The Top of the World Part 70

she said. "Bill is out on the lands."

His eyes comprehended her with a species of grim amus.e.m.e.nt. "No.

I won't have anything, thanks. I have come for my wife. Can you tell me where she is ?"

"You're very early," Matilda remarked again.

He leaned his arms upon the table, looking up at her. "Yes. I know. Isn't she up?"

She returned his look with obvious disfavour. And yet Burke Ranger was no despicable figure of manhood sitting there. He was broad, well-knit, well-developed, clean of feature, with eyes of piercing keenness.

He met her frown with a faint smile. "Well?" he said.

"Yes. Of course she is up." Grudgingly Matilda made answer.

Somehow she resented the clean-limbed health of these men who made their living in the wilderness. There was something almost aggressive about it. Abruptly she braced herself to give utterance to her thoughts. "Why can't you leave her here a little longer?

She doesn't want to go back."

"I think she must tell me that herself," Burke said.

He betrayed no discomfiture. She had never seen him discomfited.

That was part of her grievance against him.

"She won't do that," she said curtly. "She has old-fas.h.i.+oned ideas about duty. But it doesn't make her like it any the better."

"It wouldn't," said Burke. A gleam that was in no way connected with his smile shone for a moment in his steady eyes, but it pa.s.sed immediately. He continued to contemplate the faded woman before him very gravely, without animosity. "You have got rather fond of Sylvia, haven't you?" he said.

Matilda made an odd gesture that had in it something of vehemence.

"I am very sorry for her," she said bluntly.

"Yes?" said Burke.

"Yes." She repeated the word uncompromisingly, and closed her lips.

"You're not going to tell me why?" he suggested.

Her pale eyes grew suddenly hard and intensely bright. "Yes. I should like to tell you," she said.

He got up with a quiet movement. "Well, why?" he said.

Her eyes flashed fire. "Because," she spoke very quickly, scarcely pausing for breath, "you have turned her from a happy girl into a miserable woman. I knew it would come. I saw it coming, I knew--long before she did--that she had married the wrong man. And I knew what she would suffer when she found out. She tried hard not to find out; she did her best to blind herself. But she had to face it at last. You forced her to open her eyes. And now--she knows the truth. She will do her duty, because you are her husband and there is no escape. But it will be bondage to her as long as she lives. You have taken all the youth and the joy out of her life."

There was a fierce ring of pa.s.sion in the words. For once Matilda Merston glowed with life. There was even something superb in her reckless denunciation of the man before her.

He heard it without stirring a muscle, his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon her, grim and cold as steel. When she ceased to speak, he still stood motionless, almost as if he were waiting for something.

She also waited, girt for battle, eager for the fray. But he showed no sign of anger, and gradually her enthusiasm began to wane. She bent, panting a little and began to smooth out a piece of the grey flannel with nervous exact.i.tude.

Then Burke spoke. "So you think I am not the right man for her."

"I am quite sure of that," said Matilda without looking up.

"That means," Burke spoke slowly, with deliberate insistence, "that you know she loves another man better."

Matilda was silent.

He bent forward a little, looking straight into her downcast face.

"Mrs. Merston," he said, "you are a woman; you ought to know. Do you believe--honestly--that she would have been any happier married to that other man?"

She looked at him then in answer to his unspoken desire. He had refused to do battle with her. That was her first thought, and she was conscious of a momentary sense of triumph. Then--for she was a woman--her heart stirred oddly within her, and her triumph was gone. She met his quiet eyes with a sudden sharp misgiving. What had she done?

"Please answer me!" Burke said.

And, in a low voice, reluctantly, she made answer. "I am afraid I do."

"You know the man?" he said.

She nodded. "I believe--in time--she might have been his salvation. Everybody thought he was beyond redemption. I know that. But she--had faith. And they loved each other. That makes all the difference."

"Ah!" he said.

For the first time he looked away from her, looked out through the open door over the _veldt_ to that far-distant line of hills that bounded their world. His brown face was set in stern, unwavering lines.

Furtively Matilda watched him, still with that uneasy feeling at her heart. There was something enigmatical to her about this man's hard endurance, but she did not resent it any longer. It awed her.

Several seconds pa.s.sed ere abruptly he turned and spoke. "I am going back. Will you tell Sylvia? Say I can manage all right without her if she is--happier here!" The barely perceptible pause before the word made Matilda avert her eyes instinctively though his face never varied. "I wish her to do exactly as she likes.

Good-bye!"

He held out his hand to her suddenly, and she was amazed by the warmth of his grasp. She murmured something incoherent about hoping she had not been very unpleasant. It was the humblest moment she had ever known.

He smiled in reply--that faint, baffling smile. "Oh, not in the least. I am grateful to you for telling me the truth. I am sure you didn't enjoy it."

No, to her own surprise, she had not enjoyed it. She even watched him go with regret. There was that about Burke Ranger at the moment which made her wonder if possibly the harsh conception she had formed of him were wholly justified.

As for Burke, he went straight out to his horses, looking neither to right nor left, untied the reins, and drove forth again into the _veldt_ with the dust of the desert rising all around him.

CHAPTER XI

THE STORM

Hans Schafen met his master on the boundary of Blue Hill Farm with a drawn face. Things were going from bad to worse. The drought was killing the animals like flies. If the rain did not come soon, there would be none left. He made his report to Burke with a precision that did not hide his despair. Matters had never before looked so serious. The dearth of water had begun to spell disaster.

Burke listened with scarcely a comment. Blue Hill Farm was on rising ground, and there had always been this danger in view. But till this season it had never materialized to any alarming extent.

His position had often enough been precarious, but his losses had never been overwhelming. The failure of the dam at Ritter Spruit had been a catastrophe more far reaching than at the time he had realized. It had crippled the resources of the farm, and flung him upon the chances of the weather. He was faced with ruin.

He heard Schafen out with no sign of consternation, and when he had ended he drove on to the farm and stabled his horses himself with his usual care. Then he went into his empty bungalow. . .

Slowly the long hours wore away. The sun rose in its strength, s.h.i.+ning through a thick haze that was like the smoke from a furnace. The atmosphere grew close and suffocating. An intense stillness reigned without, broken occasionally by the despairing bleating of thirst-stricken sheep. The haze increased, seeming to press downwards upon the parched earth. The noonday was dark with gathering clouds.