_ PART I CHAPTER XI. THE CROSS-ROADS
When Sylvia started awake from that terrible dream it was to hear the tread of horses' feet outside the house and the sound of men's voices talking to each other. As she listened, these drew nearer, and soon she heard footsteps on the _stoep_ outside. It was drawing towards sunset, and she realized that she had slept for a long time.
She felt refreshed in spite of her dream and very thankful to regain possession of her waking senses. Her knee too was decidedly better. She found with relief that with care she could use it.
The smell of tobacco wafted in, and she realized that the two men were sitting smoking together on the _stoep_. One of them, she felt sure, was Burke Ranger, though it very soon dawned upon her that they were conversing in Dutch. She lay for awhile watching the orange light of evening gleaming through the creeper that entwined the comer of the _stoep_ outside her window. Then, growing weary of inaction, she slipped from her bed and began to dress.
Her cabin-trunk had been placed in a corner of the bare room. She found her key and opened it.
Guy's photograph--the photograph she had cherished for five years--lay on the top. She saw it with a sudden, sharp pang, remembering how she had put it in at the last moment and smiled to think how soon she would behold him in the flesh. The handsome, boyish face looked straight into hers. Ah, how she had loved him. A swift tremor went through her. She closed her eyes upon the smiling face. And suddenly great tears welled up from her heart. She laid her face down upon the portrait and wept.
The voices on the _stoep_ recalled her. She remembered that she had a reputation for courage to maintain. She commanded herself with an effort and finished her dressing. She did not dare to look at the portrait again, but hid it deep in her trunk.
Mary Ann seemed to have forsaken her, and she was in some uncertainty as to how to proceed when she was at length ready to leave her room. She did not want to intrude upon Burke and his visitor, but a great longing to breathe the air of the _veldt_ was upon her. She wondered if she could possibly escape unseen.
Finally, she ventured out into the passage, and followed it to an open door that seemed to lead whither she desired to go. She fancied that it was out of sight of the two men on the _stoep_, but as she reached it, she realized her mistake. For there fell a sudden step close to her, and as she paused irresolute, Burke's figure blocked the opening. He stood looking at her, pipe in hand.
"So--you are up!" he said.
His voice was quite friendly, yet she was possessed by a strong feeling that he did not want her there.
She looked back at him in some embarrassment. "I hope you don't mind," she said. "I was only coming out for a breath of air."
"Why should I mind?" said Burke. "Come and sit on the _stoep_! My neighbour, Piet Vreiboom, is there, but he is just going."
He spoke the last words with great distinctness, and it occurred to her that he meant them to be overheard.
She hung back. "Oh, I don't think I will. I can't talk Dutch. Really I would rather----"
"He understands a little English," said Burke. "But don't be surprised at anything he says! He isn't very perfect."
He stood against the wall for her to pass him, and she did so with a feeling that she had no choice. Very reluctantly she moved out on to the wooden _stoep_, and turned towards the visitor. The orange of the sunset was behind her, turning her hair to living gold. It fell full upon the face of the man before her, and she was conscious of a powerful sense of repugnance. Low-browed, wide-nosed, and prominent of jaw, with close-set eyes of monkeyish craft, such was the countenance of Piet Vreiboom. He sat and stared at her, his hat on his head, his pipe in his mouth.
"How do you do, Mrs. Ranger?" he said.
Sylvia checked her advance, but in a moment Burke Ranger's hand closed, upon her elbow, quietly impelling her forward.
"Mr. Vreiboom saw you with me at Ritzen yesterday," he said, and she suddenly remembered the knot of Boer farmers at the hotel-door and the staring eyes that had abashed her.
She glanced up at Burke, but his face was quite emotionless. Only something about him--an indefinable something--held her back from correcting the mistake that Vreiboom had made. She looked at the seated Boer with a dignity wholly unconscious. "How do you do?" she said coolly.
He stretched out a hand to her. His smile was familiar. "I hope you like the farm, Mrs. Ranger," he said.
"She has hardly seen it yet," said Burke.
There was a slight pause before Sylvia gave her hand. This man filled her with distaste. She resented his manner. She resented the look in his eyes.
"I have no doubt I shall like it very much," she said, removing her hand as speedily as possible.
"You like to be--a farmer's wife?" questioned Piet, still freely staring.
She resented this question also, but she had to respond to it. "It is what I came out for," she said.
"You do not look like a farmer's wife," said Piet.
Sylvia stiffened.
"Give him a little rope!" said Burke. "He doesn't know much. Sit down! I'll get him on the move directly."
She sat down not very willingly, and he resumed his talk with Vreiboom in Dutch, lounging against the wall. Sylvia sat quite silent, her eyes upon the glowing sky and the far-away hills. In the foreground was a _kopje_ shaped like a sugar-loaf. She wished herself upon its summit which was bathed in the sunset light.
Once or twice she was moved to glance up at the brown face of the man who leaned between herself and the objectionable visitor. His attitude was one of complete ease, and yet something told her that he desired Piet's departure quite as sincerely as she did.
He must have given a fairly broad hint at last, she decided; for Piet moved somewhat abruptly and knocked out the ashes of his pipe on the floor with a noisy energy that made her start. Then he got up and addressed her in his own language. She did not understand in the least what he said, but she gave him a distant smile realizing that he was taking leave of her. She was somewhat surprised to see Burke take him unceremoniously by the shoulder as he stood before her and march him off the stoep. Piet himself laughed as if he had said something witty, and there was that in the laugh that sent the colour naming to her cheeks.
She quivered with impotent indignation as she sat. She wished with all her heart that Burke would kick him down the steps.
The sunset-light faded, and a soft dusk stole up over the wide spaces. A light breeze cooled her hot face, and after the lapse of a few minutes she began to chide herself for her foolishness. Probably the man had not meant to be offensive. She was certain Burke would never permit her to be insulted in his presence. She heard the sound of hoof-beats retreating away into the distance, and, with it, the memory of her dream came back upon her. She felt forlorn and rather frightened. It was only a dream of course; it was only a dream! But she wished that Burke would come back to her. His substantial presence would banish phantoms.
He did not come for some time, but she heard his step at last. And then a strange agitation took her so that she wanted to spring up and avoid him. She did not do so; she forced herself to appear normal. But every nerve tingled as he approached, and she could not keep the quick blood from her face.
He was carrying a tray which he set down on a rough wooden table near her.
"You must be famished," he said.
She had not thought of food, but certainly the sight of it cheered her failing spirits. She smiled at him.
"Are we going to have another picnic?"
He smiled in answer, and she felt oddly relieved, All sense of strain and embarrassment left her. She sat up and helped him spread the feast.
The fare was very simple, but she found it amply satisfying. She partook of Mary Ann's butter with appreciation.
"I can make butter," she told him presently. "And bake bread?" said Burke.
She nodded, laughing. "Yes, and cook joints and mend clothes, too. Who does your mending? Mary Ann?"
"I do my own," said Burke. "I cook, too, when Mary Ann takes leave of absence. But I have a Kaffir house boy, Joe, for the odd jobs. And there's a girl, too, uglier than Mary Ann, a relation of hers--called Rose, short for Fair Rosamond. Haven't you seen Rose yet?"
Sylvia's laugh brought a smile to his face. It was a very infectious laugh. Though she sobered almost instantly, it left a ripple of mirth behind on the surface of their conversation. He carried the tray away again when the meal was over, firmly refusing her offer to wash up.
"Mary Ann can do it in the morning," he said.
"Where is she now?" asked Sylvia.
He sat down beside her, and took out his pipe. "They are over in their own huts. They don't sleep in the house."
"Does no one sleep in the house?" she asked quickly.
"I do," said Burke.
A sudden silence fell. The dusk had deepened into a starlit darkness, but there was a white glow behind the hills that seemed to wax with every instant that passed. Very soon the whole _veldt_ would be flooded with moonlight.
In a very small voice Sylvia spoke at length.
"Mr. Ranger!"
It was the first time she had addressed him by name. He turned directly towards her. "Call me Burke!" he said.
It was almost a command. She faced him as directly as he faced her. "Burke--if you wish it!" she said. "I want to talk things over with you, to thank you for your very great goodness to me, and--and to make plans for the future."
"One moment!" he said. "You have given up all thought of marrying Guy?"
She hesitated. "I suppose so," she said slowly.
"Don't you know your own mind?" he said.
Still she hesitated. "If--if he should come back----"
"He will come back," said Burke.
She started. "He will?"
"Yes, he will." His voice held grim confidence, and somehow it sounded merciless also to her ears. "He'll turn up again some day. He always does. I'm about the only man in South Africa who wouldn't kick him out within six months. He knows that. That's why he'll come back."
"You are--good to him," said Sylvia, her voice very low.
"No, I'm not; not specially. He knows what I think of him anyhow." Burke spoke slowly. "I've done what I could for him, but he's one of my failures. You've got to grasp the fact that he's a rotter. Have you grasped that yet?"
"I'm beginning to," Sylvia said, under her breath.
"Then you can't--possibly--many him," said Burke.
She lowered her eyes before the keenness of his look. She wished the light in the east were not growing so rapidly.
"The question is, What am I going to do?" she said.
Burke was silent for a moment. Then with a slight gesture that might have denoted embarrassment he said, "You don't want to stay here, I suppose?"
She looked up again quickly. "Here--on this farm, do you mean?"
"Yes." He spoke brusquely, but there was a certain eagerness in his attitude as he leaned towards her.
A throb of gratitude went through her. She put out her hand to him very winningly. "What a pity I'm not a boy!" she said, genuine regret in her voice.
He took her hand and kept it. "Is that going to make any difference?" he said.
She looked at him questioningly. It was difficult to read his face in the gloom. "All the difference, I am afraid," she said. "You are very generous--a real good comrade. If I were a boy, there's nothing I'd love better. But, being a woman, I can't live here alone with you, can I? Not even in South Africa!"
"Why not?" he said.
His hand grasped hers firmly; she grasped his in return. "You heard what your Boer friend called me," she said. "He wouldn't understand anything else."
"I told him to call you that," said Burke.
"You--told him!" She gave a great start. His words amazed her.
"Yes." There was a dogged quality in his answer. "I had to protect you somehow. He had seen us together at Ritzen. I said you were my wife."
Sylvia gasped in speechless astonishment.
He went on ruthlessly. "It was the only thing to do. They're not a particularly moral crowd here, and, as you say, they wouldn't understand anything else--decent. Do you object to the idea? Do you object very strongly?"
There was something masterful in the persistence with which he pressed the question. Sylvia had a feeling as of being held down and compelled to drink some strangely paralyzing draught.
She made a slight, half-scared movement and in a moment his hand released hers.
"You do object!" he said.
She clasped her hands tightly together. "Please don't say--or think--that! It is such a sudden idea, and--it's rather a wild one, isn't it?" Her breath came quickly. "If--if I agreed--and let the pretence go on--people would be sure to find out sooner or later. Wouldn't they?"
"I am not suggesting any pretence," he said.
"What do you mean then?" Sylvia said, compelling herself to speak steadily.
"I am asking you to marry me," he said, with equal steadiness.
"Really, do you mean? You are actually in earnest?" Her voice had a sharp quiver in it. She was trembling suddenly. "Please be quite plain with me!" she said. "Remember, I don't know you very well. I have got to get used to the ways out here."
"I am quite in earnest," said Burke. "You know me better than you knew the man you came out here to marry. And you will get used to things more quickly married to me than any other way. At least you will have an assured position. That ought to count with you."
"Of course it would! It does!" she said rather incoherently. "But--you see--I've no one to help me--no one to advise me. I'm on a road I don't know. And I'm so afraid of taking a wrong turning."
"Afraid!" he said. "You!"
She tried to laugh. "You think me a very bold person, don't you? Or you wouldn't have suggested such a thing."
"I think you've got plenty of grit," he said, "but that wasn't what made me suggest it." He paused a moment. "Perhaps it's hardly worth while going on," he said then. "I seem to have gone too far already. Please believe I meant well, that's all!"
"Oh, I know that!" she said.
And then, moved by a curious impulse, she did an extraordinary thing. She leaned forward and laid her clasped hands on his knee.
"I'm going to be--awfully frank with you," she said rather tremulously. You--won't mind?''
He sat motionless for a second. Then very quietly he dropped his pipe back into his pocket and grasped her slender wrists. "Go on!" he said.
Her face was lifted, very earnest and appealing, to his. "You know," she said, "we are not strangers. We haven't been from the very beginning. We started comrades, didn't we?"
"We should have been married by this time, if I hadn't put the brake on," said Burke.
"Yes," Sylvia said. "I know. That is what makes me feel so--intimate with you. But it is different for you. I am a total stranger to you. You have never met me--or anyone like me--before. Have you?"
"And I have never asked anyone to marry me before," said Burke.
The wrists he held grew suddenly rigid. "You have asked me out of--out of pity--and the goodness of your heart?" she whispered.
"Quite wrong," said Burke. "I want a capable woman to take care of me--when Mary Ann goes on the bust."
"Please don't make me laugh!" begged Sylvia rather shakily. "I haven't done yet. I'm going to ask you an awful thing next. You'll tell me the truth, won't you?"
"I'll tell you before you ask," he said. "I can be several kinds of beast, but not the kind you are afraid of. I am not a faddist, but I am moral. I like it best."
The curt, distinct words were too absolute to admit of any doubt. Sylvia breathed a short, hard sigh.
"I wonder," she said, "if it would be very wrong to marry a person you only like."
"Marriage is a risk--in any case," said Burke. "But if you're not blindly in love, you can at least see where you are going."
"I can't," she said rather piteously.
"You're afraid of me," he said.
"No, not really--not really. It's almost as big a risk for you as for me. You haven't bothered about--my morals, have you?" Her faint laugh had in it a sound of tears.
The hands that held her wrists closed with a steady pressure. "I haven't," said Burke with simplicity.
"Thank you," she said. "You've been very kind to me. Really I am not afraid of you."
"Sure?" said Burke.
"Only I still wish I were a boy," she said. "You and I could be just pals then."
"And why not now?" he said.
"Is it possible?" she asked.
"I should say so. Why not?"
She freed her hands suddenly and laid them upon his arms. "If I marry you, will you treat me just as a pal?"
"I will," said Burke.
She was still trembling a little. "You won't interfere with my--liberty?"
"Not unless you abuse it," he said.
She laughed again faintly. "I won't do that. I'll be a model of discretion. You may not think it, but I am--very discreet."
"I am sure of it," said Burke.
"No, you're not. You're not in the least sure of anything where I am concerned. You've only known me--two days."
He laughed a little. "It doesn't matter how long it has taken. I know you."
She laughed with him, and sat up, "What must you have thought of me when I told you you hadn't shaved?"
He took out his pipe again. "If you'd been a boy, I should probably have boxed your ears," he said. "By the way, why did you get up when I told you to stay in bed?"
"Because I knew best what was good for me," said Sylvia. "Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?"
He got up. "Yes, in my room. Wait while I fetch them!"
"Oh, don't go on purpose!" she said. "I daresay I shouldn't like your kind, thanks all the same."
He went nevertheless, and she leaned back with her face to the hills and waited. The moon was just topping the great summits. She watched it with a curious feeling of weakness. It had not been a particularly agitating interview, but she knew that she had just passed a cross-roads, in her life.
She had taken a road utterly unknown to her and though she had taken it of her own accord, she did not feel that the choice had really been hers. Somehow her faculties were numbed, were paralyzed. She could not feel the immense importance of what she had done, or realize that she had finally, of her own action, severed her life from Guy's. He had become such a part of herself that she could not all at once divest herself of that waiting feeling, that confident looking forward to a future with him. And yet, strangely, her memory of him had receded into distance, become dim and remote. In Burke's presence she could not recall him at all. The two personalities, dissimilar though she knew them to be, seemed in some curious fashion to have become merged into one. She could not understand her own feelings, but she was conscious of relief that the die was cast. Whatever lay before her, she was sure of one thing. Burke Ranger would be her safeguard against any evil that might arise and menace her. His protection was of the solid quality that would never fail her. She felt firm ground beneath her feet at last.
At the sound of his returning step, she turned with the moonlight on her face and smiled up at him with complete confidence. _