The Top of the World by Ethel M. Dell

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"Does it?" said Burke grimly. "She doesn't affect me that way. If
I were in Merston's place,--well, she wouldn't look like that for
long."

"Wouldn't she though?" Kelly looked at him with interest. "You
always were a goer, old man. And what would your treatment consist
of?"

"Discipline," said Burke briefly. "No woman is happy if she
despises her husband. If I were in Merston's place, I would see to
it that she did not despise me. That's the secret of her trouble.
It's poison to a woman to look down on her husband."

"Egad!" laughed Kelly. "But you've studied the subject? Well,
here's to the fair lady of your choice! May she fulfil all
expectations and be a comfort to you all the days of your life!"

"Thanks!" said Burke. "Now let's hear a bit about yourself! How's
the diamond industry?"

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with it just now. We've turned
over some fine stones in the last few days. Plenty of rubbish,
too, of course. You don't want a first-class speculation, I
presume? If you've got a monkey to spare, I can put you on to
something rather great."

"Thanks, I haven't," said Burke. "I never have monkeys to spare.
But what's the gamble?"

"Oh, it's just a lottery of Wilbraham's. He has a notion for
raffling his biggest diamond. The draw won't take place for a few
weeks yet; and then only monkeys need apply. It's a valuable
stone. I can testify to that. It would be worth a good deal more
if it weren't for a flaw that will have to be taken out in the
cutting and will reduce it a lot. But even so, it's worth some
thousands, worth risking a monkey for, Burke. Think what a
splendid present it would be for your wife!"

Burke laughed and shook his head. "She isn't that sort if I know
her."

"Bet you you don't know her then," said Kelly, with a grin. "It's
a good sporting chance anyway. I don't fancy there will be many
candidates, for the stone has an evil name."

Burke looked slightly scornful. "Well, I'm not putting any monkeys
into Wilbraham's pocket, so that won't trouble me. Have you seen
anything of Guy Ranger lately?"

The question was casually uttered, but it sent a sharp gleam of
interest into Kelly's eyes. "Oh, it's him you've come for, is it?"
he said. "Well, let me tell you this for your information! He's
had enough of Blue Hill Farm for the present."

Burke said nothing, but his grey eyes had a more steely look than
usual as he digested the news.

Kelly looked at him curiously. "The boy's a wreck," he said.
"Simply gone to pieces; nerves like fiddle-strings. He drinks like
hell, but it's my belief he'd die in torment if he didn't."

Still Burke said nothing, and Kelly's curiosity grew.

"You know what he's doing; don't you?" he said. "He's doing a
Kaffir's job for Kaffir's pay. It's about the vilest hole this
side of perdition, my son. And I'm thinking you won't find it
specially easy to dig him out."

Burke's eyes came suddenly straight to the face of the Irishman.
He regarded him for a moment or two with a faintly humorous
expression; then: "That's just where you can lend me a hand,
Donovan," he said. "I'm going to ask you to do that part."

"The deuce you are!" said Kelly. "You're not going to ask much
then, my son. Moreover, it's well on the likely side that he'll
refuse to budge. Better leave him alone till he's tired of it."

"He's dead sick of it already," said Burke with conviction. "You
go to him and tell him you've a decent berth waiting for him.
He'll come along fast enough then."

"I doubt it," said Kelly. "I doubt it very much. He's in just the
bitter mood to prefer to wallow. He's right under, Burke, and he
isn't making any fight. He'll go on now till he's dead."

"He won't!" said Burke shortly. "Where exactly is he? Tell me
that!"

"He's barkeeping for that brute Hoffstein, and taking out all his
wages in drink. I saw him three days ago. I assure you he's past
help. I believe he'd shoot himself if you took any trouble over
him. He's in a pretty desperate mood."

"Not he!" said Burke. "I'm going to have him out anyway."

Again Kelly looked at him speculatively. "Well, what's the
notion?" he asked after a moment, frankly curious. "You've never
worried after him before."

Burke's eyes were grim. "You may be sure of one thing, Donovan,"
he said, "I'm not out for pleasure this journey."

"I've noted that," observed Kelly.

"I don't want you to help me if you have anything better to do,"
pursued Burke. "I shall get what I've come for in any case."

"Oh, don't you worry yourself! I'm on," responded Kelly, with his
winning, Irish smile. "When do you want to catch your hare?
Tonight?"

"Yes; to-night," said Burke soberly. "I'll come down with you to
Hoffstein's, and if you can get him out, I'll do the rest."

"Hurrah!" crowed Kelly softly, lifting his glass. "Here's luck to
the venture!"

But though Burke drank with him, his face did not relax.

A little later they left the hotel together. A strong wind was
still blowing, sprinkling the dust of the desert everywhere. They
pushed their way against it, striding with heads down through the
swirling darkness of the night.

Hoffstein's bar was in a low quarter of the town and close to the
mine-workings. A place of hideous desolation at all times, the
whirling sandstorm made of it almost an inferno. They scarcely
spoke as they went along, grimly enduring the sand-fiend that stung
and blinded but could not bar their progress.

As they came within sight of Hoffstein's tavern, they encountered
groups of men coming away, but no one was disposed to loiter on
that night of turmoil; no one accosted them as they approached.
The place was built of corrugated iron, and they heard the sand
whipping against it as they drew near. Kelly paused within a few
yards of the entrance. The door was open and the lights of the bar
flared forth into the darkness.

"You stop here!" bawled Kelly. "I'll go in and investigate."

There was an iron fence close to them, affording some degree of
shelter from the blast. Burke stood back against it, dumbly
patient. The other man went on, and in a few seconds his short
square figure passed through the lighted doorway.

There followed an interval of waiting that seemed interminable--an
interval during which Burke moved not at all, but stood like a
statue against the wall, his hat well down over his eyes, his hands
clenched at his sides. The voices of men drifted to and fro
through the howling night, but none came very near him.

It must have been nearly half-an-hour later that there arose a
sudden fierce uproar in the bar, and the silent watcher
straightened himself up sharply. The turmoil grew to a babel of
voices, and in a few moments two figures, struggling furiously,
appeared at the open door. They blundered out, locked together
like fighting beasts, and behind them the door crashed to, leaving
them in darkness.

Burke moved forward. "Kelly, is that you?"

Kelly's voice, uplifted in lurid anathema, answered him, and in a
couple of seconds Kelly himself lurched into him, nearly hurling
him backwards. "And is it yourself?" cried the Irishman. "Then
help me to hold the damned young scoundrel, for he's fighting like
the devils in hell! Here he is! Get hold of him!"

Burke took a silent hard grip upon the figure suddenly thrust at
him, and almost immediately the fighting ceased.

"Let me go!" a hoarse voice said.

"Hold him tight!" said Kelly. "I'm going to take a rest. Guy, you
young devil, what do you want to murder me for? I've never done
you a harm in my life."

The man in Burke's grasp said nothing whatever. He was breathing
heavily, but his resistance was over. He stood absolutely passive
in the other man's hold.

Kelly gave himself an indignant shake and continued his tirade. "I
call all the saints in heaven to witness that as sure as my name is
Donovan Kelly so sure is it that I'll be damned to the last most
nether millstone before ever I'll undertake to dig a man out of
Hoffstein's marble halls again. You'd better watch him, Burke.
His skin is about as full as it'll hold."

"We'll get back," said Burke briefly.

He was holding his captive locked in a scientific grip, but there
was no violence about him. Only, as he turned, the other turned
also, as if compelled. Kelly followed, cursing himself back to
amiability.

Back through the raging wind they went, as though pursued by
furies. They reached and entered the hotel just as the Kaffir
porter was closing for the night. He stared with bulging eyes at
Burke and his companion, but Burke walked straight through, looking
neither to right nor left.

Only at the foot of the stairs, he paused an instant, glancing back.

"I'll see you in the morning, Donovan," he said. "Thanks for all
you've done."

To which Kelly replied, fingering a bump on his forehead with a
rueful grin, "All's well that ends well, my son, and sure it's a
pleasure to serve you. I flatter myself, moreover, that you
wouldn't have done the trick on your own. Hoffstein will stand
more from me than from any other living man."

The hint of a smile touched Burke's set lips. "Show me the man
that wouldn't!" he said; and turning, marched his unresisting
prisoner up the stairs.

CHAPTER V

THE GOOD CAUSE

"Why can't you leave me alone? What do you want with me?"

Half-sullenly, half-aggressively, Guy Ranger flung the questions,
standing with lowering brow before his captor. His head was down
and his eyes raised with a peculiar, brutish expression. He had
the appearance of a wild animal momentarily cowed, but preparing
for furious battle. The smouldering of his look was terrible.

Burke Ranger met it with steely self-restraint. "I'll tell you
presently," he said.

"You'll tell me now!" Fiercely the younger man made rejoinder.
His power of resistance was growing, swiftly swallowing all sense
of expediency. "If I choose to wallow in the mire, what the devil
is it to you? You didn't send that accursed fool Kelly round for
your own pleasure, I'll take my oath. What is it you want me for?
Tell me straight!"

His voice rose on the words. His hands were clenched; yet still he
wore that half-frightened look as of an animal that will spring
when goaded, not before. His hair hung black and unkempt about his
burning eyes. His face was drawn and deadly pale.

Burke stood like a rock, confronting him. He blocked the way to
the door. "I'll tell you all you want to know in the morning," he
said. "You have a wash now and turn in!"

The wild eyes took a fleeting glance round the room, returning
instantly, as if fascinated, to Burke's face.

"Why the devil should I? I've got a--sty of my own to go to."

"Yes, I know," said Burke. Yet, he stood his ground, grimly
emotionless.

"Then let me go to it!" Guy Ranger straightened himself, breathing
heavily. "Get out!" he said. "Or--by heaven--I'll throw you!"

"You can't," said Burke. "So don't be a fool! You know--none
better--that that sort of thing doesn't answer with me."

"But what do you want?" The reiterated question had a desperate
ring as if, despite its urgency, the speaker dreaded the reply.
"You've never bothered to dig me out before. What's the notion?
I'm nothing to you. You loathe the sight of me."

Burke made a slight gesture as of repudiation, but he expressed no
denial in words. "As to that," he said, "you draw your own
conclusions. I can't discuss anything with you now. The point is,
you are out of that hell for the present, and I'm going to keep you
out."

"You!" There was a note of bitter humour in the word. Guy Ranger
threw back his head as he uttered it, and by the action the
likeness between them was instantly proclaimed. "That's good!" he
scoffed. "You--the man who first showed me the gates of hell--to
take upon yourself to pose as deliverer! And for whose benefit, if
one might ask? Your own--or mine?"

His ashen face with the light upon it was still boyish despite the
stamp of torment that it bore. Through all the furnace of his
degradation his youth yet clung to him like an impalpable veil that
no suffering could rend or destroy.

Burke suddenly abandoned his attitude of gaoler and took him by the
shoulder. "Don't be a fool!" he said again, but he said it gently.
"I mean what I say. It's a way I've got. This isn't the time for
explanations, but I'm out to help you. Even you will admit that
you're pretty badly in need of help."

"Oh, damn that!" Recklessly Guy made answer, chafing visibly under
the restraining hold; yet not actually flinging it off. "I know
what I'm doing all right. I shall pull up again presently--before
the final plunge. I'm not going to attempt it before I'm ready.
I've found it doesn't answer."

"You've got to this time," Burke said.

His eyes, grey and indomitable, looked straight into Guy's, and
they held him in spite of himself. Guy quivered and stood still.

"You've got to," he reiterated. "Don't tell me you're enjoying
yourself barkeeping at Hoffstein's! I've known you too long to
swallow it. It just won't go down."

"It's preferable to doing the white nigger on your blasted farm!"
flashed back Guy. "Starvation's better than that!"

"Thank you," said Burke. He did not flinch at the straight hit,
but his mouth hardened. "I see your point of view of course.
Perhaps it's beside the mark to remind you that you might have been
a partner if you'd only played a decent game. I wanted a partner
badly enough."

An odd spasm crossed Guy's face. "Yes. You didn't let me into
that secret, did you, till I'd been weighed in the balances and
found wanting? You were too damned cautious to commit yourself.
And you've congratulated yourself on your marvellous discretion
ever since, I'll lay a wager. You hide-bound, self-righteous prigs
always do. Nothing would ever make you see that it's just your
beastly discretion that does the mischief,--your infernal,
complacent virtue that breeds the vice you so deplore!" He broke
into a harsh laugh that ended in a sharp catch of the breath that
bent him suddenly double.

Burke's hand went swiftly from his shoulder to his elbow. He led
him to a chair. "Sit down!" he said. "You've got beyond yourself.
I'm going to get you a drink, and then you'll go to bed."

Guy sat crumpled down in the chair like an empty sack. His head
was on his clenched hands. He swayed as if in pain.

Burke stood looking down at him for a moment or two. Then he
turned and went away, leaving the door ajar behind him.

When he came back, Guy was on his feet again, prowling uneasily up
and down, but he had not crossed the threshold. He gave him that
furtive, hunted look again as he entered.

"What dope is that? Not the genuine article I'll wager my soul!"

"It is the genuine article," Burke said. "Drink it, and go to bed!"

But Guy stood before him with his hands at his sides. The
smouldering fire in his eyes was leaping higher and higher.
"What's the game?" he said. "Is it a damned ruse to get me into
your power?"

Burke set down the glass he carried, and turned full upon him.
There was that about him that compelled the younger man to meet his
look. They stood face to face.

"You are in my power," he said with stern insistence. "I've borne
with you because I didn't want to use force. But--I can use force.
Don't forget that!"

Guy made a sharp movement--the movement of the trapped creature.
Beneath Burke's unsparing regard his eyes fell. In a moment he
turned aside, and muttering below his breath he took up the glass
on the table. For a second or two he stood staring at it, then
lifted it as if to drink, but in an instant changed his purpose and
with a snarling laugh swung back and flung glass and contents
straight at Burke's grim face.

What followed was of so swift and so deadly a nature as to possess
something of the quality of a whirlwind. Almost before the glass
lay in shivered fragments on the floor, Guy was on his knees and
being forced backwards till his head and shoulders touched the
boards. And above him, terrible with awful intention, was Burke's
face, gashed open across the chin and dripping blood upon his own.

The fight went out of Guy then like an extinguished flame. With
gasping incoherence he begged for mercy.

"You're hurting me infernally! Man, let me up! I've been--I've
been--a damn' fool! Didn't know--didn't realize! Burke--for
heaven's sake--don't torture me!"

"Be still!" Burke said. "Or I'll murder you!"

His voice was low and furious, his hold without mercy. Yet, after
a few seconds he mastered his own violence, realizing that all
resistance in the man under him was broken. In a silence that was
more appalling than speech he got to his feet, releasing him.

Guy rolled over sideways and lay with his face on his arms, gasping
painfully. After a pause, Burke turned from him and went to the
washing-stand.

The blood continued to now from the wound while he bathed it. The
cut was deep. He managed, however, to staunch it somewhat at
length, and then very steadily he turned back.

"Get up!" he said.

Guy made a convulsive movement in response, but he only half-raised
himself, sinking back immediately with a hard-drawn groan.

Burke bent over him. "Get up!" he said again. "I'll help you."

He took him under the arms and hoisted him slowly up. Guy
blundered to his feet with shuddering effort.

"Now--fire me out!" he said.

But Burke only guided him to the bed. "Sit down!" he said.

Numbly he obeyed. He seemed incapable of doing otherwise. But
when, still with that unwavering steadiness of purpose, Burke
stooped and began to unfasten the straps of his gaiters, he
suddenly cried out as if he had been struck unawares in a vital
place.

"No--no--no! I'm damned--I'm damned if you shall! Burke--stop, do
you hear? Burke!"

"Be quiet!" Burke said.

But Guy flung himself forward, preventing him. They looked into
one another's eyes for a tense interval, then, as the blood began
to trickle down his chin again, Burke released himself.

In the same moment, Guy covered his face and burst into agonized
sobbing most terrible to hear.

Burke stood up again. Somehow all the hardness had gone out of him
though the resolution remained. He put a hand on Guy's shoulder,
and gently shook him.

"Don't do it, boy! Don't do it! Pull yourself together for
heaven's sake! Drink--do anything--but this! You'll want to shoot
yourself afterwards."

But Guy was utterly broken, his self-control beyond recovery. The
only response he made was to feel for and blindly grip the hand
that held him.

So for a space they remained, while the anguish possessed him and
slowly passed. Then, with the quiescence of complete exhaustion,
he suffered Burke's ministrations in utter silence.

Half-an hour later he lay in a dead sleep, motionless as a stone
image, while the man who dragged him from his hell rested upon two
chairs and grimly reviewed the problem which he had created for
himself. There was no denying the fact that young Guy had been a
thorn in his side almost ever since his arrival in the country.
The pity of it was that he possessed such qualities as should have
lifted him far above the crowd. He had courage, he had resource.
Upon occasion he was even brilliant. But ever the fatal handicap
existed that had pulled him down. He lacked moral strength, the
power to resist temptation. As long as he lived, this infirmity of
character would dog his steps, would ruin his every enterprise.
And Burke, whose stubborn force made him instinctively impatient of
such weakness, lay and contemplated the future with bitter
foreboding.

There had been a time when he had thought to rectify the evil, to
save Guy from himself, to implant in him something of that moral
fibre which he so grievously lacked. But he had been forced long
since to recognize his own limitations in this respect. Guy was
fundamentally wanting in that strength which was so essentially a
part of his own character, and he had been compelled at last to
admit that no outside influence could supply the want. He had come
very reluctantly to realize that no faith could be reposed in him,
and when that conviction had taken final hold upon him, Burke had
relinquished the struggle in disgust.

Yet, curiously, behind all his disappointment, even contempt, there
yet lurked in his soul an odd liking for the young man. Guy was
most strangely likable, however deep he sank. Unstable,
unreliable, wholly outside the pale as he was, yet there ever hung
about him a nameless, indescribable fascination which redeemed him
from utter degradation, a charm which very curiously kept him from
being classed with the swine. There was a natural gameness about
him that men found good. Even at his worst, he was never revolting.

He seemed to Burke a mass of irresponsible inconsistency. He was
full of splendid possibilities that invariably withered ere they
approached fruition. He had come to regard him as a born failure,
and though for Sylvia's sake he had made this final effort, he had
small faith in its success. Only she was so hard to resist, that
frank-eyed, earnest young partner of his. She was so unutterably
dear in all her ways. How could he hear the tremor of her pleading
voice and refuse her?

The memory of her came over him like a warm soft wave. He felt
again the quick pressure of her arm about his neck, the fleeting
sweetness of her kiss. How had he kept himself from catching her
to his heart in that moment, and holding her there while he drank
his fill of the cup she had so shyly proffered? How had he ever
suffered her to flit from him down the rough _kopje_ and turn at
the bottom with the old intangible shield uplifted between them?

The blood raced in his veins. He clenched his hands in impotent
self-contempt. And yet at the back of his man's soul he knew that
by that very forbearance his every natural impulse condemned, he
had strengthened his position, he had laid the foundation-stone of
a fabric that would endure against storm and tempest. The house
that he would build would be an abiding-place--no swiftly raised
tent upon the sand. It would take time to build it, infinite care,
possibly untold sacrifice. But when built, it would be absolutely
solid, proof for all time against every wind that blew. For every
stone would be laid with care and made fast with the cement that is
indestructible. And it would be founded upon a rock.

So, as at last he drifted into sleep, Guy lying in a deathlike
immobility by his side, there came to him the conviction that what
he had done had been well done, done in a good cause, and
acceptable to the Master Builder at Whose Behest he was vaguely
conscious that all great things are achieved.

CHAPTER VI

THE RETURN

When the morning broke upon Blue Hill Farm the sand-storm had blown
itself out. With brazen splendour the sun arose to burn the
parched earth anew, but Sylvia was before it. With the help of
Fair Rosamond and, Joe, the boy, she was preparing a small wooden
hut close by for the reception of a guest. He should not go back
to that wretched cabin on the sand if she could prevent it. He
should be treated with honour. He should be made to feel that to
her--and to Burke--his welfare was a matter of importance.

She longed to know how Burke had fared upon his quest. She
yearned, even while she dreaded, to see the face which once had
been all the world to her. That he had ceased to fill her world
was a fact that she frankly admitted to herself just as she
realized that she felt no bitterness towards this man who had so
miserably failed her. Her whole heart now was set upon drawing him
back from the evil paths down which he had strayed. When that was
done, when Guy was saved from the awful destruction that menaced
him, then there might come time for other thoughts, other
interests. Since Burke had acceded to her urgent request so
obviously against his will, her feelings had changed towards him.
A warmth of gratitude had filled her, It had been so fine of him to
yield to her like that.

But somehow she could not suffer her thoughts to dwell upon Burke
just then. Always something held her back, restraining her,
filling her with a strange throbbing agitation that she herself
must check, lest it should overwhelm her. Instinctively, almost
with a sense of self-preservation, she turned her mind away from
him. And she was too busy--much too busy--to sit and dream.

When the noon-day heat waxed fierce, she had to rest, though it
required her utmost strength of will to keep herself quiet, lying
listening with straining ears to the endless whirring of countless
insects in the silence of the _veldt_.

It was with unspeakable relief that she arose from this enforced
inactivity and, as evening drew on, resumed her work. She was
determined that Guy should be comfortable when he came. She knew
that it was more than possible that he would not come that day, but
she could not leave anything unfinished. It was so important that
he should realize his welcome from the very first moment of arrival.

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