The Top of the World Part 55

"I will not!" she said, and with the words she stood up to her full, slim height, thwarting him, making her last stand.

His expression changed as he realized her defiance. She was panting still, but there was no sign of yielding in her att.i.tude.

She was girt for resistance to the utmost.

There fell an awful pause--a silence which only her rapid breathing disturbed. Her eyes were fixed on his. She must have seen the change, but she dared it unflinching. There was no turning back for her now.

The man spoke at last, and his voice was absolutely quiet, dead level. "You had better let me go," he said.

She made a sharp movement, for there was that in the steel-cold voice that sent terror to her heart. Was this Burke--the man upon whose goodness she had leaned ever since she had come to this land of strangers? Surely she had never met him before that moment!

"Open that door!" he said.

A great tremor went through her. She turned, the instinct to obey urging her. But in the same instant the thought of Guy--Guy in mortal danger--flashed across her. She paused for a second, making a supreme effort, while every impulse fought in mad tumult within her, crying to her to yield. Then, with a lightning twist of the hand she turned the key and pulled it from the lock. For an instant she held it in her hand, then with a half-strangled sound she thrust it deep into her bosom.

Her eyes shone like flames in her white face as she turned back to him. "Perhaps you will believe me--now!" she said.

He took a single step forward and caught, her by the wrists.

"Woman!" he said. "Do you know what you are doing?"

The pa.s.sion that blazed in his look appalled her. Yet some strange force within her awoke as it were in answer to her need. She flung fear aside. She had done the only thing possible, and she would not look back.

"You must believe me--now!" she panted. "You do believe me!"

His hold became a grip, merciless, fierce, tightening upon her like a dosing trap. "Why should I believe you?" he said, and there was that in his voice that was harder to bear than his look. "Have I any special reason for believing you? Have you ever given me one?"

"You know me," she said, with a sinking heart.

He uttered a scoffing sound too bitter to be called a laugh. "Do I know you? Have I ever been as near to you as this devil who has made himself notorious with Kaffir women for as long as he has been out here?"

She flinched momentarily from the stark cruelty of his words. But she faced him still, faced him though every instinct of her womanhood shrank with a dread unspeakable.

"You know me," she said again. "You may not know me very well, but you know me well enough for that."

It was bravely spoken, but as she ceased to speak she felt her strength begin to fail her. Her throat worked spasmodically, convulsively, and a terrible tremor went through her. She saw him as through a haze that blotted out all beside.

There fell a silence between them--a dreadful, interminable silence that seemed to stretch into eternities. And through it very strangely she heard the wild beating of her own heart, like the hoofs of a galloping horse, that seemed to die away. . . .

She did not know whether she fell, or whether he lifted her, but when the blinding mist cleared away again, she was lying in the wicker-chair by the window, and he was walking up and down the room with the ceaseless motion of a prowling animal. She sat up slowly and looked at him. She was shivering all over, as if stricken with cold.

At her movement he came and stood before her, but he did not speak.

He seemed to be watching her. Or was he waiting for something?

She could not tell; neither, as he stood there, could she look up at him to see. Only, after a moment, she leaned forward. She found and held his hand.

"Burke!" she said.

His fingers closed as if they would crush her own. He did not utter a word.

She waited for a s.p.a.ce, gathering her strength. Then, speaking almost under her breath, she went on. "I have--something to say to you. Please will you listen--till I have finished?"

"Go on!" he said.

Her head was bent. She went on tremulously. "You are quite right--when you say--that you don't know me--that I have given you no reason--no good reason--to believe in me. I have taken--a great deal from you. And I have given--nothing in return. I see that now. That is why you distrust me. I--have only myself to thank."

She paused a moment, but he waited in absolute silence, neither helping nor hindering.

With a painful effort she continued. "People make mistaken--sometimes--without knowing it. It comes to them afterwards--perhaps too late. But--it isn't too late with me, Burke. I am your partner--your wife. And--I never meant to--defraud you. All I have--is yours. I--am yours."

She stopped. Her head was bowed against his hand. That dreadful sobbing threatened to overwhelm her again, but she fought it down.

She waited quivering for his answer.

But for many seconds Burke neither moved nor spoke. The grasp of his hand was vicelike in its rigidity. She had no key whatever to what was pa.s.sing in his mind.

Not till she had mastered herself and was sitting in absolute stillness, did he stir. Then, very quietly, with a decision that brooked no resistance, he took her by the chin with his free hand and turned her face up to his own. He looked deep into her eyes.

His own were no longer ablaze, but a fitful light came and went in them like the flare of a torch in the desert wind.

"So," he said, and his voice was curiously unsteady also; it vibrated as if he were not wholly sure of himself, "you have made your choice--and counted the cost?"

"Yes," she said.

He looked with greater intentness into her eyes, searching without mercy, as if he would force his way to her very soul. "And for whose sake this--sacrifice?" he said.

She shrank a little; for there was something intolerable in his words. Had she really counted the cost? Her eyelids fluttered under that unsparing look, fluttered and sank. "You will know--some day," she whispered.

"Ah! Some day!" he said.

Again his voice vibrated. It was as if some door that led to his innermost being had opened suddenly, releasing a savage, primitive force which till then he had held restrained.

And in that moment it came to her that the thing she valued most in life had been rudely torn from her. She saw that new, most precious gift of hers that had sprung to life in the wilderness and which she had striven so desperately to shield from harm--that holy thing which had become dearer to her than life itself--desecrated, broken, and lying in the dust. And it was Burke who had flung it there, Burke who now ruthlessly trampled it underfoot.

Her throat worked again painfully for a moment or two; and then with a great effort of the will she stilled it. This thing was beyond tears--a cataclysm wrecking the whole structure of existence. Neither tears nor laughter could ever be hers again.

In silence she took the cup of bitterness, and drank it to the dregs.

PART IV

CHAPTER I

SAND OF THE DESERT

Donovan Kelly was out of temper. There was no denying it, though with him such a frame of mind was phenomenal. He leaned moodily against the door-post at the hotel-entrance, smoking a short pipe of very strong tobacco, and speaking to no one. He had been there for some time, and the girl in the office was watching him with eyes round with curiosity. For he had not even said "Good morning"

to her. She wanted to accost him, but somehow the hunch of his shoulders was too discouraging even for her. So she contented herself with waiting developments.

There were plenty of men coming and going, but though several of them gave him greeting as they pa.s.sed, Kelly responded to none. He seemed to be wrapped in a gloomy fog of meditation that cut him off completely from the outside world. He was alone with himself, and in that state he obviously intended to remain.

But the girl in the office had her own shrewd suspicions as to the reason of his waiting there, suspicions which after the lapse of nearly half an hour she triumphantly saw verified. For presently through the shifting, ever-changing crowd a square-shouldered man made his appearance, and without a glance to right or left went straight to the big Irishman lounging in the doorway, and took him by the shoulder.