THE SKELETON TREE
"Ah, Mrs. Burke, and is it yourself that I see again? Sure, and
it's a very great pleasure!" Kelly, his face crimson with
embarrassment and good-will, took the hand Sylvia offered and held
it hard. "A very great pleasure!" he reiterated impressively,
before he let it go.
She smiled at him as one smiles at a shy child. "Thank you, Mr.
Kelly," she said.
"Ah, but you'll call me Donovan," he said persuasively, "the same
as everyone else! So you've come to Brennerstadt after all! And
is it the diamond ye're after?"
She shook her head. They were standing on a balcony that led out
of the public smoking-room, an awning over their heads and the open
street at their feet. It was from the street that he had spied
her, and the sight of her piteous, white face with its deeply
shadowed eyes had gone straight to his impulsive Irish heart.
"No," she said. "We are not bothering about the diamond. I think
we shall probably start back to Ritzen to-night."
"Ah now, ye might stay one day longer and try your luck," wheedled
the Irishman. "The Fates would be sure to favour ye. Where's
himself?"
"I don't know." She spoke very wearily. "He left me here to rest.
But it's so dusty--and airless--and noisy."
Kelly gave her a swift, keen look. "Come for a ride!" he said.
"A ride!" She raised her heavy eyes with a momentary eagerness, but
it was gone instantly. "He--might not like me to go," she said.
"Besides, I haven't a horse."
"That's soon remedied," said Kelly. "I've got a lamb of a horse to
carry ye. And he wouldn't care what ye did in my company. He
knows me. Leave him a note and come along! He'll understand.
It's a good gallop that ye're wanting. Come along and get it!"
Kelly could be quite irresistible when he chose, and he had
evidently made up his mind to comfort the girl's forlornness so far
as in him lay. She yielded to him with the air of being too
indifferent to do otherwise. But Kelly had seen that moment's
eagerness, and he built on that.
A quarter of an hour later they met again in the sweltering street,
and he complimented her in true Irish fashion upon the rose-flush
in her cheeks. He saw that she looked about uneasily as she
mounted, but with unusual tact he omitted to comment upon the fact.
The sun was slanting towards the west as they rode away. The
streets were crowded, but Kelly knew all the short cuts, and guided
her unerringly till they reached the edge of the open _veldt_.
Then, "Come along!" he cried. "Let's gallop!"
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 spaces
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 God 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."
"Ah no! That wasn't his doing," said Kelly, paused a moment, then
plunged valiantly at the truth. "That was mine. I thought so
meself--foul swine as ye may very well call me. Kieff told me
so--the liar; and I--like a blasted fool--believed it. At least,
no, I didn't right at the heart of me, Mrs. Ranger. I knew what ye
were, just the same as I know now. But I'd seen ye look into his
eyes when ye begged him off the brandy-bottle, and I knew the
friendship between ye wasn't just the ordinary style of thing; no
more is it. But it was that devil Kieff that threw the mud. I
found him waiting that night when I got back. He was waiting for
Burke, he said; and his story was that he and Vreiboom had seen the
pair of ye eloping. I nearly murdered him at the time. Faith, I
wish I had!" ended Kelly pathetically, with tears in his eyes. "It
would have stopped a deal of mischief both now and hereafter."
"Never mind!" said Sylvia gently. "You couldn't tell. You hadn't
known me more than a few hours."
"It was long enough!" vowed Kelly. "Anyway, Burke ought to have
known better. He's known you longer than that."
"He has never known me," she said quietly. "Of course he believed
the story."
"He doesn't believe it now," said Kelly quickly.
A little quiver went over her face. "Perhaps not. I don't know
what he believes, or what he will believe when he finds the money
gone. That is what I want to prevent--if only I can prevent it.
It is Guy's only chance. What he did was done wickedly enough, but
it was at a time of great excitement, when he was not altogether
master of himself. But unless it can be undone, he will go right
down--and never come up again. Oh, don't you see--" a sudden throb
sounded in her tired voice--"that if once Burke knows of this,
Guy's fate is sealed? There is no one else to help him.
Besides,--it wasn't all his own doing. It was Kieff's. And away
from Kieff, he is so different."
"Ah! But how to get him away from Kieff!" said Kelly. "The
fellow's such a damn' blackguard. Once he takes hold, he never
lets go till he's got his victim sucked dry."
Sylvia shuddered. "Can't you do anything?" she said.
Kelly looked at her with his honest kindly eyes, "If it were me,
Mrs. Ranger," he said, "I should tell me husband the whole
truth--and--let him deal with it."
She shook her head instantly. "It would be the end of everything
for Guy. Even if Burke let him off, he could never come back to
us. It would be as bad as sending him to prison--or even worse."
"Not it!" said Kelly. "You don't trust Burke. It's a pity. He's
such a fine chap. But look here, I'll do me best, I'll get hold of
young Guy and make him disgorge. How much did the young ruffian
take?"
"I don't know. That's the hopeless part of it. That is why I must
see him myself."
Kelly pursed his lips for a moment, but the next he smiled upon
her, "All right. I'll manage somehow. But you mustn't go
to-night. You tell Burke you're too tired. He'll understand."
"Do you know where Guy is?" she said.
"Oh yes, I can put me hand on the young divil if I want him. You
leave that to me! I'll do me best all round. Now--suppose we have
another trot, and then go back!"
Sylvia turned her horse's head. "I'm--deeply grateful to you, Mr.
Kelly," she said.
"Donovan!" insinuated Kelly.
She smiled a little. She seemed almost more piteous to him when
she smiled. "Donovan," she said.
"Ah, that's better!" he declared. "That does me good. To be a
friend of both of ye is what I want. Burke and you together!
Ye're such a fine pair, and just made for each other, faith, made
for each other. When I saw you, Mrs. Burke, I didn't wonder that
he'd fallen in love at last. I give ye me word, I didn't. And
I'll never forget the look on his face when he thought he'd lost
ye; never as long as I live. It--it was as if he'd been stabbed to
the heart."
Tactless, clumsy, sentimental, he sought to pour balm upon the
wounded spirit of this girl with her tragic eyes that should have
held only the glad sunshine of youth. It hurt him to see her thus,
hurt him unspeakably, and he knew himself powerless to comfort.
Yet with that odd womanly tenderness of his, he did his best.
He wondered what she was thinking of as she sat her horse, gazing
out over the wide spaces, so wearily and yet so intently. She did
not seem to have heard his last remarks, or was that merely the
impression she desired to convey? A vague uneasiness took
possession of him. He did not like her to look like that.
"Shall we move on?" he said gently.
She pointed suddenly across the _veldt_. "I want to ride as far as
that skeleton tree," she said. "Don't come with me! I shall catch
you up if you ride slowly."
"Right!" said Kelly, and watched her lift her bridle and ride away.
He would have done anything to oblige her just then; but his
curiosity was whetted to a keen edge. For she rode swiftly, as one
who had a definite aim in view. Straight as an arrow across the
_veldt_ she went to the skeleton tree with its stripped trunk and
stark, outflung arms that seemed the very incarnation of the
barrenness around.
Here she checked her animal, and sat for a moment with closed eyes,
the evening sunlight pouring over her. Very strangely she was
trembling from head to foot, as if in the presence of a vision upon
which she dared not look. She had returned as she had always meant
to return--but ah, the dreary desert spaces and the cruel roughness
of the road! Her husband's words uttered only a few hours before
came back upon her as she stood there. "We may never reach the top
of the world now," No, they would never reach it. Had anyone ever
done so, she wondered drearily? But yet they had been near it
once--nearer than many. Did that count for nothing?
It seemed to her that aeons had passed over her since last she had
stood beneath that tree. She had been a girl then, ardent and full
of courage. Now she was a woman, old and very tired, and there was
nothing left in life. It was almost as if she had ceased to live.
But yet she had come back to the starting-point, and here, as if
standing beside a grave and reading the inscription to one long
dead, she opened her eyes in the last glow of the sunshine to read
the words which Burke had cut into the bare wood on the evening of
his wedding-day. She remembered how she had waited for him, the
tumult of doubt, of misgiving, in her soul, how she had wished he
would not linger in that desolate place. Now, out of the midst of
a desolation to which this sandy waste was as nothing, she searched
with almost a feeling of awe as one about to read a message from
the dead.
The bare, bleached trunk of the tree shone strangely in the sinking
sun, faintly tinted with rose. The world all around her was
changing; slowly, imperceptibly, changing. A tender lilac glow was
creeping over the _veldt_. A curious sensation came upon Sylvia,
as if she were moving in a dream, as if she were stepping into a
new world and the old had fallen from her. The bitterness had
lifted from her spirit. Her heart beat faster. She was a
treasure-seeker on the verge of a great discovery. Trembling, she
lifted her eyes. . . .
There on the smooth wood, like a scroll upon a marble pillar, were
words, rough-hewn but unmistakable--_Fide et Amore_. . . .
It was as if a voice had spoken in her soul, a dear, insistent
voice, bidding her begone. She obeyed, scarcely knowing what she
did. Back across the dusty _veldt_ she rode, moving as one in a
trance. She joined the Irishman waiting for her, but she looked at
him with eyes that saw not.
"Well?" he said, frankly curious. "Did you find anything?"
She started a little, and came out of her dream. "I found what I
was looking for," she said.
"What was it?" Kelly was keenly interested; there was no checking
him now, he was like a hound on the scent.
She did not resent his questions. That was Kelly's privilege. But
neither did she answer him as fully as he could have wished. "I
found out," she said slowly, after a moment, "how to get to the top
of the world."
"Ah, really now!" said Kelly, opening his eyes to their widest
extent. "And are ye going to pack your bag and go?"
She smiled very faintly, looking, straight before her. "No. It's
too late now," she said. "I've missed the way. So has Burke."
"But ye'll try again--ye'll try again!" urged Kelly, eager as a
child for the happy ending of a fairy-tale.
She shook her head. Her lips were quivering, but still she made
them smile. "Not that way. I am afraid it's barred," she said,
and with the words she touched her horse with her heel and rode
quickly forward towards the town.
Donovan followed her with a rueful countenance. There were times
when even he felt discouraged with the world.