The Top of the World Part 22

And a little further still, a great lake like an inland sea with sandy sh.o.r.es and very calm water with the blue sky or the stars always in it."

"And what will the castle be like?" he said.

Sylvia's eyes were on the far hills as they rode. "The castle?"

she said. "Oh, the castle will be of grey granite--the sparkling sort, very cool inside, with fountains playing everywhere; s.p.a.cious rooms of course, and very lofty--always lots of air and no dust."

"Shall I be allowed to smoke a pipe in them?" asked Burke.

"You will do exactly what you like all day long," she told him generously.

"So long as I don't get in your way," he suggested.

She laughed a little. "Oh, we shall be too happy for that.

Besides, you can have a farm or two to look after. There won't be any dry watercourses there like that," pointing with her whip.

"That is what you call a '_spruit_,' isn't it?"

"You are getting quite learned," he said. "Yes, that is a _spruit_ and that is a _kopje_."

"And that?" She pointed farther on suddenly. "What is that just above the watercourse? Is it a Kaffir hut?"

"No," said Burke.

He spoke somewhat shortly. The object she indicated was undoubtedly a hut; to Sylvia's unaccustomed eyes it might have been a cattle-shed. It was close to the dry watercourse, a little lonely hovel standing among stones and a straggling growth of coa.r.s.e gra.s.s.

Something impelled Sylvia to check her horse. She glanced at her companion as if half-afraid. "What is it?" she said. "It--looks like a hermit's cell. Who lives there?"

"No one at the present moment," said Burke.

His eyes were fixed straight ahead. He spoke curtly, as if against his will.

"But who generally--" began Sylvia, and then she stopped and turned suddenly white to the lips.

"I--see," she said, in an odd, breathless whisper.

Burke spoke without looking at her. "It's just a cabin. He built it himself the second year he was out here. He had been living at the farm, but he wanted to get away from me, wanted to go his own way without interference. Perhaps I went too far in that line.

After all, it was no business of mine. But I can't stand tamely by and see a white man deliberately degrading himself to the Kaffir level. It was as well he went. I should have skinned him sooner or later if he hadn't. He realized that. So did I. So we agreed to part."

So briefly and baldly Burke stated the case, and every sentence he uttered was a separate thrust in the heart of the white-faced girl who sat her horse beside him, quite motionless, with burning eyes fixed upon the miserable little hovel that had enshrined the idol she had wors.h.i.+pped for so long.

She lifted her bridle at last without speaking a word and walked her animal forward through the spa.r.s.e gra.s.s and the stones. Burke moved beside her, still gazing straight ahead, as if he were alone.

They went down to the cabin, and Sylvia dismounted. The only window s.p.a.ce was filled with wire-netting instead of gla.s.s, and over this on the inside a piece of cloth had been firmly fastened so that no prying eyes could look in. The door was locked and padlocked. It was evident that the owner had taken every precaution against intrusion.

And yet--though he lived in this wretched place at which even a Kaffir might have looked askance--he had sent her that message telling her to come to him. This fact more than any other that she had yet encountered brought home to her the bitter, bitter truth of his failure. Out of the heart of the wilderness, out of desolation unspeakable, he had sent that message. And she had answered it--to find him gone.

The slow hot tears welled up and ran down her face. She was not even aware of them. Only at last she faced the desolation, in its entirety, she drank the cup to its dregs. It was here that he had taken the downward road. It was here that he had buried his manhood. When she turned away at length, she felt as if she had been standing by his grave.

Burke waited for her and helped her to mount again in utter silence. Only as she lifted the bridle again he laid his hand for a moment on her knee. It was a dumb act of sympathy which she could not acknowledge lest she should break down utterly. But it sent a glow of comfort to her hurt and aching heart. He had given her a comrade's sympathy just when she needed it most.

CHAPTER II

THE VISITORS

It was after that ride to Guy's hut that Sylvia began at last to regard him as connected only with that which was past. It was as if a chapter in her life had closed when she turned away from that solitary hut in the wilderness. She said to herself that the man she had known and loved was dead, and she did not after that evening suffer her thoughts voluntarily to turn in his direction.

Soberly she took up the burden of life. She gathered up the reins of government, and a.s.sumed the ordering of Burke Ranger's household. She did not again refer to Guy in his presence, though there were times when his step, his voice, above all, his whistle, stabbed her to poignant remembrance.

He also avoided the subject of Guy, treating her with a careless kindliness that set her wholly at ease with him. She learned more and more of the working of the farm, and her interest in the young creatures grew daily. She loved to accompany him on his rides of inspection in the early mornings showing herself so apt a pupil that he presently dubbed her his overseer, and even at last entrusted her occasionally with such errands as only a confidential overseer could execute.

It was when returning from one of these somewhat late one blazing morning that she first encountered their nearest British neighbours from a farm nearly twelve miles distant. It was a considerable shock to her to find them in possession of the _stoep_ when she rode up, but the sight of the red-faced Englishman who strode out to meet her rea.s.sured her in a moment.

"How do you do, Mrs. Ranger? We've just come over to pay our respects," he announced in a big, hearty voice. "You'll hardly believe it, but we've only recently heard of Burke's marriage.

It's been a nine days' wonder with us, but now I've seen you I cease to marvel at anything but Burke's amazing luck."

There was something so engagingly naive in this compliment that Sylvia found it impossible to be formal. She smiled and slipped to the ground.

"You are Mr. Merston," she said. "How kind of you to come over! I am afraid I am alone at present, but Burke is sure to be in soon.

I hope you have had some refreshment."

She gave her horse to a Kaffir boy, and went with her new friend up the steps of the _stoep_.

"My wife!" said Merston in his jolly voice.

Sylvia went forward with an eagerness that wilted in spite of her before she reached its object. Mrs. Merston did not rise to meet her. She sat prim and upright and waited for her greeting, and Sylvia knew in a moment before their hands touched each other that here was no kindred spirit.

"How do you do?" said Mrs. Merston formally.

She was a little woman, possibly ten years Sylvia's senior, with a face that had once been pink and white and now was the colour of pale brick all over. Her eyes were pale and seemed to carry a perpetual grievance. Her nose was straight and very thin, rather pinched at the nostrils. Her lips were thin and took a bitter downward curve. Her hair was quite colourless, almost like ashes; it had evidently once been light gold.

The hand she extended to Sylvia was so thin that she thought she could feel the bones rubbing together. Her skin was hot and very dry.

"I hope you like this horrible country," she said.

"Oh, come, Matilda!" her husband protested.

"That's not a very cheery greeting for a newcomer!"

She closed her thin lips without reply, and the downward curve became very unpleasantly apparent.

"I haven't found out all its horrors yet," said Sylvia lightly.

"It's a very thirsty place, I think, anyway just now. Have you had anything?"

"We've only just got here," said Merston.

"Oh, I must see to it!" said Sylvia, and hastened within.

"Looks a jolly sort of girl," observed Merston to his wife.