The Top of the World Part 58

The sand flew out behind them, the parched air rushed by, and the blood quickened in Sylvia's veins. She felt as if she had left an overwhelming burden behind her in the town. The great open s.p.a.ces drew her with their freedom and their vastness. She went with the flight of a bird. It was like the awakening from a dreadful dream.

They drew rein in the shadow of a tall _kopje_ that rose abruptly from the plain like a guardian of the solitudes. Kelly was laughing with a boy's hearty merriment.

"Faith, but ye can ride!" he cried, with keen appreciation, "Never saw a prettier spectacle in me life. Was it born in the saddle ye were?"

She laughed in answer, but her heart gave a quick throb of pain.

It was the first real twinge of homesickness she had known, and for a moment it was almost intolerable. Ah, the fresh-turned earth and the shining furrows, and the sweet spring rain in her face! And the sun of the early morning that shone through a scud of clouds!

"My father and I used to ride to hounds," she said. "We loved it."

"I've done it meself in the old country," said Kelly. "But ye can ride farther here. There's more room before ye reach the horizon."

Sylvia stifled a quick sigh. "Yes, it's a fine country. At least it ought to be. Yet I sometimes feel as if there is something lacking. I don't know quite what it is, but it's the quality that makes one feel at home."

"That'll come," said Kelly, with confidence. "You wait till the spring! That gets into your veins like wine. Ye'll feel the magic of it then. It's life itself."

Sylvia turned her face up to the brazen sky. "I must wait for the spring then," she said, half to herself. And then very suddenly she became aware of the kindly curiosity of her companion's survey and met it with a slight heightening of colour.

There was a brief silence before, in a low voice, she said, "We can't--all of us--afford to wait."

"You can," said Kelly promptly.

She shook her head. "I don't think by the time the spring comes that there will be much left worth having."

"Ah, but ye don't know," said Kelly. "You say that because you can't see all the flowers that are hiding down below. But you might as well believe in 'em all the same, for they're there all right, and they'll come up quick enough when G.o.d gives the word."

Sylvia looked around her over the barren land. "Are there flowers here?" she said.

"Millions," said Kelly. "Millions and millions. Why, if you were to come along here in a few weeks' time ye'd be trampling them underfoot they'd be so thick, such flowers as only grow here, on the top of the world."

"The top of the world!" She looked at him as if startled. "Is that what you call--this place?"

He laughed. "Ye don't believe me! Well, wait--wait and see!"

She turned her horse's head, and began to walk round the _kopje_.

Kelly kept pace beside her. He was not quite so talkative as usual, but it was with obvious effort that he restrained himself, for several times words sprang to his eager lips which he swallowed unuttered. He seemed determined that the next choice of a subject should be hers.

And after a few moments he was rewarded. Sylvia spoke.

"Mr. Kelly!"

"Sure, at your service--now and always!" he responded with a warmth that no amount of self-restraint could conceal.

She turned towards him. "You have been very kind to me, and I want--I should like--to tell you something. But it's something very, very private. Will you--will you promise me----"

"Sure and I will!" vowed the Irishman instantly. "I'll swear the solemn oath if it'll make ye any happier."

"No, you needn't do that." She held out her hand to him with a gesture that was girlishly impulsive. "I know I can trust you.

And I feel you will understand. It's about--Guy."

"Ah, there now! Didn't I know it?" said Kelly. He held her hand tight for a moment, looking into her eyes, his own brimful of sympathy.

"Yes. You know--all about him." She spoke with some hesitation notwithstanding. "You know---just as I do--that he isn't--isn't really bad; only--only so hopelessly weak."

There was a little quiver in her voice as she said the words. She looked at him with appeal in her eyes.

"I know," said Kelly.

With a slight effort she went on. "He--Burke--thinks otherwise.

And because of that, he won't let me see Guy again. He is very angry with me--I doubt if he will ever really forgive me--for following Guy to this place. But,--Mr. Kelly,--I had a reason--an urgent reason for doing this. I hoped to be back again before he found out; but everything was against me."

"Ah! Didn't I know it?" said Kelly. "It's the way of the world in an emergency. Nothing ever goes right of itself."

She smiled rather wanly. "Life can be--rather cruel," she said.

"Something is working against me. I can feel it. I have forfeited all Burke's respect and his confidence at a stroke. He will never trust me again. And Guy--Guy will simply go under."

"No--no!" said Kelly. "Don't you believe it! He'll come round and lead a decent life after this; you'll see. There's nothing whatever to worry about over Guy. No real vice in him!"

It was a kindly lie, stoutly spoken; but it failed to convince.

Sylvia shook her head even while, he was speaking.

"You don't know all yet. I haven't told you. But I will tell you--if you will listen. Once when Burke and I were talking of Guy--it was almost the first time--he said that he had done almost everything bad except one thing. He had never robbed him. And somehow I felt that so long as there was that one great exception he would not regard him as utterly beyond redemption. But now--but now--" her voice quivered again--"well, even that can't be said of him now," she said.

"What? He has taken money?" Kelly looked at her in swift dismay.

"Ye don't mean that!" he said. And then quickly: "Are ye sure now it wasn't Kieff?"

"Yes." She spoke with dreary conviction. "I am fairly sure Kieff's at the back of it, but--it was Guy who did it, thanks to my carelessness."

"Yours!" Kelly's eyes bulged. "Ye don't mean that!" he said again.

"Yes, it's true." Drearily she answered him. "Burke left the key of the strong-box in my keeping on the day of the sand-storm. I dropped it in the dark. I was hunting for it when you came.

Then--I forgot it. Afterwards, you remember, Burke and Guy came in together. He must have found it--somehow--then."

"He did!" said Kelly suddenly. "Faith, he did! Ye remember when he had that attack? He picked up something then--on the floor against his foot. I saw him do it, the fool that I am! He'd got it in his hand when we helped him up, and I never noticed,--never thought. The artful young devil!"

A hint of admiration sounded in his voice. Kelly the simple-minded had ever been an admirer of art.

Sylvia went on very wearily. "The box was kept in a cupboard in the room he was sleeping in. The rest was quite easy. He left the key behind him in the lock. I found it after you and Burke had gone to the Merstons'. I guessed what had happened of course. I went round to his hut, but it was all fastened up as usual. Then I went to Piet Vreiboom's." She shuddered suddenly. "I saw Kieff as well as Vreiboom. They seemed hugely amused at my appearance, and told me Guy was just ahead on the way to Brennerstadt. It was too late to ride the whole way, so I went to Ritzen, hoping to find him there. But I could get no news of him, so I came on by train in the morning. I ought to have got here long ago, but the engine broke down. We were held up for hours, and so I arrived--too late."

The utter dreariness of her speech went straight to Kelly's heart.

"Ah, there now--there now!" he said. "If I'd only known I'd have followed and helped ye that night."

"You see, I didn't know you were coming back," she said. "And anyhow I couldn't have waited. I had to start at once. It was--my job." She smiled faintly, a smile that was sadder than tears.

"And do ye know what happened?" said Kelly. "Did Burke tell ye what happened?"

She shook her head. "No. He told me very little. I suppose he concluded that we had run away together."