_ PART I CHAPTER X. THE DREAM
She had no further communication with Burke that night. The old Kaffir woman helped her, brought her a meal on a tray, and waited upon her until dismissed.
Sylvia had no desire to detain her. She longed for solitude. The thought of Guy tormented her perpetually. She ached and yearned--even while she dreaded--to see him. But Burke had decreed that she must wait till the morning, and she had found already that what Burke decreed usually came to pass. Besides, she knew that she was worn out and wholly unfit for any further strain.
Very thankfully she sank down at last upon the bed in the bare guest-room. Her weariness was such that she thought that she must sleep, yet for hours she lay wide awake, listening to the rain streaming down and pondering--pondering the future. Her romance was ended. She saw that very clearly. Whatever came of her meeting with Guy, it would not be--it could not be--the consummation to which she had looked forward so confidently during the past five years. Guy had failed her. She faced the fact with all her courage. The Guy she had loved and trusted did not exist any longer, if he ever had existed. Life had changed for her. The path she had followed had ended suddenly. She must needs turn back and seek another. But whither to turn she knew not. It seemed that there was no place left for her anywhere.
Slowly the long hours dragged away. She thought the night would never pass. Her knee gave her a good deal of pain, and she relinquished all hope of sleep. Her thoughts began to circle about Burke Ranger in a worried, confused fashion. She felt she would know him better when she had seen Guy. At present the likeness between them alternately bewildered her or hurt her poignantly. She could not close her mind to the memory of having taken him for Guy. He was the sort of man--only less polished--that she had believed Guy would become. She tried to picture him as he must have been when younger, but she could see only Guy. And again the bitter longing, the aching disappointment, tore her soul.
Towards morning she dozed, but physical discomfort and torturing anxiety went with her unceasingly, depriving her of any real repose. She was vaguely aware of movements in the house long before a low knock at the door called her back to full consciousness.
She started up on her elbows. "Come in! I am awake."
Burke Ranger presented himself. "I was afraid Mary Ann might give you a shock if she woke you suddenly," he said. "Can I come in?"
"Please do!" she said.
The sight of his tanned face and keen eyes came as a great relief to her strained and weary senses. She held out a welcoming hand, dismissing convention as superfluous.
He came to her side and took her hand, but in a moment his fingers were feeling for her pulse. He looked straight down at her. "You've had a bad night," he said.
She admitted it, mustering a smile as she did so. "It rained so hard, I couldn't forget it. Has it left off yet?"
He paid no attention whatever to the question. "What's the trouble?" he said. "Knee bad?"
"Not very comfortable," she confessed. "It will be better presently, no doubt."
"I'll dress if again," said Burke, "when you've had some tea. You had better stay in bed to-day."
"Oh, must I?" she said in dismay.
"Don't you want to?" said Burke.
"No. I hate staying in bed. It makes me so miserable." She spoke with vehemence. Besides--besides----"
"Yes?" he said.
"I want--to see Guy," she ended, colouring very deeply.
"That's out of the question," said Burke, with quiet decision. "You certainly won't see him to-day."
"Oh, but I must! I really must!" she pleaded desperately. "My knee isn't very bad. Have you--have you told him I am here yet?"
"No," said Burke.
"Then won't you? Please won't you?" She was urging him almost feverishly now. "I can't rest till I have seen him--indeed. I can't see my way clearly. I can't do anything until--until I have seen him."
Burke was frowning. He looked almost savage, But she was not afraid of him. She could think only of Guy at that moment and of her urgent need to see him. It was all that mattered. With nerves stretched and quivering, she waited for his answer.
It did not come immediately. He was still holding her hand in one of his and feeling her pulse with the other.
"Listen!" he said at length. "There is no need for all this wearing anxiety. You must make up your mind to rest to-day, or you will be ill. It won't hurt you--or him either--to wait a few hours longer."
"I shan't be ill!" she assured him earnestly. "I am never ill. And I want to see him--oh, so much. I must see him. He isn't--he isn't worse?"
"No," said Burke.
"Then why mustn't I see him?" she urged. "Why do you look like that? Are you keeping back something? Has--has something happened that you don't want me to know? Ah, that is it! I thought so! Please tell me what it is! It is far better to tell me."
She drew her hand from his and sat up, steadily facing him. She was breathing quickly, but she had subdued her agitation. Her eyes met his unflinchingly.
He made an abrupt gesture--as if compelled against his will. "Well--if you must have it! He has gone."
"Gone!" she repeated. "What--do you mean by that?"
He looked down into her whitening face, and his own grew sterner. "Just what I say. He cleared out yesterday morning early. No one knows where he is."
Sylvia's hand unconsciously pressed her heart. It was beating very violently. She spoke with a great effort. "Perhaps he has gone to Ritzen--to look for me."
"I think not," said Burke drily.
His tone said more than his words. She made a slight involuntary movement of shrinking. But in a moment she spoke again with a pathetic little smile.
"You are very good to me. But I mustn't waste any more of your time. Please don't worry about me any more! I can quite well bandage my knee myself."
The grimness passed from his face. "I shall have to see it to satisfy myself it is going on all right," he said. "But I needn't bother you now. I'll send Mary Ann in with some tea."
"Thank you," said Sylvia. She was gathering her scattered forces again after the blow; she spoke with measured firmness. "Now please don't think about me any more! I am not ill--or going to be. You may look at my knee this evening--if you are very anxious. But not before."
"Then you will stay in bed?" said Burke.
"Very well; if I must," she conceded.
He turned to go; then abruptly turned back. "And you won't lie and worry? You've too much pluck for that."
She smiled again--a quivering, difficult smile. "I am not at all plucky, really. I am only pretending."
He smiled back at her suddenly. "You're a brick! I've never seen any woman stand up to hard knocks as you do. They generally want to be carried over the rough places. But you--you stand on your feet."
The genuine approbation of his voice brought the colour back to her face. His smile too, though it reminded her piercingly of Guy, sent a glow of comfort to her chilled and trembling heart.
"I want to if I can," she said. "But I've had rather a--knock-out this time. I shall be all right presently, when I've had time to pull myself together."
He bent abruptly and laid his hand upon hers.
"Look here!" he said. "Don't worry!"
She lifted clear eyes to his. "No--I won't! There is always a way out of every difficulty, isn't there?"
"There certainly is out of this one," he said.
"I'll show it you presently--if you'll promise not to be offended."
"Offended!" said Sylvia. "That isn't very likely, is it?"
"I don't know," said Burke. "I hope not. Good-bye!" He straightened himself, stood a moment looking down at her, then turned finally and left her.
There was something in the manner of his going that made her wonder.
The entrance of the old Kaffir woman a few minutes later diverted her thoughts. She found Mary Ann an interesting study, being the first of her kind that she had viewed at close quarters. She was very stout and ungainly. She moved with elephantine clumsiness, but her desire to please was so evident that Sylvia could not regard her as wholly without charm. Her dog-like amiability outweighed her hideousness. She found it somewhat difficult to understand Mary Ann's speech, for it was more like the chattering of a monkey than human articulation, and being very weary she did not encourage her to talk.
There was so much to think about, and for a while her tired brain revolved around Guy and all that his departure meant to her. She tried to take a practical view of the situation, to grapple with the difficulties that confronted her. Was there the smallest chance of his return? And even if he returned, what could it mean to her? Would it help her in any way? It was impossible to evade the answer to that question. He had failed her finally. She was stranded in a strange land and only her own efforts could avail her now.
She wondered if Burke would urge her to return to her father's house. If so, he would not succeed. She would face any hardship sooner than that. She was not afraid of work. She would make a living for herself somehow if she worked in the fields with Kaffir women. She would be independent or die in the attempt. After all, she reflected forlornly, it would not matter very much to anyone if she did die. She stood or fell alone.
Thought became vague at last and finally obscured in the mists of sleep. She lay still on the narrow bed and slept long and deeply.
It must have been after several hours that her dream came to her. It arose out of a sea of oblivion--a vision unsummoned, wholly unexpected. She saw Burke Ranger galloping along the side of a dry and stony ravine where doubtless water flowed in torrents when the rain came. He was bending low in the saddle, his dark face set forward scanning the path ahead. With a breathless interest she watched him, and the thunder of his horse's hoofs drummed in her brain. Suddenly, turning her eyes further along the course he followed, she saw with horror round a bend that which he could not see. She beheld another horseman galloping down from the opposite direction. The face of this horseman was turned from her, but she did not need to see it. She knew, as it is given in dreams to know beyond all doubting, that it was Guy. She recognized his easy seat in the saddle, the careless grace of his carriage. He was plunging straight ahead with never a thought of danger, and though he must have seen the turn as he approached it, he did not attempt to check the animal under him. Rather he seemed to be urging it forward. And ever the thunder of the galloping hoofs filled her brain.
Tensely she watched, in a suspense that racked her whole body. Guy reached the bend first. There was room for only one upon that narrow ledge. He went round the curve with the confidence of one who fully expected a clear path ahead. And then--on the very edge of the precipice--he caught sight of the horseman galloping towards him. He reined back. He threw up one hand as his animal staggered under him, and called a warning. But the thudding of the hoofs drowned all other sound.
Sylvia's heart stood still as if it could never beat again. Her look flashed to Burke Ranger. He was galloping still--galloping hard. One glimpse she had of his face as he drew near, and she knew that he saw the man ahead of him, for it was set and terrible--the face of a devil.
The next instant she heard the awful crash of collision. There was a confusion indescribable, there on the very brink of the ravine. Then one horse and its rider went hurling headlong down that wall of stones. The other horseman struck spurs into his animal and galloped up the narrow path to the head of the ravine without a backward glance.
She was left transfixed by horror in a growing darkness that seemed to penetrate to her very soul. Which of the two had galloped free? Which lay shattered there, very far below her in an abyss that had already become obscure? She agonized to know, but the darkness hid all things. At last she tore it aside as if it had been a veil. She went down, down into that deep place. She stumbled through a valley of awful desolation till she came to that which she sought;--a fallen horse, a rider with glassy eyes upturned.
But the hand of Death had wiped out every distinguishing mark. Was it Guy? Was it Burke? She knew not. She turned from the sight with dread unspeakable. She went from the accursed spot with the anguish of utter bewilderment in her soul. She was bereft of all. She walked alone in a land of strangers. _