The Top of the World - Ethel May Dell (read novels website txt) 📗

She heard Dutch and broken English all around her.
She went through the crowds, shrinking a little now and then from any especially coarse type, nervously intent upon avoiding contact with any. She found the hotel without difficulty, but when she found it she checked her progress for the first time. For she was afraid to enter.
The evening was drawing on. She felt the welcome chill of it on her burning face, and it kept her from yielding to the faintness that oppressed her. But still she could not enter, till a great, square-built Boer lounging near the doorway came up to her and looked into her eyes with an evil leer.
Then she summoned her strength, drew herself up, and passed him with open disgust.
She had to push her way through a crowd of men idling in the entrance, and one or two accosted her, but she went by them in stony unresponsiveness.
At the little office at the end she found a girl, sandy-haired and sandy-eyed, who looked up for a moment from a great book in front of her, and before she could speak, said briskly, "There's no more accommodation here. The place is full to overflowing. Better try at the Good Hope over the way."
She had returned to her occupation before the words were well uttered, but Sylvia stood motionless, a little giddy, leaning against the woodwork for support.
"I only want to know," she said, after a moment, speaking with an effort in a voice that sounded oddly muffled even to herself, "if Mr. Ranger is here."
"Who?" The girl looked up sharply. "Hullo!" she said. "What's the matter?"
"If Mr. Ranger--Mr. Ranger--is here," Sylvia repeated through a curious mist that had gathered unaccountably around her.
The girl got up and came to her. "Yes, he's here, I believe, or will be presently. He's engaged a room anyhow. I didn't see him myself. Look here, you'd better come and sit down a minute. I seem to remember you. You're Mrs. Ranger, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Sylvia.
She was past explanation just then, and that simple affirmative seemed her only course. She leaned thankfully upon the supporting arm, fighting blindly to retain her senses.
"Come and sit down!" the girl repeated. "I expect he'll be in before long. They're all mad about this diamond draw. The whole town is buzzing with it. The races aren't in it. Sit down and I'll get you something."
She drew Sylvia into a small inner sanctum and there left her, sitting exhausted in a wooden armchair. She returned presently with a tray which she set in front of her, observing practically, "That's what you're wanting. Have a good feed, and when you've done you'd better go up and lie down till he comes."
She went back to her office then, closing the door between, and Sylvia was left to recover as best she might. She forced herself after a time to eat and drink, reflecting that physical weakness would utterly unfit her for the task before her. She hoped with all her heart that Guy would come soon--soon. There was a night train back to Ritzen. She had ascertained that at the station. They might catch that. The diamond draw was still two days away. She prayed that he had not yet staked anything upon it, that when he came the money might be still in his possession.
She finished her meal and felt considerably revived. For a while she sat listening to the hubbub of strange voices without, then the fear that her presence might be forgotten by the busy occupant of the office moved her to rise and open the intervening door.
The girl was still there. She glanced round with the same alert expression. "That you, Mrs. Ranger? He hasn't come in yet. But you go up and wait for him! It's quieter upstairs. I'll tell him you're here as soon as he comes in."
She did not want to comply, but certainly the little room adjoining the office was no place for private talk, and she dreaded the idea of meeting Guy before the curious eyes of strangers. He would be startled; he would be ashamed! None but herself must see him in that moment.
So, without protest, she allowed herself to be conducted upstairs to the room he had engaged, her friend in the office promising faithfully not to forget to send him up to her at once.
The room was at the top of the house, a bare apartment but not uncomfortable. It possessed a large window that looked across the wide street.
She sat down beside it and listened to the tramping crowds below.
Her faintness had passed, but she was very tired, overwhelmingly so. Very soon her senses became dulled to the turmoil. She suffered herself to relax, certain that the first sound of a step outside would recall her. And so, as night spread over the town, she sank into sleep, lying back in the cane-chair like a worn-out child, her burnished hair vivid against the darkness beyond.
She did not wake at the sound of a step outside, or even at the opening of the door. It was no sound that aroused her hours later, but a sudden intense consciousness of expediency, as if she had come to a sharp comer that it needed all her wits to turn in safety. She started up with a gasp. "Guy!" she said. And then, as her dazzled eyes saw more clearly, a low, involuntary exclamation of dismay. "Ah!"
It was Burke who stood with his back against the closed door, looking at her, and his face had upon it in those first waking moments of bewilderment a look that appalled her. For it was to her as the face of a murderer.


CHAPTER XII
THE COST

He did not speak in answer to her exclamation, merely stood there looking at her, almost as if he had never seen her before. His eyes were keen with a sort of icy fierceness. She thought she had never before realized the cruelty of his mouth.
It was she who spoke first. The silence seemed so impossible. "Burke!" she said. "What--is the matter?"
He came forward to her with an abruptness that was like the breaking of bonds. He stopped in front of her, looking closely into her face. "What are you doing here?" he said.
In spite of herself she shrank, so terrible was his look. But she was swift to master her weakness. She stood up to her full height, facing him. "I have come to find Guy," she said.
He threw a glance around; it was like the sweep of a rapier. "You are waiting for him--here?"
Again for a moment she was disconcerted. She felt the quick blood rise to her forehead. "They told me he would come here," she said.
He passed on, almost as if she had not spoken, but his eyes were mercilessly upon her, marking her confusion. "What do you want with him?"
His words were like the snap of a steel rope. They made her flinch by their very ruthlessness. She had sprung from sleep with bewildered senses. She was not-prepared to do battle in her own defence.
She hesitated, and immediately his hand closed upon her shoulder. It seemed to her that she had never known what anger could be like before this moment. All the force of the man seemed to be gathered together in one tremendous wave, menacing her.
"Tell me what you want with him!" he said.
She shuddered from head to foot as if she had been struck with a scourge. "Burke! What do you mean?" she cried out desperately. "You--you must be mad!"
"Answer me!" he said.
His hold was a grip. The ice in his eyes had turned to flame. Her heart leapt and quivered within her like a wild thing fighting to escape.
"I--don't know what you mean," she panted. "I have done nothing wrong. I came after him to--to try and bring him back."
"Then why did you come secretly?" he said,
She shrank from the intolerable inquisition of his eyes. "I wanted to see him--alone," she said.
"Why?" Again it was like the merciless cut of a scourge. She caught her breath with a sharp sound that was almost a cry.
"Why?" he reiterated. "Answer me! Answer me!"
She did not answer him. She could not. And in the silence that followed, it seemed to her that something within her--something that had been Vitally wounded--struggled and died.
"Look at me!" he said.
She lifted an ashen face. His eyes held hers, and the torture of his hell encompassed her also.
"Tell me the truth!" he said. "I shall know if you lie. When did you see him last?"
She shook her head. "A long while ago. Ages ago. Before you left the farm."
The memory of his going, his touch, his smile went through her with the words. She had a sickening sensation as of having been struck over the heart.
"Where did you spend last night?" he said.
"At Ritzen." Her white lips seemed to speak mechanically. She herself stood apart as it were, stunned beyond feeling.
"You came here by rail---alone?"
The voice of the inquisitor pierced her numbed sensibilities, compelling--almost dictating--her answer.
"Yes--alone."
"You had arranged to meet here then?"
Still the scourging continued, and she marvelled at herself, that she felt so little. But feeling was coming back. She was waiting for it, dreading it.
She answered without conscious effort. "No--I came after him. He doesn't know I am here."
"And yet you are posing as his wife?"
She felt that. It cut through her apathy irresistibly. A sharp tremor went through her. "That," she said rather breathlessly, "was a mistake."
"It was." said Burke. "The greatest mistake of your life. It is a pity you took the trouble to lie to me. The truth would have served you better." He turned from her contemptuously with the words, setting her free.
For a moment the relief of his going was such that the intention that lay behind it did not so much as occur to her. Then suddenly it flashed upon her. He was going in search of Guy.
In an instant her passivity was gone. The necessity for action drove her forward. With a cry she sprang to the door before him, and set herself against it. She could not let him go with that look of the murderer in his eyes.
"Burke!" she gasped. "Burke! What--are you going to do?"
His lips parted a little, and she saw his teeth. "You shall hear what I have done--afterwards," he said. "Let me pass!"
But she barred his way. Her numbed senses were all awake now and quivering. The very fact of physical effort seemed to have restored to her the power to suffer. She stood before him, her bosom heaving with great sobs that brought no tears or relief of any sort to the anguish that tore her.
"You--you can't pass," she said. "Not--not--like this! Burke, listen! I swear to you--I swear----"
"You needn't," he broke in. "A woman's oath, when it is her last resource, is quite valueless. I will deal with