The Top of the World Part 65

It was but a brief respite. She knew it could not last, but its very transience made her the more ready 10 take advantage of it.

And she was thankful for every day that carried her farther from that terrible time at Brennerstadt. It had begun to seem more like an evil dream to her now--a nightmare happening that never could have taken place in ordinary, normal existence.

Burke did not come over to see them again, nor did he write.

Evidently he was too busy to do either. But one evening Merston announced his intention of riding over to Blue Hill Farm, and asked Sylvia if she would like to send a note by him.

"You've got ten minutes to do it in," he gaily told her. "So you'd better leave all the fond adjectives till the end and put them in if you have time."

She thanked him carelessly enough for his advice, but when she reached her own room she found herself confronted with a problem that baffled her. How was she to write to Burke? What could she say to him? She felt strangely confounded and unsure of herself.

Eight of the allotted ten minutes had flown before she set pencil to paper. Then, hurriedly, with trembling fingers, she scribbled a few sentences. "I hope all is well with you. We are very busy here. Matilda is better, and I am quite fit and enjoying the work.

Is Mary Ann looking after you properly?" She paused there.

Somehow the thought of Burke with only the Kaffir servants to minister to him sent an odd little pang through her. She had begun to accustom him to better things. She wondered if he were lonely--if he wanted her. Ought she to offer to go back?

Something cried out sharply within her at the thought. Her whole being shrank as the old nightmare horror swept back upon her.

No--no! She could not face it--not yet. The memory of his implacability, his ruthlessness, arose like a menacing wave, shaking her to the soul.

Then, suddenly, the vision changed. She saw him as she had seen him on that last night, when she had awaked to find him kneeling by her bed. And again that swift pang went through her. She did not ask herself again if he wanted her.

The door of her room opened on to the yard. She heard Merston lead his horse up to the front of the bungalow and stand talking to his wife who was just inside. She knew that in a moment or two his cheery shout would come to her, calling for the note.

Hastily she resumed her task. "If there is any mending to be done, send it back by Bill."

Again she paused. Matilda was laughing at something her husband had said. It was only lately that she had begun to laugh.

Almost immediately came an answering shout of laughter from Merston, and then his boyish yell to her.

"Hi, Sylvia! How much longer are you going to keep me waiting for that precious love-letter?"

She called an answer to him, das.h.i.+ng off final words as she did so.

"I feel I am doing some good here, but if you should specially wish it, of course I will come back at any time." For a second more she hesitated, then simply wrote her name.

Folding up the hurried scrawl, she was conscious of a strong sense of dissatisfaction, but she would not reopen it. There was nothing more to be said.

She went out with it to Bill Merston, and met his chaff with careless laughter.

"You haven't told him to come and fetch you away, I hope?" Matilda said, as he rode away.

And she smiled and answered, "No, not unless he specially needs me."

"You don't want to go ?" Matilda asked abruptly.

"Not unless you are tired of me," Sylvia rejoined.

"Don't be silly!" said Matilda briefly.

Half an hour after Merston's departure there came the shambling trot of another horse, and Piet Vreiboom, slouched like a sack in the saddle rode up and rolled off at the door.

"Oh, bother the man!" said Matilda, "I shan't ask him in with Bill away."

The amiable Piet, however, did not wait to be asked. He fastened up his horse and rolled into the house with his hat on, where he gave her perfunctory greeting, grinned at Sylvia, and seated himself in the easiest chair he could find.

Matilda's face of unconcealed disgust nearly provoked Sylvia to uncontrolled laughter, but she checked herself in time, and went to get the unwelcome visitor a drink in the hope of speeding his departure.

Piet Vreiboom however was in no hurry, though they a.s.sured him repeatedly that Merston would probably not return for some hours.

He sat squarely in his chair with his little greedy eyes fixed upon Sylvia, and merely grunted in response to all their efforts.

When he had refreshed himself and lighted his pipe, he began to search his mind for the few English words at his disposal and to arrange these in a fas.h.i.+on intelligible to the two very inferior beings who were listening to him. He told them in laboured language that he had come from Brennerstadt, that the races were over and the great Wilbraham diamond was lost and won. Who had won it? No one knew. Some said it was a lady. He looked again at Sylvia who turned out the pockets of her overall, and a.s.sured him that she was not the lucky one.

He looked as if he suspected ridicule behind her mirth, and changed the subject. Guy Ranger had disappeared, and no one knew what had become of him. Some people thought he was dead, like Kieff. Again he looked searchingly at Sylvia, but she did not joke over this information. She began to peel some potatoes as if she had not heard it. And Piet Vreiboom sat back in his chair and stared at her, till the hot colour rose and spread over her face and neck, and then he puffed forth a cloud of vile smoke and laughed.

At that juncture Mrs. Merston came forward with unusual briskness.

"You had better go," she said, with great decision. "There is going to be a storm."

He began to dispute the point, but meeting most unexpected lightning in her pale eyes he thought better of it, and after a few seconds for deliberation and the due a.s.sertion of his masculine superiority, he lumbered to his feet and prepared to depart.

Mrs. Merston followed him firmly to the door, reiterating, her belief in a coming change. Certainly the sky was overcast, but the clouds often came up thickly at night and dispersed again without shedding any rain. There had not been rain for months.

Very grimly Matilda Merston watched the departure of her unwelcome visitor, enduring the dust that rose from his horse's hoofs with the patience of inflexible determination. Then, when she had seen him go and the swirling dust had begun to settle again, she turned inwards and proceeded to wash the gla.s.s that the Boer had used with an expression of fixed disgust.

Suddenly she spoke. "I shouldn't believe anything that man said on oath."

"Neither should I," said Sylvia quietly. She did not look up from her task, and Matilda Merston said no more.

There was a brief silence, then Sylvia spoke again. "You are very good to me," she said.

"My dear!" said Matilda almost sharply.

Sylvia's hands were trembling a little, but she continued to occupy them. "You must sometimes wonder why Guy is so much to me," she said. "I think it has been very sweet of you never to ask. But I feel I should like to tell you about it."

"Of course; if you want to," said Matilda.

"I do want you to know," Sylvia said, with slight effort. "You have taken me so much on trust. And I never even told you how I came to meet--and marry--Burke."

"There was no necessity for you to tell me," said Matilda.

"Perhaps not. But you must have thought it rather sudden--rather strange." Sylvia's fingers moved a little more rapidly. "You see, I came out here engaged to marry Guy."

"Good gracious!" said Matilda.

Sylvia glanced up momentarily. "We had been engaged for years. We were engaged before he ever came here. We--loved each other.

But--" Words failed her suddenly; she drew a short, hard breath and was silent.

"He let you down?" said Matilda.

She nodded.

Matilda's face hardened. "That was Burke's doing."