For a while Brenda did not grasp the full significance of her father's admission. She stared at him blankly. Then the recollection of that morsel of crape in the dead man's hand, and all that it meant, came upon her with overwhelming force. She could not cry, but a choking sensation came at her throat. Her father was the man who had worn the crape scarf--then her father was the man who had murdered Gilbert Malet!
What is it, Brenda? Why do you look at me like that? he asked nervously.
He stood beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp on the table, and she could not see his face, but by the tremor of his voice she guessed that he was badly frightened. She pulled herself together--what the effort cost her no one but herself knew--and came at once to the gist of the thing.
Father, did you shoot Mr. Malet?
I? No. Are you mad, girl, to say such a thing? How dare you--to me, your father? Indignation apparently choked further speech on the part of Mr. Scarse.
God help me! yes, you are my father, wailed Brenda. She threw herself face downwards on the sofa and sobbed bitterly. There was that in her father's nervous denial which impelled her to believe that her suspicions were correct. If he had not himself killed Malet, at least he knew who had. But at the present moment Brenda firmly believed that his own hand had fired the fatal shot.
Brenda, listen to me; you speak foolishly; we must understand one another. What grounds have you for making such a terrible accusation against me?
The old man's voice was now steady, and he spoke harshly. He poked the fire and expanded his thin, dry hands to the blaze. It was a haggard face which the spurting flames illumined; but the mouth was firmly set, and there was a hard, dogged expression in the eyes. As Brenda made no reply, and still continued to sob, he cast an impatient glance at her prostrate figure and went over to the sideboard. Thence he returned with a glass of wine.
Drink this, Brenda, and don't be a fool. I did not murder the man.
The girl sat up and slowly drank the wine. Her father crossed over to the door and locked it, upon which the girl laughed contemptuously.
Do you think I have the police in waiting? she said.
That is not the way to speak to your father, snarled he, sitting down.
But the wine had put new life into Brenda, and she was regaining courage with her returning color. Not by this man--the father who had been no father to her--was she to be daunted. With a quick movement she removed the lampshade, and the sudden spread of the light showed her Mr. Scarse biting his nails with anything but a reassuring expression on his face. At that moment Brenda felt she hated the author of her being.
You are my father in name, nothing more, she said coldly. "In no way have you ever attempted to gain my affection. You kept me at school as long as you could, and only when it was forced upon you did you take charge of my life. I have no love for you, nor have you for me; but I always respected you until now."
Scarse winced, and his parchment-like skin grew pink. "And why don't you respect me now?"
Because I am certain that, even if you did not kill him, you had something to do with the death of Mr. Malet!
That is untrue, replied he, composedly.
Brenda looked at him keenly. "The murderer wore a crape scarf. Of that I have direct evidence. I also know that you burnt that scarf."
How do you know that? he snapped.
I found the ashes under the grate, and I picked up a scrap of the crape. Nevertheless, in spite of your admission, I am not certain now in my own mind that it was you who wore it. Father, you were not the man whom Harold met.
I am--I was, insisted Scarse, doggedly. "I put on that old coat because I couldn't find the one I usually wear. As to the scarf, I wore it in token of my sorrow for the way in which this country is being ruined by its statesmen."
But Brenda declined to accept this explanation.
You are not mad, father, she said quietly; "and only a madman would wear yards of crape round his neck in mourning for the delinquencies of his country's leaders; and only a madman would have killed Mr. Malet!" She paused, and, as he made no reply, continued: "The man Harold mistook for you was seen by other people, who also made the same mistake. What he came to Chippingholt for I know as well as you do. He came with the full intention of killing Mr. Malet."
Go on, go on, jeered her father; "you are making out a fine case against me."
Not against you, but against this relative of yours. Ah! you wince. I am right. He is a relative. No person who wasn't could bear so strong a resemblance to another. He is some relation of whom you are ashamed--a twin brother, for all I know. He was in your study that day when you said it was Van Zwieten who was with you.
He was not! retorted Scarse, angrily. "How dare you make me out a liar? Van Zwieten was with me. I locked the door of the study because we had quarrelled. He insisted on leaving the room, and, as I refused to open the door, he stepped out of the window, and went round and rang the front-door bell for admittance."
That is an ingenious, but a far-fetched explanation, father.
It is the true one. You can take or leave it.
I leave it, then, said Brenda, calmly. "You had the stranger in your study, and you afterwards sent him off by the 10:30 train. He was seen at the station!"
Scarse started. "By whom?" he asked hurriedly.
By Van Zwieten and the station-master!
Van Zwieten? repeated Scarse, irritably. "He saw--who told you all this rubbish?"
Wilfred. The station-master told him. Besides, it is not rubbish. Oh, father, why won't you be frank with me? We have not much feeling for one another, but still I am your daughter, and I want to help you; so does Harold----
What has he to do with it? asked Scarse, sharply.
It was Harold who searched the corpse before it was taken to the Manor, replied Brenda, speaking slowly. "In the clenched right hand a morsel of black crape was found. Father, it was torn off that scarf!"
You cannot be certain of that.
How otherwise could so strange a material as crape come to be in the dead man's hand? He cried out before he was shot; I heard him. He must have clutched at his assailant and torn a piece from his scarf.
Did you see me shoot Mr. Malet?
I saw no one shoot him; but I am certain it was that man.
Scarse rose and paced up and down the room. "I was the man, I tell you, who wore the scarf," he said for the third time, "and I never even saw Malet on that night. I have no brother, no relatives of any kind, save your aunt, Mrs. St. Leger."
You won't trust me? said Brenda, sadly.
There is nothing more to say, replied her father, his features set hard as a flint. "It is useless my giving you the facts if you won't believe them. I have no idea who the man was who was seen at the station. Van Zwieten said nothing to me about it. I am the man Harold took for a stranger, and I cut Captain Burton because I dislike him very much. I did not see Mr. Malet--certainly I did not kill him--and--and I have no more to say."
How do you account for that piece of crape in the hand of----
Brenda! interrupted he, turning on her, "I could give you an explanation of that which would amaze you; but I will rest content with saying that the scrap you refer to was not torn off the scarf I wore. I burnt the scarf after I had had it on once, because I thought--well, because I thought it was foolish of me."
Father, I am certain you are not speaking openly.
No, I am not. If I did, you would at once see that you were wrong in suspecting me of this crime. I am not guilty of it.
No, I don't think you are, said Brenda; "but you are shielding some one."
Perhaps I am, replied he, smiling sourly; "but not the stranger you have invented--he does not exist." He paused, and then asked abruptly, "Has Burton mentioned this matter to any one?"
Only to me. For your sake he keeps silent.
Oh! Scarse smiled sourly again. "I suppose he thinks he'll force me into consenting to your engagement that way. But he won't. You shall marry Van Zwieten."
Brenda rose and drew her cloak around her. "I have told you I will marry no one but Harold," she said coldly. "There is no need to discuss the matter further. My cab is waiting, so I'll drive on to Aunt Judy's."
With your mind somewhat more at rest, I trust, said he, as she unfastened the door.
Yes, so far as you personally are concerned. But you know who murdered that man, and you are shielding him.
I deny that! Then, as she went out of the door, he ran after her, and said in a loud whisper, "Think if there is no one else who wears crape at Chippingholt?"
Before she could make reply to this he closed the door. She did not pay much attention to it, because she had made up her mind about the stranger, whom she felt convinced her father was shielding. She went down the stairs and got into her cab. In a few moments she was again in Piccadilly on her way west. There at Aunt Judy's she felt sure at least of a warm welcome.
A stout, good-natured woman was Mrs. St. Leger. She conceived it to be her one duty in life to keep her husband in a good temper. And experience had proved to her that the only means of performing this was by a strict attention to his diet--no easy task, seeing that he was a peppery old Indian colonel with a liver and a temper. He had long since retired from the army after a career of frontier skirmishing in Northern India, and now passed his time between his home in Kensington and his military club. In both places he was greatly feared for his hectoring manner and flow of language, which was well-nigh irresistible. Mrs. St. Leger was always thankful when the meals passed off without direct conflict, and she spent most of her day reading cookery books for the unearthing of delicacies, and having unearthed them, in consulting the cook how to prepare them for the fastidious palate of her lord and master.
The old couple were fond of Brenda--Aunt Judy because the girl was a comfort to her in some vague sort of way which she could not define, and Uncle Bill because Brenda was not in the least in awe of his temper, and gave him every bit as good as she received.
To each other Colonel and Mrs. St. Leger were always Julia and William; but Brenda from her earliest childhood had known them as Aunt Judy and Uncle Bill, and to those fond appellations she still clung. Had any one else dared to address the colonel so, he would assuredly have taken an apoplectic fit on the spot, being so predisposed and of "full habit"; but Brenda he graciously permitted to be thus familiar. To sum up the worthy colonel's character, it may be stated that he hated Mr. Scarse as bitterly as he hated cold meat; and to any one who knew him the comparison would have been all sufficient.
Dear, dear child, cooed Mrs. St. Leger as Brenda sipped her cup of tea in the drawing-room, "how good it is to see you again. William----"
Very glad, very glad, rasped the colonel, who was glowering on the hearthrug. "I want to hear all about this iniquitous murder. Poor Malet! Clever chap, but always contradicting--good fellow all the same. Wrote and talked well against these damned Little Englanders. Gad! I'd forgive Judas Iscariot if he did that!"
Have they caught the murderer, dear? asked Aunt Judy, with a beaming smile on her fat face.
No, replied Brenda. "Nor do I believe they ever will catch him."
Him! roared Uncle Bill, chuckling. "Egad! and how d'you know it's a 'him'? Might be a 'her.' Eh, what? I suppose in these days a woman can fire a revolver as well as a man, eh?"
A woman!--why a woman?
Eh, why? I don't know. Why should the poor devil have been killed at all?
Yes, why should he have been killed at all, that's what William and I want to know, bleated Aunt Judy. "How does Lady Jenny take it, Brenda, dear?"
Oh, very quietly. She is much less grieved than I had expected her to be.
H'm! rasped the colonel, in a parade voice. "I dare say she is pleased for that matter. Most of 'em are when they bury their husbands. I can fancy Julia smiling when I toddle."
Oh, William, how can you? By the way, has Lady Jenny been left well off, Brenda?
No, I am afraid not. She says Mr. Malet was terribly extravagant.
He was a gambler, shouted the colonel, "well known round the clubs. When he wasn't dropping it at Monte Carlo, he was running amuck on 'Change. Always had bad luck that chap," added he, rubbing his nose; "lost thousands. The wonder is he didn't go under long ago. Shouldn't be surprised to hear Lady Jenny had been left without a sixpence."
Oh, no, uncle; she has ten thousand pounds at least; her husband's life was insured for that, and she says his creditors can't touch that.
Perhaps not, but hers can. I knew old Lord Scilly--no end of a spendthrift, and his daughter's like him, or I'm mistaken. Women are all spendthrifts----
Well, I'm sure, William----
Oh! you're all right, Julia. There are worse than you. Nice little woman Lady Jenny, though, all the same--good sporting sort, shoots jolly straight, and all that.
A thing I highly disapprove of, said Mrs. St. Leger, shaking her head mildly. "I'm glad, dear child," turning to Brenda, "that you don't do that sort of thing. It is so unladylike, I think."
Perhaps it's a pity I don't, aunt. If I go to the front with Harold I might be all the better for knowing how to pull the trigger of a gun or a revolver.
Harold!--what, young Burton! growled the colonel. "Are you going to marry him? Is it settled? It is! Well, he's not a bad young fellow; but as a soldier! pooh! there are no soldiers nowadays. The army's going to the dogs."
But, Brenda, dear child, what would you be doing at the front? asked the old lady. "There is no war."
Not yet; but every one says there is going to be war in South Africa.
Of course there will be, snapped the colonel. "Do you think we're goin' to be defied by a couple of punny little Republics? Damnable insolence, I call it. They ought to be whipped, and they will be. Your father supports the beggars, Brenda, and he's a----"
William! Her father--my brother!
Beg pardon, Julia; but he is, and you know he is. Going against his own country. Ha! here are the evening papers. We'll see what further rubbish these pro-Boer idiots have been talking. Julia, please see that dinner is punctual. And, Brenda, don't you be late. I hate waiting for my meals!
Thus saying, the colonel plunged out of the room, and Mrs. St. Leger took Brenda upstairs. The old lady was delighted at the news of her engagement to Harold, and congratulated and embraced the girl with much effusion, and insisted upon her asking Captain Burton to dine; all of which Brenda received with the best of good grace, notwithstanding that she was in no mood for conversation and longed to be alone. At last Mrs. St. Leger left her.
Then she fell to thinking of the subject which was all the time uppermost in her mind. That last remark of her father's forced itself upon her. Who else was there in Chippingholt who wore crape? Then suddenly it flashed across her mind that Lady Jenny did. Of course, she was in mourning for her father. Then came the colonel's words--She was a good shot!
Trembling all over, she sat down and wrestled with these two facts. They were all significant.
Could it--could it really be Lady Jenny? she asked herself.
But to that question she could find no answer.
So Brenda was in London again, and found the great city in an uproar over the possibility of a war in South Africa. Negotiations were constantly passing between England and the Transvaal concerning the franchise for the Uitlanders. History was being manufactured at the rate of a sensation a week; Leyds was weaving his plots and spreading his nets in Europe; while at Pretoria Paul Kruger numbered his burghers, dispensed arms, and intrigued with the President of the Free State. Few believed that a war was inevitable, that a small state of farmers would defy a mighty empire. But there were others who knew from rumors and hints that real strength lay behind the apparent weakness of those two diminutive Republics. Meanwhile zealots like Scarse preached ever the fable of the wolf and the lamb. Chamberlain was the wolf and good Oom Paul the lamb--somewhat overgrown perhaps, but still a lamb.
A pro-Boer meeting was announced to be held in Trafalgar Square, and Scarse was to speak in favor of the honest, God-fearing agriculturists, who, his imagination led him to believe, inhabited Pretoria. He and his following were dead against the war, and asserted that so many were the people of their opinion that only the big square could hold them. So they rejoiced at the prospect of their convention, which was going to force England into repeating the cowardly policy of the Liberals after Majuba--a policy miscalled magnanimous, and out of which all these present troubles had arisen. In Amsterdam, astute Dr. Leyds rejoiced also on the assumption that a house divided against itself could not stand. His President had provided him with that text, and the mere fact of this mass meeting seemed to prove the force of it.
Meanwhile he scattered money broadcast--Uitlander money--that the honorable Continental Press might yelp and clamor like jackals at the heels of the lion their respective countries dare not attack. It is only just to say that none of Leyds' guineas found their way into Scarse's pocket. If misguided, he was at least honest.
But Brenda took little notice of the question of the day, burning as it was. She concerned herself only with Harold, and had the fate of the Empire been at stake--as it seemed likely to be--she would still have thought of him. Instructed by Aunt Judy, she duly invited him to dinner. He refused on the plea of regimental duty. He would be in town, he said, toward the end of the week. Brenda imagined she could read a nervous fear in every line of his letter. But having no one to consult, she was obliged to wait his coming. He alone could explain much that was mysterious to her.
Meanwhile she resolved to see her father, and ask upon what grounds he suspected Lady Jenny. His hint about the crape referred unmistakably to that lady. And it was true; Lady Jenny had stated very plainly that she did not love her husband, and that because of his connection with some other woman. But she had said nothing on which Brenda could fasten now even in the light of suspicion; certainly she was in mourning for her father and wore crape usually. And it was probable that she wore it on the night of the murder. She had been out, too, about the hour when it took place. Then there was the fact that she was an accomplished shot; but all this evidence was purely circumstantial, and could in no way bring home the guilt to her. Yet she might have a motive, and Scarse might know that motive, so Brenda sought out her father two or three days after their last interview. Come what would, she intended to force him to speak plainly.
That Harold's name might be cleared from the suspicions cast upon it by Inspector Woke, it was necessary that the guilt should be brought home to the right person. Now Brenda wished to be at rest about her father's connection with the strange man whose existence he denied.
But on the occasion of this second visit to Star Street she was unfortunate. Mr. Scarse was not at home, and the porter of the mansions did not know when he would be in. Brenda went upstairs to wait, and was admitted into the chambers by her father's old servant, a staid ex-butler who had been with him for years. This man brought her some tea, gave her an evening paper, and left her alone in the study. It was between four and five, so that the chances were that Mr. Scarse would soon return. One of his virtues was punctuality.
Leaning back in the deep armchair by her father's everlasting fire--quite superfluous on this warm evening--Brenda sipped her tea and fell to thinking of Harold.
She was physically tired, having been shopping all the morning with her aunt. The warmth of fire and atmosphere soothed her nerves and made her feel drowsy. In a very few minutes she was fast asleep and dreaming of her lover. At least so concluded her father's butler when he peeped in to see if she required anything.
From her slumber Brenda was awakened by the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Then, as she languidly opened her eyes, a man bent over her and kissed her.
Harold, she murmured, drowsily, "my darling----"
I win the gloves, Miss Scarse, said a quiet, calm voice. The man stepped back as she sprang to her feet.
Mr. van Zwieten! she cried, with a sense of suffocation. "You!"
I, answered Van Zwieten, removing the lampshade that he might see her more clearly.
Then she realized that she must have been sleeping a long time, for the lamp had not been lit when she sat down.
You coward! she panted, with flashing eyes--"you contemptible coward!"
Cool as he was, Van Zwieten winced at the hatred in her voice. But the more she loathed him the more determined he was to make her his wife. He recovered his calmness with a laugh, and stood by the table masterful and handsome in his smart town dress. No dandy could have been better turned out than the big Dutchman.
Ach! I have touched the proud lips of little red Schefen, said he, quoting from Heine. "Come, Miss Scarse, when am I to have my gloves?"
If I were a man I would kill you!
In that case--in any case--I am glad you are a woman. Why are you angry? I am only anticipating my right.
Oh! cried Brenda, clenching her hands, "will no one deliver me from this man?"
No one, said Van Zwieten, slowly and determinedly. "You are mine--you always were. That kiss makes you doubly so."
Brenda, seeing it was useless to speak, cast on him one look of scorn and stepped toward the door. Before she reached it he spoke again. What he said made her pause.
Wait and listen to me, Miss Scarse--for your father's sake. Ah! you are wise. Come, here is a chair. Sit down; we have much to talk about.
I prefer to stand. Tell me, what do you mean? she burst out.
What I say. Listen to me, for your father's sake. Or, if you care so little for him that you can get him into trouble without seeking to avert it, why the door is open.
In answer to this speech Brenda sat down and looked steadily at the man. He met her gaze frankly, and throughout conducted the interview with his usual politeness. "I know you do not love me," said he, in his deep voice; "but I love you, and I am content to win your affection after marriage."
I will never marry you. Take that answer once and for all.
In that case you leave me free to deal with your father.
I don't understand you.
Then I explain--not everything, for I never trust women, not even you. But I know the truth about this murder--so does your father.
Brenda preserved her coolness. "Do you accuse him of the crime?"
Perhaps, replied Van Zwieten, with a singular smile, "should you not agree to give up Captain Burton and marry me. I know who killed Malet."
So do I, said Brenda, quietly. "It was the man you saw at the station on the night of the murder."
Van Zwieten smothered an ejaculation of surprise. "What do you know of him?"
I know that he killed Mr. Malet--that my father shielded him, and sent him away. You dare not accuse my father of the murder.
You are willing to risk that by refusing to marry me?
Yes; you can do your worst.
The Dutchman seemed rather disconcerted. He had not expected to be defied like this.
I don't want to proceed to extremities, Miss Scarse, he said doubtfully; "but I know much that may damage your father should it become public. And if you do not care for him, there is Burton to be considered. I can get him also into trouble."
On what grounds?
I won't tell you. Ask him yourself. Ask him why he left Chippingholt so suddenly.
Brenda started, for the remark confirmed her suspicions that Harold was troubled in some way about this crime.
I shall ask him. Have you anything more to say?
No; that will do for the present. Only, said Van Zwieten, menacingly, "I give you one last warning. If you marry Captain Burton, he is lost, your father is lost, and you will be a wretched woman all the rest of your days."
Up to the present Brenda had controlled her feelings very well. Now the feminine desire to speak her mind got the upper hand, and she rose to defy the Dutchman.
You speak very boldly and confidently, she said; "but you do not speak plainly. You hint at my father's guilt, at some link connecting Captain Burton with this crime. I don't believe you have the knowledge you say you possess. I am not to be terrified by vain threats, Mr. van Zwieten--you are not dealing with a child."
When the time comes I shall speak out, replied the man, sullenly.
Speak out now--if you can--if you dare!
No. I will do nothing in a hurry. But ask your father--ask Captain Burton--what they did on the night of the murder.
You villain! I believe you killed the man yourself.
Oh, certainly, mocked Van Zwieten, "if it pleases you to think so." He took a turn up and down the room, then approached her with a grave smile.
Miss Scarse, said he, entreatingly, "this is not the wooing I care for. I love you, and I will have you to be my wife, but it is not my desire to gain you by force. Why cannot you accept me? I am a richer man than Captain Burton, and I will make you a better husband. Come with me to the Transvaal, and you know not what height I may raise you to. There will be war--I am certain there will be war. Afterward----"
The Transvaal will cease to exist, Mr. van Zwieten.
By Heaven! not so! swore the Dutchman, growing red. "Ah, you do not know how we are tricking these English fools. I am Dutch, born in Holland, but I have thrown in my lot with the Boers. I and Leyds and Kruger and Steyn are set upon building up a new nation in South Africa. As the English, a century ago, were driven out of America, so will they be driven from the Cape. They will go to war, thinking it will be an easy task. They do not know--they do not guess--we have more burghers, more arms, more friends than they think. They are less well prepared for war than we are. Wait--wait--all the world will be astonished before the year is out. Brenda, I could say much, but I dare not. Trust me, love me, marry me, and you will be great, even as I shall be great. Come with me and assist me to build up this new nation."
At the expense of my own country! cried the girl. "I would rather die! You are a Boer spy, a Boer liar; but all your intrigues, all your lies, will come to nothing. If there is a war, your Republic will be crushed, and your rebellion punished. Is it to me, a loyal Englishwoman, that you speak? Marry you! Betray my country! I defy your threat. I treat with contempt your boasts of conquest. Let me pass, Mr. van Zwieten. Never dare to speak to me again."
With a vigorous movement she thrust him back, and swept out of the door before he could recover his presence of mind. It was just as well she had gone, for Van Zwieten, baffled and scorned, gave way fully to his rage. He did not dare to follow and make a scandal, lest it should lead to inquiry about him and his doings. But he strode up and down the room, swearing volubly in Dutch and English. Furious with Brenda, furious with himself, he could not contain his anger. He had played his last, card, and had lost.
No matter, he said, with a mighty oath, "I'll make her heart ache yet!" Though how he intended to do this was not clear even to himself.
Van Zwieten was involved in a maze of intrigue; but he was doubtful how to use it to his own advantage. He had ample material to manufacture trouble in connection with this crime, but for want of certain missing links in the chain he was puzzled how to act. To Brenda he had spoken with less than his usual caution. He had been carried away by his feelings. He was madly in love with her, and the more she scorned him, the more he worshipped her. If he could not win her by fair means, he would do so by foul. Without waiting for the return of Mr. Scarse, he left the chambers to think out some plan whereby he might net Brenda in his toils. As yet he could not see clearly ahead. But in time he might hope to accomplish much that now appeared to be impossible.
Brenda returned to Kensington with a feeling of dread. It was apparent that Van Zwieten knew something detrimental to her father, but she had grave doubts whether he could use his knowledge. He would have used it before, she thought, had it been a weapon of any strength. As to Harold, she could not conjecture what Van Zwieten's threat implied. He certainly had not killed Malet, nor, on the face of it, did he know anything about the matter. She looked forward anxiously to his arrival with the intention of warning him against his enemy. Only if there was perfect confidence between him and herself could they hope to baffle the wicked schemes of the Dutchman.
But Harold seemed to avoid her, and as he had apparently something to conceal, she could not assure herself that he would confide everything to her. In that case Van Zwieten might succeed in implicating him, for she deemed him no match for the Dutchman single-handed.
The days passed, and she counted every hour, anxious for that one which would bring her lover to her arms. At length he came one afternoon. She found him looking pale and haggard as with mental torture. She uttered no word of reproach, but threw herself into his arms. He strained her almost fiercely to his breast and covered her face with kisses. They were alone in the drawing-room, as Mrs. St. Leger was out shopping and the colonel was holding forth at his club.
For some minutes neither of them spoke. It was Brenda who first broke the silence.
My darling, how glad I am to see you again, she said, looking tenderly into his dark face. "Oh, why did you leave me so cruelly--so suddenly, at Chippingholt?"
I thought you'd ask that, replied he, with an effort to appear gay. "Well, dear, it was for two reasons; in the first place, I was recalled suddenly by my colonel, and besides that I had bad news and did not dare to tell you."
Oh, Harold, as though I could not bear anything for your sake. From whom did you have bad news?
Fran Van Zwieten, strange to say.
She withdrew herself suddenly from her lover's arms, and a feeling of terror came over her. Van Zwieten again--the man seemed to be her evil genius.
What is the bad news? she asked faintly.
Malet gambled away my twenty thousand pounds. I have nothing but my small income!
Is that all? asked Brenda, drawing a breath of relief. "Oh, you stupid boy, did you run away because you were afraid to tell me that?"
Captain Burton stared and drew a breath also--one of amazement. "Well, it's hard to understand a woman," he said, half smiling, half annoyed. "I made sure you'd cry your eyes out when you heard. Don't you understand, Brenda, what it means? If we are to marry at all, it must be on our five hundred a year?"
And why not? was her answer. "I am ready if you are, Harold. How could you give me all this anxiety for such a trifle? I want you, my dear, not the money. But I thought you must have had some other reason for going away."
What other reason could I have had? asked Burton, quickly, and waiting apprehensively for her reply.
Never mind. I'll tell you later. Only the twenty thousand pounds! Well, after all, I'm not surprised to hear of the loss.
I was very much astonished, and very wretched when I heard it. I can't take the loss of all that money as quietly as you seem to do, Brenda. And not only mine has gone, but Wilfred's too. Forty thousand pounds, and all his own fortune! Great Scot! the man must have played day and night to get rid of it. What folly for my father to leave it so completely in his power. If there had only been another trustee to pull him up. I don't want to speak evil of the dead, cried Harold, wrathfully, "but I could find it in my heart to curse Malet."
No, don't, Harold. His terrible death was punishment enough. How was it that Mr. van Zwieten came to know of this?
I can't say. He refused to tell me. But he did know, and he tried to make me give you up on that account. Of course I told him--well, never mind what I said--it was strong and to the point. Brenda, we have a dangerous enemy in Van Zwieten.
I always knew we had. And now that this crime has been committed he is more dangerous than ever.
How do you know that? Harold looked anxiously at her.
He threatened me the other day.
Threatened you!--the hound! What did he say?
He told me, if I did not give you up and marry him, he would get my father into trouble over Mr. Malet's murder.
Does he suspect your father?
Yes, and no. He insists that father was cognizant of the murder, but I think he puts the actual deed down to the man with the crape scarf.
That may be true. Remember what I found!
I remember. I also made a discovery, and Brenda told him how she had found the crape scarf burning in the grate of her father's study at Chippingholt, how her father had asserted that he was the man seen by Harold, and many other things. Indeed, she told him all she knew, including her conversations with Lady Jenny, with Wilfred, with Van Zwieten and with her father. Chin in hand, Harold listened attentively, putting in a word now and then. When she had finished, he looked utterly perplexed.
It's all such a muddle I can't get at the rights of it, he said. "No one will speak out straight, and every one seems to have something to hide. Bad as Van Zwieten is, I don't believe he killed Malet. I don't see what motive he could have had."
Unless, as Wilfred says, it were for political reasons.
Oh, Wilfred's crazy about politics, replied Harold, testily. "He thinks of nothing else. It is a perfect mania with him. But Van Zwieten would not be such a fool as to risk his neck because Malet took up the cudgels against the Boers. No, Van Zwieten is innocent enough."
What about Lady Jenny?
Captain Burton changed color, and commenced to pace up and down the room. "She wouldn't have done it. She is half an Italian, I know, and fearfully passionate, but I think she'd stop short of that. Besides, although she is a jolly good shot, I doubt very much if she could hit a man in the dark like that so square as to kill him outright."
But remember, Harold, the shot was fired at close quarters.
I don't believe she'd have had the nerve for that. Of course it's quite possible she may be guilty, but there's not a scrap of evidence against her as far as I can see.
What about the crape? Lady Jenny wore crape!
That doesn't prove that this scrap was torn from her dress. The crape trimmings on that would lie close to the dress; it wouldn't be so easy for a man to make a clutch at them and tear a piece off as at a scarf, with the ends floating freely. My belief is that the morsel of crape was torn from the scarf.
Well, it was not worn by my father, in spite of what he says.
No. I dare say that man who left Chippingholt by the late train is the man who fired the shot. But your father knows all about it, Brenda. Otherwise he would not insist that he had worn the scarf, nor would he have burnt it as he did. I think with you that this unknown man is a relative of your father's, and that your father is shielding him to avoid the disgrace of having a criminal in the family.
Aunt Judy would know him if he is a relative.
That is very probable; you had better ask her.
Harold, do you think Van Zwieten knows the truth?
Captain Burton hesitated. "It would seem so," said he, "but I don't think he is very sure of the truth, or else he would speak out."
He threatens you, dear.
I know he does. He threatened me at Chippingholt. Brenda, I don't deny that the man is dangerous, and that he knows more than I like him to know. It is in his power to harm me, and if I marry you he will do his best against me. But that sha'n't stop us, Brenda. We'll get married and defy him.
Miss Scarse signified her full approval of this course of action; but she saw that her lover was keeping something back.
Harold, what else did Van Zwieten say to you at Chippingholt?
Oh, nothing of any consequence, replied her lover, uneasily.
My dear! Brenda slipped her arm round his neck and drew him down on the sofa beside her. "If you love me, you must trust me. If you think me a sensible woman, you must be honest with me. I know you had some other reason for leaving Chippingholt so suddenly--it was not altogether because you were afraid of telling me about the loss of your money. Van Zwieten told me he could get you into trouble, and now you say the same thing. Tell me what hold he has over you?"
He has no hold over me, whispered Harold. But she saw that his forehead was beaded with perspiration.
Tell me--tell me? she repeated.
Brenda--I cannot--I dare not.
Then there is something?
Captain Burton cast a glance round the room and nodded. "I am not a coward," he groaned; "I hope I am not a coward, but there are some things which make the bravest man afraid. Van Zwieten is a devil!"
Does he accuse you of the murder?
No, he doesn't go so far as that, and yet--Brenda, he cried, taking her hand and holding it so tightly that she could have screamed, "don't ask me any more; it is not my own secret."
Has it anything to do with my father?
Partly; but you need not be anxious about that. He is in no danger. Leave me to fight it out with Van Zwieten. I shall get the better of him yet. No, no, Brenda, don't ask me any more questions; you cannot help me; I must go through with this matter alone. Trust me if you love me.
I ask you to do that with me, said Brenda, sadly, "and you refuse."
I don't refuse. I cannot tell you now; I will tell you when you are my wife. Listen! we must get married quietly.
Why quietly?
Because I am afraid of Van Zwieten. Yes, you may well look astonished. I, who have never known fear before, fear him. He knows too much, and if he plots against me I cannot counterplot him--at all events for the present. We must marry!
When and where you please, darling.
You trust me?
Yes, on the understanding that when I am your wife you tell me everything--everything!
Burton nodded again. "I will tell you before if I can, Brenda. It is good of you, and like your dear self, to trust me. We can be married at St. Chad's, at Brighton. I'll get a special license. Down there we shall be free from interference by Van Zwieten."
He would not dare----
Oh, yes, he would--if he knew. He would take some means of preventing our marriage.
And you would let him do that?
I--I might, and I might not. Captain Burton sighed wearily. "If it were only myself I would not mind, but--but there are others whom I must consider."
Harold, you are shielding some one!
Yes--no. Brenda, dearest, for Heaven's sake don't question me.
She was perplexed by his indecision--annoyed by his reticence. But she had given her promise, and she would abide by it. "You will not let me help you?" she said plaintively.
You cannot help me, dear; I must go through with this matter alone--unaided.
But I can help you, she insisted. "Van Zwieten is our enemy. Well, then, Lady Jenny can help me to crush him."
He started nervously. "What are you saying? Lady Jenny can do nothing."
Indeed she can, Harold. She told me that if Van Zwieten ever proved troublesome I was to see her, and that she would thwart him.
Harold made no reply, but looked more than ever puzzled and perplexed. Then a light broke in upon Brenda.
Harold! it is Lady Jenny herself you are shielding?
I won't--I cannot tell you, he replied desperately. "Brenda, I'll see Lady Jenny myself at once. If she knows anything about Van Zwieten, I may be able to make use of her knowledge. Come, say good-bye."
When shall I see you again?
In three or four days. Promise me, Brenda, you won't see Jenny until I do.
I promise. But if you fail with her, then I must see her.
Yes, if I fail, but I won't fail. You have put a weapon into my hand. After I have seen her, I will tell you the whole miserable business. We will get the better of Van Zwieten yet, my darling.
Captain Burton was picking up his spirits. He went away in a more cheerful frame of mind. Brenda felt certain that his refusal to speak was in the interest of Lady Jenny. Could she have fired the shot? But that seemed impossible. If she herself were guilty, how could she silence and thwart Van Zwieten, who appeared to know so much about the crime? What with her father's denials, Harold's silence, and Van Zwieten's threats, Brenda was quite bewildered. What would be the outcome of it all? she wondered.
Having promised Harold not to see Lady Jenny, Miss Scarse cast about in her mind as to who else could assist her in thwarting Van Zwieten. From her father no help could be obtained. He was wholly on the Dutchman's side, and, it would appear, under his thumb. Then she thought of Wilfred and his openly-expressed hatred of Van Zwieten. Could she not make use of that? In the present state of popular feeling a Boer spy would have a bad time if found in London. If Wilfred could discover that Van Zwieten really was on the Secret Service Staff of the Transvaal, he could force the Dutchman to leave England under threat of denouncing him to the authorities.
No sooner had she come to this conclusion than she acted upon it, and wrote a note to Wilfred's London address asking him to call. Having posted it, she returned to the drawing-room to make tea for Aunt Judy, who had just got back from her shopping. The colonel was still absent, so the two ladies settled themselves down to the discussion of chiffons. If there was one thing Mrs. St. Leger was fond of it was dress. As for Brenda, her mind was too much preoccupied with her own troubles to care much for fashions or bargains. But strive as she might to hide her indifference, it did not take her aunt long to see that her interest was assumed. But that she put down to her lover's visit.
Why didn't he stay to tea? she asked, putting away her purchases.
Because he had to get back to Aldershot, replied Brenda, pouring out the tea. "They are very busy down there."
Oh, Brenda, do you think there will be war? How glad I am that William has retired.
That is not the speech of a true soldier's wife, Aunt Judy.
My dear, it's all very well talking, replied Mrs. St. Leger, testily, "but you don't know what war is. I don't mean these little frontier skirmishes, but a real war--that is truly terrible. I remember the Crimea."
I don't think this will be so bad, auntie. The Transvaal is not Russia.
All the same I fancy they are better prepared than, we think. William says so. He has heard all kinds of rumors at the club. Well, if it's got to be it's got to be. You will have to lose your Harold for a time, dear.
In a good hour be it spoken, cried Brenda, hastily, to avert the omen. "Don't say I'll lose him, aunt. Of course he will go to the front; but don't speak of losing him."
Well, you never know, my dear. Oh, Brenda, I do wish your father were not going to speak at this mass meeting. There is sure to be trouble.
I don't think he'll mind that, said the girl. "My father and those who think with him are doing all they can to bring about the war by confirming Kruger in his obstinacy."
Stuart always was wrong-headed and obstinate, sighed Mrs. St. Leger. "I'm sure I tremble when he comes here. William and he do nothing but wrangle."
Aunt Judy, said Brenda, thinking the present a good opportunity, "do you know I am deplorably ignorant about my family?"
Ignorant, my dear? how do you mean? Your mother, I know, was a sweet woman, and died all too young. If she had only lived Stuart might have been very different.
I was thinking more of my father, aunt. Is he your only brother?
Mrs. St. Leger almost dropped her cup. She looked scared and her face blanched. "Why do you ask me that, Brenda?" she asked in a faltering voice.
Because I have seen a man so like my father as to make me think he must be some relative--possibly a brother.
Where did you see him?
At Chippingholt. Aunt Judy, tell me, who is he?
Mrs. St. Leger recovered herself. "My dear Brenda, how should I know who the man is? You have been misled probably by a chance resemblance."
The resemblance was too strongly marked to be mere chance. And my father-- Brenda checked herself. "Auntie, surely you can answer a simple question?"
What is it you want to know? asked the old lady, nervously.
Have you two brothers?
No. Your father is my only brother, said Mrs. St. Leger, but by the way in which she said it Brenda knew that she spoke falsely.
The better day, the better deed. Acting on the advice of this proverb, those responsible for the pro-Boer meeting convened it on a Sunday, that all those engaged on other days in earning their bread might attend. And so far as numbers went, the crowded state of Trafalgar Square seemed to justify this course. Nelson's Column soared from a dense mass of people, which even overflowed into the streets approaching the great open space. On all sides the windows were filled with curious spectators, who, apprehensive all the while of trouble, gazed forth expectantly over the sea of heads below. But they need have had no fear. The mob was on its best behavior--good-natured and roughly jocular as an English crowd ever is--amenable to law and order, and ever ready to be controlled by the police.
Platforms for the convenience of the orators had been erected round the grand column--the symbol of an Empire which these well-meaning busybodies were so anxious to dismember and destroy. Below, crowded laborers, artisans, shopkeepers, traders of all kinds; and on the fringe of the mob, hard by the National Gallery, were lines of hansom cabs, surmounted by clubmen from Pall Mall and St. James' Street who had come to see the fun. There were plenty of women, bringing with them their children, when they could not leave them at home, and a sprinkling of redcoats and bluejackets. These, as the visible symbol of England's fighting power, were idolized by the mob. For, alas for Mr. Scarse and his supporters, the voice of the people was dead against their philanthropic efforts. Instead of the Boer National Anthem, "God Save the Queen" and "Rule Britannia" were being sung. The Little Englanders were doing their best to laud Kruger and damn their own Government; but the temper of the mob was all the other way. In a word, the Imperialists were in the majority.
On the parapet, near the National Gallery, Brenda, very plainly dressed, was holding on to Wilfred's arm. He had been lunching at Mrs. St. Leger's, and afterward Brenda had persuaded him to escort her to the meeting. She feared for the safety of her father, and dreaded lest his speech should draw on him the anger of the mob. The colonel had declined to come, swearing in true military style that he would attend no meeting meant to belittle England.
Is Mr. van Zwieten here? asked Brenda, looking over the sea of heads.
I don't think so, replied Wilfred, whose pale face was flushed with excitement. "He is too clever to sympathize openly with the cause he advocates. No! his task is to condemn the Boers in public and to support them in private."
Have you found out anything about him, Wilfred?
"Yes. He lives ostensibly in Duke Street, St. James; but he has other rooms in Westminster, where he passes under another name. There he receives all kinds of queer people--especially at night. Spies?"" asked Brenda, so low as not to be heard by those near her.
"I believe so. He calls himself Jones, and a good many spies go up to see Mr. Jones. The scoundrel! To plot treason almost in the shadow of the Clock Tower! But I do not blame him so much as those who are betraying their country. After all, Van Zwieten is a foreigner, and naturally hates us; but there are Englishmen, Brenda--Englishmen born and bred--who are selling secrets for Transvaal gold. I'd hang the lot if I could!
Hush, Wilfred, don't speak so loud. Can you prove that Van Zwieten is a spy?
Not yet; but I have a plan in my head to trap him.
He will not be easily trapped.
No; he is a cunning beast, but I'll get the better of him yet. When I tear his mask off he'll be forced to leave London. Hullo! there's your father!
Brenda turned pale as that familiar lean figure appeared on the platform. He was saluted with a groan. Several union Jacks were waved defiantly in his face, and a few bars of "God Save the Queen" were sung with lusty strength. A small knot of people stood round him. Taking off his hat, he advanced to the edge of the platform. A few expressions, such as "God-fearing farmers," "greedy capitalists," "the Jingoism of Chamberlain," "the treachery of Rhodes," caught Brenda's ear, and then her father's voice was drowned in a roar of cheering and singing. In vain did Mr. Scarse hold up his hand for silence; in reply he was assailed with insults, and a lifeguardsman was shouldered and passed along the heads of the crowd, a red spot of color amid the neutral tints. union Jacks were waved, "Rule Britannia" was sung. Many a groan was there for Kruger; many a cheer for "Joe"; and the close-locked crowd, maddened by the sound of its own voice, rolled and swung like a stormy sea.
Pore thing! pore thing! said an old woman near Brenda, "I 'ope they won't chuck him into the fountings."
Oh, Wilfred! gasped the girl, terrified for her father's safety.
But the suggestion met with the approval of the crowd, and passed from mouth to mouth until it reached those immediately under the fountain. A roar went up to the sky, and several enthusiasts endeavored to clamber up the platform. The police beat them back, and order was restored for the moment. Then, as an appeal to the chivalry of the mob, a grim-looking female with a black bag came forward to speak. She commenced a highly abusive harangue, but it was drowned in laughter and a recommendation, in terms purely colloquial, that she should go home and tend any young offspring she might chance to have. The pro-Boers began to look disconsolate. Each effort they made to speak was abortive. A sailor jumped on the parapet opposite Morley's Hotel and waved a union Jack. The mob saw and cheered, and roared out the National Anthem. Some threw apples and oranges at the orators on the platform, who promptly dodged behind the Column and endeavored to obtain a hearing on the other side, but with even less success.
On losing sight of her father, Brenda wanted to try and follow him; and Wilfred, the patriot, although he hated Scarse, and would gladly have seen him ducked, could not but sympathize with the girl's anxiety. So, extricating themselves from the crowd, they struggled downward toward the lower part of the square. There a knot of talkers attracted their attention.
Wot I say is, Why does Rhodes want to fight a lot of 'ard-working coves like them Boers? said one begrimed ruffian. "They're the same as us, ain't they?"
No, they ain't, grunted his neighbor. "They won't give Englishmen votes, an' we made their bloomin' country, we did."
I 'old by Gladstone, I tell you----
Garn! you and your Gladstone; he'd ha' given away Windsor Castle if he cud.
Ho! Wot price Majuba!
Ah! we must wipe out that disgrace, said a clearer and apparently more highly-educated speaker.
Then the fun began. Some abused Gladstone as the cause of all the trouble, others made extensive demands upon their vocabulary for a due definition of Mr. Chamberlain. It speedily became apparent that none of them knew what they were talking about. Wilfred laughed, and the begrimed one straightway resented his laughter.
We don't want no tall 'ats 'ere, he yelped.
No, you want sense, retorted Burton. But, unwilling to involve Brenda in a row, he pushed on. As they passed away they heard a scuffle, and looked back to see that the dirty man had at last his heart's desire, so far as to have found an antagonist. But even thus early in the game he was getting the worst of it. At length, having apparently had enough, he gave forth a lusty yell for "police," and was duly rescued in a battered condition, and still arguing. Brenda felt anxious. The mob all round was showing signs of restiveness.
In another part of the square some pro-Boer orators spoke with more chance of a hearing. They drew the usual picture of a small toiling community, of unscrupulous capitalists, the worship of gold, the rights of the Boers to arrange affairs in their own house, and the iniquity of a mighty Empire crushing a diminutive State, wholly unable to defend itself.
Furious at the falsehoods which he heard all around him, Wilfred lost his head altogether, and, despite all Brenda's entreaty, got up on the parapet and raised his voice.
Lies, lies! all lies, I say. All that we demand are equal rights for the white man and kindly treatment of the black. The Boer is a brutal bully. He beats the black man, and treats him like a dog. Kruger and his gang have accumulated millions through the industry of those to whom they refuse the franchise. It is they who want war, not England; and if we refuse their challenge, then will they try to drive us out of Africa. It is not the Transvaal Republic which is in danger, but the Empire. Continental Powers, who hate us, are urging these misguided people to do what they dare not do themselves, hoping to profit took place. At length the police, as in the former by their folly and attack us when we are hampered in South Africa. Don't believe these liars, men! They betray their own country, and a good half of them are paid with Transvaal gold for doing so. Spies! Traitors, all of them. Duck them here in the fountains.
Then, having thus relieved his feelings, Wilfred took the girl's hand and pushed on hurriedly; and soon they were lost to view in the crowd.
But the effect of his words was immediate. The pro-Boer champions, trying to make good their cause, were not allowed speech. As quickly as they opened their mouths the mob shouted them down. Some ugly rushes were made in their direction, and they were hustled roughly. A couple of men and women, beginning to see they were in danger of being chucked, shouted for the police of the very Government they had been abusing. A body of constables forced itself through the crowd and formed a cordon round these political martyrs. They were escorted to the fringe of the mob, looking pale and nervous--anything, in fact, but heroic. And the language with which they were saluted was not such as need be set down here.
Meanwhile their friends at the Column were faring badly enough. The police began to see that the temper of the mob was rising, and insisted that the speaking--or rather the attempts to speak--should stop. The orators refused, and stuck to their platform they were driven off from one side and they climbed up the other. Missiles began to fly, the crowd to growl, and some rough-and-tumble fights took place. At length the police, as in the former case, marched them away down Northumberland Avenue. The crowd which followed was so excited that the martyrs, afraid of the storm which, by their own folly, they had raised, tried to enter one of the hotels. But the porters here were prepared, and drove them back, and the wretched creatures--Scarse amongst them--were beaten to and fro like tennis balls. Finally, they managed to gain the shelter of a clubhouse, where they held an indignation meeting on their own account. But nothing on earth and above it would have convinced them that they had got just what they deserved.
Brenda was in a great state of alarm for her father. But Wilfred consoled her as well as he could. "He will be all right," he said cheerfully; "the police will look after him."
He may be hurt.
He should have thought of that before he played the fool. But he will not be hurt; those sort of people never are. I beg your pardon, Brenda. After all, he is your father.
He honestly believes in the Boers, Wilfred.
I know he does. He'd find out his mistake if he went to live amongst them. I wish I could have had half an hour at them, Brenda, he said, with sparkling eyes. "I would have done but for you."
You said quite enough, Wilfred. I was afraid the police would arrest you.
Arrest me! Come, that's good, seeing I spoke for the Government. What about your father and his wretched friends who are abusing their own country?
There are two sides to every question.
Not to this one, replied Wilfred, who was easily excited on the subject.
Brenda decided that it was best not to contradict him. He was so highly strung that in moments of this kind he was not altogether accountable either for his speech or actions. He would flash into a rage on the slightest provocation, and contradict every one around him, like some hysterical woman. No doctor could call him insane, since he knew well how to conduct himself, and was not the prey of any hallucination. But his brain was delicately balanced, and worry or persistent irritation brought him very near the borders of insanity. For this reason he led a quiet life, and saw but few people. The magnitude and whirl of London always overwrought him, and Brenda regretted now that she had argued with him at all.
Have it your own way, Wilfred, she said, taking his arm. "But I hope my father is safe. I have seen enough, so you might take me home."
All right. Don't be angry with me, Brenda. But the silly views your father takes annoy me.
I am not angry with you, Wilfred. Come along; let's get back now.
About time too, said he. "The whole thing's a farce."
Ah! I agree with you there, Mr. Burton, said a voice, and Brenda turned with a start to find Van Zwieten at her elbow. "How are you, Miss Scarse?" he asked quietly, as though nothing unusual had passed between them at their last meeting. "And what do you think of this silly business?"
I think it just what you call it--silly, replied Brenda, coldly. "But I did not expect to hear you say so."
You ought to be pleased that your friends are fighting your battles, said Wilfred.
Van Zwieten flicked a grain of dust from off his frock coat and raised his eyebrows. "My friends!" he repeated. "Oh, none of those who spoke are my friends, unless you refer to Mr. Scarse. But of course I don't agree with his views. I am an Imperialist," he said smoothly.
Remembering the disclosures he had made to her, Brenda was astounded at the effrontery of the man; but Wilfred understood.
Of course you are an Imperialist, he said; "it pays better!"
Quite so, assented Van Zwieten "it pays better--much better. But you talk in riddles."
Do I? I think you can guess them then, retorted Wilfred, "and I don't think you will find Oom Paul will benefit by this meeting. It will show him how very much of one mind the English people are, and how they are determined to teach him a lesson."
Oh, a lesson, eh? Van Zwieten laughed. "It is to be hoped Oom Paul will prove an apt pupil; but I fear he is too old to learn."
And Leyds--is he too old? He pulls the strings!
What strings? asked the Dutchman, blankly.
The strings to make you dance!
In spite of Van Zwieten's command of his temper, Wilfred was making him angry. This of itself Brenda did not mind in the least; but she did mind a quarrel, and toward that she could see these two were fast drifting. Moreover, owing to the raised tones of Wilfred's voice, a crowd was collecting. Mr. van Zwieten did not look altogether comfortable. He despised Wilfred as a mere boy; but even so, boy or not, this young fellow, with his fearless nature and frantic patriotism, might put highly undesirable notions into the heads of those around. And most of them were more or less inflammable just then. The fountains, too, were close at hand.
Come along, Wilfred, said Brenda. "Do let us get home."
But before he could reply, a hubbub arose amid the crowd not far distant, and they turned in that direction. From out the jeers and laughter an angry voice could be heard holding forth in abuse of the Government and in praise of the Boers.
Then the crowd parted, surged along, and Brenda saw advancing a tall, thin man. He wore a snuff-colored coat, and a yard or so of crape wrapped round his throat like a scarf. And his face--how like it was to that of her father!
Oh! she cried, grasping Wilfred's arm, "that is the man who----"
Hush! Van Zwieten whispered fiercely. "Don't accuse him in public!"
In her anxiety to solve the mystery which surrounded this man, so like her father, Brenda would, but for the publicity of the position, have rushed forward and questioned him. Moreover, he began at once to speak loudly in abuse of the Government and in defence of the Boer Republic.
It is the capitalists who want this war, he cried excitedly; "Rhodes and Beit and all that gang of scoundrels. Chamberlain is merely playing into their hands. Their villainous scheme is to take the gold mines from these unoffending people, and they are prepared to massacre them in their greed for gold. Kruger is----"
Shut your mouth! shouted a big, scowling man, thrusting himself forward. "We'll make you if you don't."
I'm not afraid--I'm ready to stand by the truth, screeched the man with the crape scarf. "I mourn for England--the victim of a corrupt set of time-serving scoundrels. I wear black for her. Woe to her, I say, and her greed for gold--woe to her vile Government----"
With a fierce growl the mob flung forward. Brenda cried out. It was as though her father himself were being attacked. With a bound she placed herself before the old man.
Leave him! Don't touch him! she cried. "He's mad!"
I'm not mad, cried the man. "I protest against tyranny and the cursed greed that would destroy a nation. You crouch at the feet of those who will drain your blood--cowardly hounds all of you!"
'Ere! Let me get at 'im. Stand away, laidy!
No, no, he is old and weak. Oh, Mr. van Zwieten, save him.
Seeing an opportunity of posing as a hero at a small cost, the Dutchman placed the old man behind him, and stood between him and the mob which was closing in. "Leave him to me--I'll see to him!"
He's a furriner! yelped a small man. "Hit his head!"
I'm a naturalized Englishman, shouted Van Zwieten, "but I won't let you touch this man!"
Woe--woe to the wicked Government who are about to dye their garments in the blood of a just people! shrieked the old man, waving his arms wildly.
Then Wilfred took hold of him and hurried him away. "Hold your tongue," he said roughly. "You'll get into trouble."
I will seal my protest with my blood!
Stand back! shouted Van Zwieten, opposing those who would have followed. "Hi, constable!"
Why, it's Van the cricketer, cried the big man, joyfully. "He's all right, boys. Seen 'im carry 'is bat out many a time, I 'ave."
Hooray for Van! roared the fickle crowd, and as half-a-dozen policemen were pushing their way toward the centre of disturbance, it veered round to cheering Van Zwieten.
Spy! Spy! He's a spy! shouted a voice that sounded to Brenda uncommonly like Wilfred's.
The crowd growled again, and darted forward. But the police were now pushing right and left. Van Zwieten, who had changed color at the cry, stepped back and was swallowed up by the concourse of people. Wilfred had let the old man go, and the zealot was again raging, waving his crape scarf like a banner.
Brenda, terrified at finding herself alone in the midst of the mob, kept close to the big Dutchman.
Suddenly Wilfred, appearing, as it were, from nowhere, caught her arm.
Come away! come away! There may be trouble, he cried, drawing her aside on to the steps by St. Martin's Church. Afar off she could see Van Zwieten leading the old man down a side street, and the little band of constables fighting with the mob, who were now inclined to resent any interference. Brenda was in despair.
I want to ask that old man who he is, she cried. But Wilfred held her back in spite of her efforts to follow the Dutchman.
Brenda! don't be foolish. It's dangerous. The people are getting their blood up.
But that old man killed Mr. Malet. I will know who he is.
Van Zwieten will find out.
I dare say, said Brenda, tartly. "But he won't tell you or me."
It's too late now to think of that. Come up here, and let us get a hansom. If you got into trouble, Brenda, Harold would never forgive me!
And Brenda knew that this was so, and she guessed too that Wilfred was chafing under his responsibility for her safety. She therefore stepped into a hansom with him. When they were rattling along Piccadilly she asked him if it was he who had called out that Van Zwieten was a spy.
Yes, it was I, admitted Wilfred, in a fiery tone. "And I should have liked to see the crowd go for the big brute."
I don't like Van Zwieten myself, as you know, Brenda said; "all the same, Wilfred, it is only fair to say he behaved very well over that old man."
He knew there was no danger, that the police were about. He wanted to show up as a hero in your eyes, Brenda. For my part, I wish he had been lynched for a spy. I hate the man.
People don't lynch now in England, Wilfred.
They would have done it to-day on small encouragement. It was lucky for Van Zwieten that he is a popular cricketer, and that they recognized him as such. Otherwise he would not have got off so easily. But I'll catch him yet!
How you do hate him, Wilfred!
Hate him! Of course I do. Here he is accepting the hospitality of England, and spying out all our weak points to use them against us should there be a war. I suspected him long ago from some words he let fall, and I have kept a watch on him ever since. He has haunted Woolwich, Portsmouth and Erith, and has made friends with privates and officers alike, and he has half a hundred creatures at his beck and call, who are poking and prying about. I dare say out at Pretoria they know more about England and her resources than those here whose duty and business it is. They will await the right moment, then they'll strike; and unless I'm much mistaken they'll strike pretty hard.
But we are not unprepared, Wilfred.
The young man shook his head gloomily. "I myself have talked with many of our officers," he said, "and we are not so well armed as we should be. Since the Crimea, we have had no big war; and the number of easy victories we have had have made us over-confident. Of the valor of Englishmen I have no fear. They can fight as their fathers fought with true bulldog courage. But nowadays science as well as grit is needed for victory, and our War Office is so sleepy and tied up with red tape that it doesn't keep our armaments up to the mark as it should do. The Boers are armed with the Mauser rifle. Our troops--but there is no need to talk technically to you, Brenda. I can only say that if we have a war, it won't be the military promenade to Pretoria that many people expect it to be."
But the Transvaal is quite a small state, Wilfred.
I know. Still it is more than probable that the Orange Free State will join them. Also all over Cape Colony and Natal there are hordes of disloyal Dutch ready to rise at the first chance. Besides, Leyds is stirring up the Continent against us, and here Van Zwieten is gathering information and sending it in cypher to Pretoria. Oh, there's trouble ahead, Brenda. The Uitlander business is only a pretext for war. If we don't proclaim war, Kruger and Steyn will.
Let them. We will crush them and punish them.
I should think so, cried Wilfred, his dark eyes blazing with fervor. "I have never any fear for England. Though the world were against her, she would conquer--all the world was against her at the end of the last century. But we shall have our Waterloo over again. God bless England!"
If there were war, Wilfred, would you go out?
As a newspaper correspondent, he replied. "I have made all my arrangements with The Morning Planet. Oh, yes, I'll go to the front, and if I die it will be for our country. Harold of course will go."
I am proud that he should--yes, even though he should never return--and he is all in all to me!
He could have no nobler death, said Wilfred, coldly.
Oh, but it would be terrible, Wilfred--terrible. Remember I am only a woman and it takes a great deal of courage----
You are an Englishwoman, and Englishwomen are always bravest when there is danger at hand. Don't cry, Brenda. I should not talk like this. My feelings carry me away. Let me be quiet for a time, or Mrs. St. Leger will be alarmed if I arrive in such a state of excitement.
Not another word would he speak on the way to Kensington, but he curled himself up in the corner of the cab, his eyes feverishly bright, and his face pale with emotion. The patriotic fire which consumed him was wearing out his frail body. Brenda could not understand this "man with one idea." Her love for her country was great, but it was not to her the one devouring passion. To Wilfred England was as a well-beloved woman--a creature of flesh and blood. Every blow levelled at her made him quiver and turn pale. For her sake he would willingly have died. He hated the Continental nations, but most of all he hated Van Zwieten, who was working darkly for her ill. If war were proclaimed, Wilfred promised himself that he would be in the fighting. Van Zwieten, who was no coward, would be there also, and if perchance they met, why England would be revenged if he had to shed his life blood to avenge her. He changed his mind about calling on Mrs. St. Leger, and kept the cab waiting while he said good-bye to Brenda at the door.
If you find out anything about Van Zwieten, you'll let me know? she entreated, as they shook hands.
Yes; but I may be a week or two preparing my plans. He is so infernally clever, that it will take a lot to trap him. But why are you so anxious to know about him, Brenda?
He means harm to Harold.
Nonsense. This isn't the Dark Age. He is powerless to hurt Harold.
I'm afraid he can, Wilfred! On the night of Mr. Malet's murder Harold was out of doors. Mr. van Zwieten has more than hinted to me that he can and will accuse him of it!
An angry fire glittered in Wilfred's eye. "I'll soon put a stop to that," he said between his teeth. "If I can prove Van Zwieten is a spy, he will have enough to do to look after himself without troubling about other people."
I'm sure of that. And, Wilfred--see if you can find my father; and tell him to come and see me. I am so anxious about him.
Oh, he's all right. Wilfred really could not bring himself to be sorry for Mr. Scarse, tainted as he was with the heresy of Little England.
I'll call at his rooms, Brenda, and leave a message if you like. But I can't see him; I might be tempted to tell him my mind. Good-bye.
He jumped into the cab so as to give Brenda no opportunity for further argument. It was natural that she should be anxious about her father. But for her, indeed, he would have rejoiced had the mob succeeded in ducking Mr. Scarse. Bad as was Van Zwieten, Mr. Scarse was, to his thinking, worse, for he was betraying his own country with his rotten politics. It was strange and inconceivable to Wilfred that a man born an Englishman should bring himself to abuse and condemn the very land he should have been proud of.
Strangely enough, he met the object of his thoughts as his cab turned into Star Street. The old man, looking ill and unhappy, was stealing homeward, his eyes fixed on the ground before him. Wilfred was pleased to see that the failure of the meeting had gone home to him. He only hoped he would keep the memory of it by him for future guidance. The cab pulled up with a jerk, and he leaned out.
Mr. Scarse, can I speak with you?
Scarse looked up irritably, and recognizing Wilfred, came to the edge of the pavement. He knew the young man's passion for politics, and looked but sourly upon him.
What is it?
Brenda thinks you might have got into trouble, and is anxious to hear that you are safe. Please send her word.
Thank you, said Mr. Scarse, loftily, "there is no cause for alarm. I will attend to the matter. Were you at the meeting to-day?"
I was, retorted Wilfred, shortly, "and I was glad to see it was a failure. Drive on, cabby," and before the older man had recovered from his anger, the hansom was swinging round the corner.
Rude young man, muttered Mr. Scarse, wearily mounting the steps to his chambers. "Never shall I consent to Brenda marrying his brother!"
In his study he poured himself out a glass of brandy. The events of the afternoon had tried him severely, and he looked older and more frail than ever. He was deeply mortified by the discovery that the popular feeling was all against the Boers, and he recognized that war was certain. Still he hoped that if England were the one to proclaim it Europe might intervene, and for his own part resolved to throw all possible obstacles in the way. Scarse was a true patriot. He could not have loved England more had he been born a German or a Frenchman!
He lay down for an hour. The sleep refreshed him, and he awoke with a clearer brain. On returning to his study he set about writing a letter to the Press, alleging that the failure of the meeting was due to a Jingoistic conspiracy. While engaged on this precious epistle, Van Zwieten was announced, and Mr. Scarse came forward with outstretched hands.
Ah, my dear fellow! I am so glad to see you. What a terrible afternoon it has been! A conspiracy, Van Zwieten--a conspiracy! The voice of the people has been stifled, my dear friend.
It didn't sound like it this afternoon, said the Dutchman, drily. "They all called for war. Well, if they want it, they shall have it. And won't they be sorry when they get it."
No war--no war. I shall protest----
Oh, your protests won't do any good, said the other, rudely; "the tide runs too strong for you to drive it back with a mop. But I didn't come here to talk politics, Mr. Scarse."
In that case I must ask you to go. Mr. Scarse was offended. "I have much to do."
You will have to lay it by then for the time being. I called to tell you that I met a friend of yours to-day--yes, at the meeting.
Who?
That is what I want to hear from your lips. I know who he is from his own. He wears a yellow coat and a crape scarf.
Mr. Scarse's face became grey, and he fell against the wall with staring eyes and extended hands. "I don't know him--I assure you I don't!" he said hoarsely.
I think you do. He is the man who was in your study at Chippingholt on the night of the murder--the man whom you sent away by train. In a word, Mr. Scarse, he is your brother--your twin brother!
The old man sprang up with the light of fury in his pale eyes and flung himself on Van Zwieten. For an instant he was more than a match for the big Dutchman.
How dare you--I have no brother, he gasped. Then as suddenly this strength, born of anger, went out of him, and he became weak as a child. Van Zwieten picked him up like a baby and flung him roughly into a chair.
Sit there, he said sternly. "I mean to know the whole of this story," and he busied himself lighting the lamp.
There is--no--no story.
There is, and, what's more, you will tell it to me.
I won't, cried Mr. Scarse, shivering and forgetting his previous denial. "You can't force me to speak."
I can--I will, said the Dutchman, grimly. Then, the lamp being lighted, he sat down in an armchair on the other side of the fireplace opposite to his host and produced a cigar. "Begin, please."
Scarse staggered to his feet--he was shaken by his own nerves and Van Zwieten's rough treatment--and moved slowly toward the door. The Dutchman rose and ran past him with a lightness and speed surprising in so heavy a man. He reached the door before Mr. Scarse did. The next moment it was locked and the key in Van Zwieten's pocket. "Go back to your seat, please," said Van Zwieten, politely.
I won't--I am master here, cried the old man, his voice shrill with anger. "What do you mean by treating me like this? I'll call the police."
The Dutchman pulled out the key and held it toward Scarse. "As you please," he said with a sneer. "Call the police and I'll give you in charge."
Give me in charge, you villain!--for what?
For murdering Gilbert Malet. Aha, my dear friend, you did not count on my knowing that, did you? You are quite unaware that I followed you from your cottage into the orchards, where you----
I did not--I did not! wailed Scarse, shrinking back.
No, you did not, retorted Van Zwieten, "but you were near the spot where Malet was killed, and near it about the time he was shot. You will find it difficult to refute my evidence if I am compelled to give it. On the whole, Mr. Stuart Scarse, I think you had better sit down and talk sensibly."
Scarse glared like an angry cat. But physically and morally the Dutchman was too much for him. With an attempt at dignity he returned to his seat.
I am at a loss to understand this extraordinary behavior, Mr. Van Zwieten, he said, in his most stately manner, "and I deny the shameful accusation you have made. Perhaps you will be kind enough to apologize and leave my rooms."
My dear friend, I shall do neither. Van Zwieten carefully lighted his cigar. "I am waiting to hear the story."
What story? asked the other, willfully misunderstanding.
The story about your brother and his visit to Chippingholt--to murder our dear friend. I know some of it from your brother, but----
I have no brother, I tell you!
Oh, yes, I think so. A twin brother named--Robert--Robert Scarse.
He is dead to me.
Ah, that is quite another thing. He has come to life for the purpose of throwing some light on this mystery. Indeed, I think you had better tell me why he murdered Gilbert Malet.
He did not murder him.
Oh, yes, he did; and I should like to have details, please--his motive and all that.
I refuse to give them to you.
Van Zwieten rose and buttoned his coat. "Very good," said he; "then I shall see a magistrate and tell him all I know."
What do you know?
Sufficient to have Robert arrested for the murder, and you as his accomplice.
Mr. Scarse shivered again, and bit his lip. Then he seemed to make up his mind.
Sit down. Don't be in a hurry. I will tell you all I can. Of course you will keep secret what I tell you.
Of course! I never talk without good reason. So you have a twin brother?
Yes; Robert. He is--he--he is not in his right mind.
So I should think from his talk and his extraordinary apparel. A black crape scarf is quite original. By the way, your daughter saw him to-day.
Brenda? cried Scarse, horrified. "Then she knows----"
Nothing--except that Robert is wonderfully like you. I got him away before she could speak to him. This I did for your sake--and my own!
You wish to make quite sure of getting Brenda--to force me!
Not exactly that, smiled Van Zwieten, "since I know that you are already quite willing she should marry me. But I wish to use the knowledge to force her into giving up Burton and becoming my wife."
You would tell her of Robert's existence?
Not if I could help myself, said the Dutchman, politely. "Believe me, my dear friend, I am very discreet. You can safely confide in me."
It seems I am forced to, grumbled Mr. Scarse, ungraciously. "What is it you particularly wish to know?"
The whole story about your brother, and why you deny him. I am sure it will be most interesting. Go on, please, I am waiting.
Mr. Scarse looked at his tyrant savagely. He would dearly have liked to refuse, but he realized that he was on perilous ground. Van Zwieten knew just enough to be dangerous. He must not be allowed to make use of his knowledge, even if he had to be told more. Besides, Mr. Scarse was satisfied that for Brenda's sake he would keep quiet. Therefore he made a virtue of necessity and launched at once into a family history, of which in no other circumstances would he have spoken to any living soul. It was the very fact of the Dutchman's having it in his power to force his confidence that angered him. No man likes to be coerced.
I don't think the story will interest you much, he said, sulkily; "but such as it is, I will relate it. Robert Scarse is my twin brother, and is as like me as it is possible for one man to be like another. His appearance deceived young Burton and the Chippingholt folk."
I know they took him for you. And on account of that scarf they paid you the compliment of thinking you were out of your mind.
Mr. Scarse shrugged his shoulders. "As if I cared," he said contemptuously. "My speeches in the House prove that I am sane enough. Well, Robert is my brother, and I was--I am--very fond of him. My sister Julia--Mrs. St. Leger, you know--never liked him, and when we cast him off she made up her mind to regard him as dead. She never even admits that she has a brother. I am her only relative--at least the only one she acknowledges."
And why, pray, was Robert cast off thus, and by his affectionate twin?
Don't be sarcastic, Van Zwieten, it does not suit you, snapped Scarse. "My brother was a bad lot. At school and college he led the authorities a devil of a dance until he was expelled. When he came to London he took to gambling and drinking. I was never like that. My one desire was to get into Parliament, where my father had been before me, and serve my country. My sister married St. Leger--he was a subaltern then--and went out to India. My mother died, and there was no one to check Robert's pranks. My father paid his debts so often that we became quite impoverished. That is why I am so poor."
Are you poor? asked Van Zwieten, thinking regretfully that Brenda--sweet as she was--would have no dowry.
As poor as a church mouse. I married a woman with six hundred a year, and out of that Brenda has two hundred a year. I can't touch it. What with the other four hundred and my own money I have but a thousand a year all told--little enough for a man of my position. Of course, when I die, my thousand a year will go to Brenda.
Ah! said Van Zwieten, with much satisfaction. He was sufficiently Dutch to be very fond of money.
You needn't look so pleased, Van Zwieten. Even if you do marry Brenda--which I doubt since she hates you so--you won't get my money. I'll live a long time yet, and, in any case, I'll settle it on her so that her husband--whoever he may be--can't touch it.
Quite right, Mr. Scarse. But about Robert? Please go on.
Well, Robert crowned his pranks by committing forgery, and my father had to pay I don't know how many thousands to hush the matter up. You can make no use of this admission, Mr. van Zwieten, since the man whose name was forged died long ago and the papers are all destroyed. Robert went abroad after that, and my father cut him off with a shilling. He forbade his name to be mentioned, and declared he was no son of his. Mrs. St. Leger acted in the same way, and I followed suit. I could do nothing else--if I had, my father would have disinherited me.
Most affectionate twin!
Don't talk like that, cried Mr. Scarse, angrily. "Who are you to judge me? I still love my brother--after all, he is my own flesh and blood, and nearer and dearer to me than it is possible for you to imagine. But he is supposed to be dead these thirty and more years, and why should I bring him forth into the world only to be disgraced? I allow him a small income, and under another name he is as happy as ever he will be. By the way," he broke off suddenly, "how did you find out his real name?"
Oh, I saw the resemblance and made use of my knowledge of his being in Chippingholt to force him into confessing the truth. I will tell you about that later on. Go on with your story, which is truly remarkable.
Truly criminal, I think, Mr. Scarse said gloomily; "a nice family history for a sedate English gentleman to have. I wonder what my constituents would say if they heard it? Ah, there is a skeleton in every house. In a way it is a relief to me to talk of it even to you, Van Zwieten. Mrs. St. Leger will never mention or listen to the subject."
Well, well, my friend,--Van Zwieten was becoming impatient of this digression,--"what did your brother do when he was cut off from his family?"
You'll never believe it when I tell you. Strange to say, he mended his ways. On the Continent--in Switzerland, I fancy--he came into contact with some Socialists and imbibed their ideas. He put away all his fine clothes and extravagant tastes and became quite humble and simple.
Because he had no money to do otherwise.
There is something in that. Well, he lived among these Socialists for many a long year. He went to Russia and saw Tolstoi, knew Karl Marx, and threw himself headlong into schemes whereby the human race was to be saved by all manner of devices, having as their basis the equitable division of property. Then he married a young girl--a Swiss, the daughter of one of his socialistic friends--and returned to England. He was poor, so I helped him.
Out of your poverty!--how noble! sneered Van Zwieten, lighting a fresh cigar.
Oh, I was richer then. I was married and my wife had money. Then she died a few years after Brenda was born, and I put the child to school as soon as she was of an age. She was brought up away from me, he went on sadly; "that is why I have such small influence over her."
You will have influence enough to make her marry me, my friend.
I doubt it--I doubt it. Well, my brother lived in a poor way, having but little money, besides which, his ideas were all against luxury. His wife was beautiful and frivolous and had no love for him. She coveted money and position, neither of which he could give her, and would not if he could. That was ten years ago.
Ah! and what happened then?
My brother's wife met Malet. He was handsome, rich, and a scoundrel, and he ran away with her.
Van Zwieten appeared astonished. "He wasn't then married to Lady Jenny?"
No, he married Lady Jenny later. But he ran off with my brother's wife to Italy. And the shock of his wife's treachery gave poor Robert brain fever.
He loved her then?
He worshipped her. She was his life--he lived only to make her happy. Well, he had his recompense! She deceived him, deserted him. Without a word she eloped with that scoundrel. Robert lost his reason, and I had to put him in an asylum. There he was for two years. When he came out he went in search of his wife, for he still loved her. Malet by that time had come back alone, and shortly afterward he married Lady Jenny. The reptile! do you wonder that I hated him? For Robert's sake I saw him and forced him to tell the truth. I threatened to inform his wife of his past if he did not.
But all that was before the marriage. No woman would care if----
Lady Jenny would. She is half Italian and of an extremely jealous disposition. She loved Malet--God only knows why--and had she found out the truth then she would have left him. But Malet told me where to find my brother's wife, and I held my tongue.
Did Lady Jenny ever learn this story?
You shall hear. Robert found his wife and took her back. She was a complete wreck and terribly unhappy. They lived at Poplar under another name on the small income I could allow them. For years I saw very little of Robert. Then he took it into his head to pose as a prophet of evil, predicting woe to England. He assumed that snuff-colored coat and wore the crape scarf as a symbol of his mourning. He was frequently in trouble with the police, and several times I helped him out of his scrapes.
Why don't you shut him up again?
Ah! my friend, how could I take the poor fellow from his dying wife? All those years she was bedridden and dying slowly. I could not part them. Latterly he used to come now and again to see me at Chippingholt, usually at night and in ordinary dress. On one occasion he arrived in the daytime and met Lady Jenny. He knew her by sight, and he told her the truth about his wife and her husband. That was a year ago. Lady Jenny was furious, and I believe she quarrelled with her husband. After that they were never the same to one another. She loved him once, but after that she must have hated him. Robert was foolish to have told her. It could do no good.
Well--what then?
He went away, and for months I saw nothing of him. The next I heard was when Brenda told me Harold Burton had met a man like me with a crape scarf round his neck. From the description I recognized Robert, and knew that his mind must be more than ever unhinged for him to have come down in what he called his prophetic robes. I knew he would not come to see me till dusk, and I waited anxiously. But he did not appear, so I went out to look for him. It struck me that he might be lurking round the Manor gates to see Gilbert Malet, and perhaps to do him an injury. I searched for a long time, and was caught in the storm. Then I found Robert in the orchards and led him home. He told me his news.
What was his news?
His wife was dead, and he had come to tell Malet.