeling that he did not want her there.

She looked back at him in some embarrassment. "I hope you don't
mind," she said. "I was only coming out for a breath of air."

"Why should I mind?" said Burke. "Come and sit on the _stoep_! My
neighbour, Piet Vreiboom, is there, but he is just going."

He spoke the last words with great distinctness, and it occurred to
her that he meant them to be overheard.

She hung back. "Oh, I don't think I will. I can't talk Dutch.
Really I would rather----"

"He understands a little English," said Burke. "But don't be
surprised at anything he says! He isn't very perfect."

He stood against the wall for her to pass him, and she did so with
a feeling that she had no choice. Very reluctantly she moved out
on to the wooden _stoep_, and turned towards the visitor. The
orange of the sunset was behind her, turning her hair to living
gold. It fell full upon the face of the man before her, and she
was conscious of a powerful sense of repugnance. Low-browed,
wide-nosed, and prominent of jaw, with close-set eyes of monkeyish
craft, such was the countenance of Piet Vreiboom. He sat and
stared at her, his hat on his head, his pipe in his mouth.

"How do you do, Mrs. Ranger?" he said.

Sylvia checked her advance, but in a moment Burke Ranger's hand
closed, upon her elbow, quietly impelling her forward.

"Mr. Vreiboom saw you with me at Ritzen yesterday," he said, and
she suddenly remembered the knot of Boer farmers at the hotel-door
and the staring eyes that had abashed her.

She glanced up at Burke, but his face was quite emotionless. Only
something about him--an indefinable something--held her back from
correcting the mistake that Vreiboom had made. She looked at the
seated Boer with a dignity wholly unconscious. "How do you do?"
she said coolly.

He stretched out a hand to her. His smile was familiar. "I hope
you like the farm, Mrs. Ranger," he said.

"She has hardly seen it yet," said Burke.

There was a slight pause before Sylvia gave her hand. This man
filled her with distaste. She resented his manner. She resented
the look in his eyes.

"I have no doubt I shall like it very much," she said, removing her
hand as speedily as possible.

"You like to be--a farmer's wife?" questioned Piet, still freely
staring.

She resented this question also, but she had to respond to it. "It
is what I came out for," she said.

"You do not look like a farmer's wife," said Piet.

Sylvia stiffened.

"Give him a little rope!" said Burke. "He doesn't know much. Sit
down! I'll get him on the move directly."

She sat down not very willingly, and he resumed his talk with
Vreiboom in Dutch, lounging against the wall. Sylvia sat quite
silent, her eyes upon the glowing sky and the far-away hills. In
the foreground was a _kopje_ shaped like a sugar-loaf. She wished
herself upon its summit which was bathed in the sunset light.

Once or twice she was moved to glance up at the brown face of the
man who leaned between herself and the objectionable visitor. His
attitude was one of complete ease, and yet something told her that
he desired Piet's departure quite as sincerely as she did.

He must have given a fairly broad hint at last, she decided; for
Piet moved somewhat abruptly and knocked out the ashes of his pipe
on the floor with a noisy energy that made her start. Then he got
up and addressed her in his own language. She did not understand
in the least what he said, but she gave him a distant smile
realizing that he was taking leave of her. She was somewhat
surprised to see Burke take him unceremoniously by the shoulder as
he stood before her and march him off the stoep. Piet himself
laughed as if he had said something witty, and there was that in
the laugh that sent the colour naming to her cheeks.

She quivered with impotent indignation as she sat. She wished with
all her heart that Burke would kick him down the steps.

The sunset-light faded, and a soft dusk stole up over the wide
spaces. A light breeze cooled her hot face, and after the lapse of
a few minutes she began to chide herself for her foolishness.
Probably the man had not meant to be offensive. She was certain
Burke would never permit her to be insulted in his presence. She
heard the sound of hoof-beats retreating away into the distance,
and, with it, the memory of her dream came back upon her. She felt
forlorn and rather frightened. It was only a dream of course; it
was only a dream! But she wished that Burke would come back to
her. His substantial presence would banish phantoms.

He did not come for some time, but she heard his step at last. And
then a strange agitation took her so that she wanted to spring up
and avoid him. She did not do so; she forced herself to appear
normal. But every nerve tingled as he approached, and she could
not keep the quick blood from her face.

He was carrying a tray which he set down on a rough wooden table
near her.

"You must be famished," he said.

She had not thought of food, but certainly the sight of it cheered
her failing spirits. She smiled at him.

"Are we going to have another picnic?"

He smiled in answer, and she felt oddly relieved, All sense of
strain and embarrassment left her. She sat up and helped him
spread the feast.

The fare was very simple, but she found it amply satisfying. She
partook of Mary Ann's butter with appreciation.

"I can make butter," she told him presently. "And bake bread?"
said Burke.

She nodded, laughing. "Yes, and cook joints and mend clothes, too.
Who does your mending? Mary Ann?"

"I do my own," said Burke. "I cook, too, when Mary Ann takes leave
of absence. But I have a Kaffir house boy, Joe, for the odd jobs.
And there's a girl, too, uglier than Mary Ann, a relation of
hers--called Rose, short for Fair Rosamond. Haven't you seen Rose
yet?"

Sylvia's laugh brought a smile to his face. It was a very
infectious laugh. Though she sobered almost instantly, it left a
ripple of mirth behind on the surface of their conversation. He
carried the tray away again when the meal was over, firmly refusing
her offer to wash up.

"Mary Ann can do it in the morning," he said.

"Where is she now?" asked Sylvia.

He sat down beside her, and took out his pipe. "They are over in
their own huts. They don't sleep in the house."

"Does no one sleep in the house?" she asked quickly.

"I do," said Burke.

A sudden silence fell. The dusk had deepened into a starlit
darkness, but there was a white glow behind the hills that seemed
to wax with every instant that passed. Very soon the whole _veldt_
would be flooded with moonlight.

In a very small voice Sylvia spoke at length.

"Mr. Ranger!"

It was the first time she had addressed him by name. He turned
directly towards her. "Call me Burke!" he said.

It was almost a command. She faced him as directly as he faced
her. "Burke--if you wish it!" she said. "I want to talk things
over with you, to thank you for your very great goodness to me,
and--and to make plans for the future."

"One moment!" he said. "You have given up all thought of marrying
Guy?"

She hesitated. "I suppose so," she said slowly.

"Don't you know your own mind?" he said.

Still she hesitated. "If--if he should come back----"

"He will come back," said Burke.

She started. "He will?"

"Yes, he will." His voice held grim confidence, and somehow it
sounded merciless also to her ears. "He'll turn up again some day.
He always does. I'm about the only man in South Africa who
wouldn't kick him out within six months. He knows that. That's
why he'll come back."

"You are--good to him," said Sylvia, her voice very low.

"No, I'm not; not specially. He knows what I think of him anyhow."
Burke spoke slowly. "I've done what I could for him, but he's one
of my failures. You've got to grasp the fact that he's a rotter.
Have you grasped that yet?"

"I'm beginning to," Sylvia said, under her breath.

"Then you can't--possibly--many him," said Burke.

She lowered her eyes before the keenness of his look. She wished
the light in the east were not growing so rapidly.

"The question is, What am I going to do?" she said.

Burke was silent for a moment. Then with a slight gesture that
might have denoted embarrassment he said, "You don't want to stay
here, I suppose?"

She looked up again quickly. "Here--on this farm, do you mean?"

"Yes." He spoke brusquely, but there was a certain eagerness in
his attitude as he leaned towards her.

A throb of gratitude went through her. She put out her hand to him
very winningly. "What a pity I'm not a boy!" she said, genuine
regret in her voice.

He took her hand and kept it. "Is that going to make any
difference?" he said.

She looked at him questioningly. It was difficult to read his face
in the gloom. "All the difference, I am afraid," she said. "You
are very generous--a real good comrade. If I were a boy, there's
nothing I'd love better. But, being a woman, I can't live here
alone with you, can I? Not even in South Africa!"

"Why not?" he said.

His hand grasped hers firmly; she grasped his in return. "You
heard what your Boer friend called me," she said. "He wouldn't
understand anything else."

"I told him to call you that," said Burke.

"You--told him!" She gave a great start. His words amazed her.

"Yes." There was a dogged quality in his answer. "I had to
protect you somehow. He had seen us together at Ritzen. I said
you were my wife."

Sylvia gasped in speechless astonishment.

He went on ruthlessly. "It was the only thing to do. They're not
a particularly moral crowd here, and, as you say, they wouldn't
understand anything else--decent. Do you object to the idea? Do
you object very strongly?"

There was something masterful in the persistence with which he
pressed the question. Sylvia had a feeling as of being held down
and compelled to drink some strangely paralyzing draught.

She made a slight, half-scared movement and in a moment his hand
released hers.

"You do object!" he said.

She clasped her hands tightly together. "Please don't say--or
think--that! It is such a sudden idea, and--it's rather a wild
one, isn't it?" Her breath came quickly. "If--if I agreed--and
let the pretence go on--people would be sure to find out sooner or
later. Wouldn't they?"

"I am not suggesting any pretence," he said.

"What do you mean then?" Sylvia said, compelling herself to speak
steadily.

"I am asking you to marry me," he said, with equal steadiness.

"Really, do you mean? You are actually in earnest?" Her voice had
a sharp quiver in it. She was trembling suddenly. "Please be
quite plain with me!" she said. "Remember, I don't know you very
well. I have got to get used to the ways out here."

"I am quite in earnest," said Burke. "You know me better than you
knew the man you came out here to marry. And you will get used to
things more quickly married to me than any other way. At least you
will have an assured position. That ought to count with you."

"Of course it would! It does!" she said rather incoherently.
"But--you see--I've no one to help me--no one to advise me. I'm on
a road I don't know. And I'm so afraid of taking a wrong turning."

"Afraid!" he said. "You!"

She tried to laugh. "You think me a very bold person, don't you?
Or you wouldn't have suggested such a thing."

"I think you've got plenty of grit," he said, "but that wasn't what
made me suggest it." He paused a moment. "Perhaps it's hardly
worth while going on," he said then. "I seem to have gone too far
already. Please believe I meant well, that's all!"

"Oh, I know that!" she said.

And then, moved by a curious impulse, she did an extraordinary
thing. She leaned forward and laid her clasped hands on his knee.

"I'm going to be--awfully frank with you," she said rather
tremulously. You--won't mind?''

He sat motionless for a second. Then very quietly he dropped his
pipe back into his pocket and grasped her slender wrists. "Go on!"
he said.

Her face was lifted, very earnest and appealing, to his. "You
know," she said, "we are not strangers. We haven't been from the
very beginning. We started comrades, didn't we?"

"We should have been married by this time, if I hadn't put the
brake on," said Burke.

"Yes," Sylvia said. "I know. That is what makes me feel
so--intimate with you. But it is different for you. I am a total
stranger to you. You have never met me--or anyone like me--before.
Have you?"

"And I have never asked anyone to marry me before," said Burke.

The wrists he held grew suddenly rigid. "You have asked me out
of--out of pity--and the goodness of your heart?" she whispered.

"Quite wrong," said Burke. "I want a capable woman to take care of
me--when Mary Ann goes on the bust."

"Please don't make me laugh!" begged Sylvia rather shakily. "I
haven't done yet. I'm going to ask you an awful thing next.
You'll tell me the truth, won't you?"

"I'll tell you before you ask," he said. "I can be several kinds
of beast, but not the kind you are afraid of. I am not a faddist,
but I am moral. I like it best."

The curt, distinct words were too absolute to admit of any doubt.
Sylvia breathed a short, hard sigh.

"I wonder," she said, "if it would be very wrong to marry a person
you only like."

"Marriage is a risk--in any case," said Burke. "But if you're not
blindly in love, you can at least see where you are going."

"I can't," she said rather piteously.

"You're afraid of me," he said.

"No, not really--not really. It's almost as big a risk for you as
for me. You haven't bothered about--my morals, have you?" Her
faint laugh had in it a sound of tears.

The hands that held her wrists closed with a steady pressure. "I
haven't," said Burke with simplicity.

"Thank you," she said. "You've been very kind to me. Really I am
not afraid of you."

"Sure?" said Burke.

"Only I still wish I were a boy," she said. "You and I could be
just pals then."

"And why not now?" he said.

"Is it possible?" she asked.

"I should say so. Why not?"

She freed her hands suddenly and laid them upon his arms. "If I
marry you, will you treat me just as a pal?"

"I will," said Burke.

She was still trembling a little. "You won't interfere with
my--liberty?"

"Not unless you abuse it," he said.

She laughed again faintly. "I won't do that. I'll be a model of
discretion. You may not think it, but I am--very discreet."

"I am sure of it," said Burke.

"No, you're not. You're not in the least sure of anything where I
am concerned. You've only known me--two days."

He laughed a little. "It doesn't matter how long it has taken. I
know you."

She laughed with him, and sat up, "What must you have thought of me
when I told you you hadn't shaved?"

He took out his pipe again. "If you'd been a boy, I should
probably have boxed your ears," he said. "By the way, why did you
get up when I told you to stay in bed?"

"Because I knew best what was good for me," said Sylvia. "Have you
got such a thing as a cigarette?"

He got up. "Yes, in my room. Wait while I fetch them!"

"Oh, don't go on purpose!" she said. "I daresay I shouldn't like
your kind, thanks all the same."

He went nevertheless, and she leaned back with her face to the
hills and waited. The moon was just topping the great summits.
She watched it with a curious feeling of weakness. It had not been
a particularly agitating interview, but she knew that she had just
passed a cross-roads, in her life.

She had taken a road utterly unknown to her and though she had
taken it of her own accord, she did not feel that the choice had
really been hers. Somehow her faculties were numbed, were
paralyzed. She could not feel the immense importance of what she
had done, or realize that she had finally, of her own action,
severed her life from Guy's. He had become such a part of herself
that she could not all at once divest herself of that waiting
feeling, that confident looking forward to a future with him. And
yet, strangely, her memory of him had receded into distance, become
dim and remote. In Burke's presence she could not recall him at
all. The two personalities, dissimilar though she knew them to be,
seemed in some curious fashion to have become merged into one. She
could not understand her own feelings, but she was conscious of
relief that the die was cast. Whatever lay before her, she was
sure of one thing. Burke Ranger would be her safeguard against any
evil that might arise and menace her. His protection was of the
solid quality that would never fail her. She felt firm ground
beneath her feet at last.

At the sound of his returning step, she turned with the moonlight
on her face and smiled up at him with complete confidence.

CHAPTER XII

THE STALE

Whenever in after days Sylvia looked back upon her marriage, it
seemed to be wrapped in a species of hazy dream like the early
mists on that far-off range of hills.

They did not go again to Ritzen, but to a town of greater
importance further down the line, a ride of nearly forty miles
across the _veldt_. It was a busy town in the neighbourhood of
some mines, and its teeming life brought back again to her that
sense of aloneness in a land of strangers that had so oppressed her
in the beginning. It drove her to seek Burke's society whenever
possible. He was the shield between her and desolation, and in his
presence her misgivings always faded into the background. He knew
some of the English people at Brennerstadt, but she dreaded meeting
them, and entreated him not to introduce anyone to her until they
were married.

"People are all so curious. I can't face it," she said. "Mine is
rather a curious story, too. It will only set them talking, and I
do so hate gossip."

He smiled a little and conceded the point. And so she was still a
stranger to everyone on the day she laid her hand in Burke's and
swore to be faithful to him. The marriage was a civil one. That
also robbed it of all sense of reality for her. The ceremony left
her cold. It did not touch so much as the outer tissues of her
most vital sensibilities. She even felt somewhat impatient of the
formalities observed, and very decidedly glad when they were over.

"Now let's go for a ride and forget it all!" she said. "We'll have
a picnic on the _veldt_."

They had their picnic, but the heat was so great as to rob it of
much enjoyment. Sylvia was charmed by a distant view of a herd of
springbok, and her eyes shone momentarily when Burke said that they
would have to do some shooting together. But almost immediately
she shook her head.

"No, they are too pretty to kill. I love the hunt, but I hate the
kill. Besides, I shall be too busy. If I am going to be your
partner, one of us will have to do some work."

He laughed at that. "When do you want to begin?"

"Very soon," she said energetically. "Tomorrow if you like. I
don't think much of Brennerstadt, do you? It's such a barren sort
of place." He looked at her. "I believe you'll hate the winter on
the farm."

"No, I shan't. I shan't hate anything. I'm not so silly as to
expect paradise all the time."

"Is this paradise?" said Burke.

She glanced at him quickly. "No, I didn't say that. But I am
enjoying it. And," she flushed slightly, "I am very grateful to
you for making that possible."

"You've nothing to be grateful to me for," he said.

"Only I can't help it," said Sylvia.

Burke's eyes were scanning the far stretch of _veldt_ towards the
sinking sun, with a piercing intentness. She wondered what he was
looking for.

There fell a silence between them, and a vague feeling of
uneasiness began to grow up within her. His brown face was
granite-like in its immobility, but it was exceedingly grim.

Something stirred within her at last, impelling her to action. She
got up.

"Do you see that blasted tree right away over there with horrid
twisted arms that look as if they are trying to clutch at
something?"

His eyes came up to hers on the instant. "What of it?" he said.

She laughed down at him. "Let's mount! I'll race you to it."

He leapt to his feet like, a boy. "What's the betting?"

"Anything you like!" she threw back gaily. "Whoever gets there
first can fix the stakes."

He laughed aloud, and the sound of his laugh made her catch her
breath with a sharp, involuntary start. She ran to her mount
feeling as if Guy were behind her, and with an odd perversity she
would not look round to disillusion herself.

During the fevered minutes that followed, the illusion possessed
her strongly, so strongly that she almost forgot the vital
importance of being first. It was the thudding hoofs of his
companion that made her animal gallop rather than any urging of
hers. But once started, with the air swirling past her and the
excitement of rapid motion setting her veins on fire, the spirit of
the race caught her again, and she went like the wind.

The blasted tree stood on a slope nearly a mile away. The ground
was hard, and the grass seemed to crackle under the galloping
hoofs. The horse she rode carried her with superb ease. He was
the finest animal she had ever ridden, and from the first she
believed the race was hers.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25