The Top of the World by Ethel May Dell (best book club books for discussion TXT) 📕

for me and St. Peter. Don't bring the missis along though! It's too much for her."
"I know that," Burke said shortly. "I've told her so. She is to take it easy for a bit. The climate is affecting her."
Kelly looked at him with his kindly, curious eyes. "Can't you get things fixed up here and bring her along to Brennerstadt for the races and the diamond gamble? It would do you both good to have a change."
Burke shook his head, "I doubt if she would care for it. And young Guy would want to come too. If he did, he would soon get up to mischief again. He has gone back to his hut this morning, cleared out early. I hope he is to be trusted to behave himself."
"Oh, leave the boy alone!" said Kelly. "He's got some decent feelings of his own, and it doesn't do to mother him too much. Give him his head for a bit! He's far less likely to bolt."
Burke shrugged his shoulders. "I can't hold him if he means to go, I quite admit. But I haven't much faith in his keeping on the straight, and that's a fact. I don't like his going back to the hut, and I'd have prevented it if I'd known. But I slept in the sitting-room last night, and I was dead beat. He cleared out early."
"Didn't anyone see him go?" queried Kelly keenly.
"Yes. My wife." Again Burke's tone was curt, repressive. "She couldn't stop him."
"She made him hold hard with the brandy-bottle last night," said Kelly. "I admired her for it. She's got a way with her, Burke. Sure, the devil himself couldn't have resisted her then."
Burke's faint smile showed for a moment; he said nothing.
"How you must worship her!" went on Kelly, with amiable effusion. "Some fellows have all the luck. Sure, you're never going to let that sweet angel languish here like that poor little Mrs. Merston! You wouldn't now! Come, you wouldn't!"
But Burke passed the matter by. He had pressing affairs on hand, and obviously it was not his intention to discuss his conduct towards his wife even with the worthy Kelly whose blundering goodness so often carried him over difficult ground that few others would have ventured to negotiate.
He left Kelly to dress, and went back to the bungalow where Sylvia was busy with a duster trying to get rid of some of the sand that thickly covered everything. He had scarcely spoken to her that morning except for news Of Guy, but now he drew her aside.
"Look here!" he said. "Don't wear yourself out!"
She gave him a quick look. "Oh, I shan't do that. Work is good for me. Isn't this sand too awful for words?"
She spoke with a determined effort to assume the old careless attitude towards him, but the nervous flush on her cheeks betrayed her.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and wheeled her round somewhat suddenly towards the light. "You didn't sleep last night," he said.
She tried to laugh, but she could not check the hot flush of embarrassment that raced into her pale cheeks under his look. "I couldn't help it," she said. "I was rather wound up yesterday. It--was an exciting day, wasn't it?"
He continued to look at her for several seconds, intently but not sternly. Then very quietly he spoke. "Sylvia, if things go wrong, if the servants upset you, come to me about it! Don't go to Guy!"
She understood the reference in a moment. The flush turned to flaming crimson that mounted in a wave to her forehead. She drew back from him, her head high.
"And if Schafen or any other man comes to you with offensive gossip regarding my behaviour, please kick him as he deserves--next time!" she said. "And then--if you think it necessary--come to me for an explanation!"
She spoke with supreme scorn, every word a challenge. She was more angry in that moment than she could remember that she had ever been before. How dared he hear Schafen's evidence against her, and then coolly take her thus to task?
The memory of his kiss swept back upon her as she spoke, that kiss that had so cruelly wounded her, that kiss that had finally rent the veil away from her quivering heart. She stood before him with clenched hands. If he had attempted to kiss her then, she would have struck him.
But he did not move. He stood, looking at her, looking at her, till at last her wide eyes wavered and sank before his own. He spoke then, an odd inflection in his voice.
"Why are you so angry?"
Her two fists were pressed hard against her sides. She was aware of a weakening of her self-control, and she fought with all her strength to retain it. She could not speak for a second or two, but it was not fear that restrained her.
"Tell me!" he said. "Why are you angry?"
The colour was dying slowly out of her face; a curious chill had followed the sudden flame. "It is your own fault," she said.
"How--my fault?" Burke's voice was wholly free from any sort of emotion; but his question held insistence notwithstanding.
She answered it almost in spite of herself. "For making me hate you."
He made a slight movement as of one who shifts his hold upon some chafing creature to strengthen his grip. "How have I done that?" he said.
She answered him in a quick, breathless rush of words that betrayed her failing strength completely. "By doubting me--by being jealous and showing it--by--by--by insulting me!"
"What?" he said.
She turned from him sharply and walked away, battling with herself. "You know what I mean," she said tremulously. "You know quite well what I mean. You were angry yesterday--angry because Hans Schafen--a servant--had told you something that made you distrust me. And because you were angry, you--you--you insulted me!" She turned round upon him suddenly with eyes of burning accusation. She was fighting, fighting, with all her might, to hide from him that frightened, quivering thing that she herself had recognized but yesterday. If it had been a plague-spot, she could not have guarded it more jealously. Its presence scared her. Her every instinct was to screen it somehow, somehow, from those keen eyes. For he was so horribly strong, so shrewd, so merciless!
He came up to her as she wheeled. He took one of her quivering wrists, and held it, his fingers closely pressed upon the leaping pulse. "Sylvia!" he said, and this time there was an edge to his voice that made her aware that he was putting force upon himself. "I have never insulted you--or distrusted you. Everything was against me yesterday. But when I left you, I gave all I possessed into your keeping. It is in your keeping still. Does that look like distrust?"
She gave, a quick, involuntary start, but he went on, scarcely pausing.
"When a man is going into possible danger, and his wife is thinking of--other things, is he so greatly to blame if he takes the quickest means at his disposal of waking her up?"
"Ah!" she said. Had he not waked her indeed? But yet--but yet--She looked at ham doubtfully.
"Listen!" he said. "We've been going round in a circle lately. It's been like that infernal game we used to play as children. 'Snail,' wasn't it called? Where nobody ever got home and everybody always lost their tempers! Let's get out of it, Sylvia! Let's leave Guy and Schafen to look after things, and go to the top of the world by ourselves! I'll take great care of you. You'll be happy, you know. You'll like it."
He spoke urgently, leaning towards her. There was nothing terrible about him at that moment. All the mastery had gone from his attitude. He was even smiling a little.
Her heart gave a great throb. It was so long, so long, since he had spoken to her thus. And then, like a blasting wind, the memory of Guy's bitter words rushed across her. She seemed again to feel the sand of the desert blowing in her face, sand that was blended with ashes. Was it only a slave that he wanted after all? She hated herself for the thought, but she could not drive it out.
"Don't you like that idea?" he said.
Still she hesitated. "What of Guy?" she said. "We must think of him, Burke. We must."
"I'm thinking of him," he said. "A little responsibility would probably do him good."
"But to leave him--entirely--" She broke off. Someone was knocking at the outer door, and she was thankful for the interruption. Burke turned away, and went to answer. He came back with a note in his hand.
"It's Merston's house-boy," he said. "I've sent him round to the kitchen to get a feed. Something's up there, I am afraid. Let's see what he has to say!"
He opened the letter while he was speaking, and there fell a short silence while he read. Sylvia took up her duster again. Her hands were trembling.
In a moment Burke spoke. "Yes, it's from Merston. The poor chap has had an accident, fallen from his horse and badly wrenched his back. His overseer is away, and he wants to know if I will go over and lend a hand. I must go of course." He turned round to her. "You'll be able to manage for a day or two?"
Her breathing came quickly, nervously. She felt oddly uncertain of herself, as if she had just come through a crisis that had bereft her of all her strength,
"Of course," she said, not looking at him. "Of course."
He stood for a moment or two, watching her. Then he moved to her side.
"I'm leaving you in charge," he said, "But you won't overdo it? Promise me!"
She laughed a little. The thought of his going was a vast relief to her at that moment. She yearned to be alone, to readjust her life somehow before she met him again. She wanted to rebuild her defences. She wanted to be quite sure of herself.
"Oh, I shall take great care of myself," she said. "I'm very good at that."
"I wonder," said Burke, And then he laid his hand upon the flicking duster and stopped her quivering activity. "Are you still--hating me?" he said.
She stood motionless, and still her eyes avoided his. "I'll tell you," she said, "when we meet again."
"Does that mean that I am to go--unforgiven?" he said.
Against her will she looked at him. In spite of her, her lip trembled,
He put his arm round her. "Does it?" he said.
"No," she whispered back.
In that moment they were nearer than they had been through all the weeks of Guy's illness, nearer possibly than they had ever been before. It would have been so easy for Sylvia to lean upon that strong encircling arm, so easy that she wondered afterwards how she restrained the impulse to do so. But the moment passed so quickly, sped by the sound of Kelly's feet upon the _stoep_, and Burke's arm