Having no ambition toward enacting therôleof heroine of an Adelphi melodrama, Brenda was beginning to weary of this game of hide-and-seek. However, she was safe for the time being, as even the redoubtable Van Zwieten could hardly be expected to take her from the midst of the British army. Harold reported the mishap which had led to the loss of his men, and afterward rejoined his company. He wished his wife to go back to Spearman's Camp; but she begged so hard to remain that at last he consented. Permission was obtained from the authorities, and Brenda betook herself to her old task of nursing the wounded. She related to her friend the doctor as much of her adventures as she could without trenching too closely on her private affairs; and great surprise was expressed at her perils and her lucky escape. But to Wilfred, who came to see her and his brother as soon as he heard of their rescue, she related everything in detail.
"By Jove! what a scoundrel that fellow is!" said that young man. "I wonder when he intends to leave you alone."
"Never, I fear," replied Brenda. "Unless he is killed I shall never be safe from him."
"I'll shoot him myself if I get a chance. He is a danger to society--it must be some one's business to put him out of the way. You have had a bad time, Brenda; but I don't think you need fear the man any more."
"What makes you say that?"
"I have an idea that he has come to the end of his tether."
"So have I," she said. "And I told him so. But, Wilfred, tell me about my father?"
"He has gone back to Durban, as you know, to see the authorities about your disappearance. He thinks you have been taken prisoner by the Boers, and that you are at Pretoria by now. He is going to try and get you exchanged."
"There is no need for that, thank God!" said Brenda, cheerfully. "I must let him know at once."
"That will be difficult unless you send a message from Ladysmith."
"When do you think we shall be there?"
"If the luck holds good, in a couple of days. We have taken most of the Boer positions; now Warren intends to try for Spion Kop to-night. If he captures it, we shall hold the key to the Boer position."
"Ah, you see Wilfred, your forebodings are all wrong."
"We are yet in the wood, not out of it," replied he, significantly. "However, I will give Buller and Warren all praise. They have done well. All the same, I still condemn this plan of campaign. Only a miracle can render it successful."
"Well, we shall see what happens when Spion Kop is taken. Do try and look on the bright side of things, Wilfred."
But the young man departed, still shaking his head. There was no doubt that he was very depressing company. His face wore a look of settled gloom most painful to behold; and he was always prognosticating calamity in the face of the most promising operations. At the same time he invariably refrained from pessimism in his letters to his newspaper, which were usually cheerful and full of devoted praise of the behavior of both troops and officers.
It was anxious work waiting in the hospital while Harold was in the field. But Brenda had not much time for thought. She was nursing the wounded with all her heart and soul, and was an angel of light amongst the weary, wounded soldiers. The doctor called her his right hand, as well he might. She deprived herself of rest and food to be by her patients. Only when compelled to, did she lie down; and then it was in her clothes, ready to be up and doing at the call of duty. Her best qualities came out in this most arduous work.
The grand attack on Spion Kop was to be made at night, in order to effect a surprise. All day long the operations went on in the field. Toward sunset Harold's company had to dislodge a number of Boers who had entrenched themselves on the slope of the mountain. The position was taken and the enemy fell back; but not without considerable loss of life on both sides. Amongst the wounded was Harold, who was shot through the lung. It was dark when the news was brought into the camp, and the ambulance bearers started under a rising moon for this miniature battlefield.
Quite unaware of her husband's mishap, Brenda was busy attending a dying man. But he was beyond her aid, and died within a very short time of his being brought in. She was closing his eyes with a sigh at the horrors of war when one of the doctors told her that she was wanted. With a presentiment of bad news she went out and found Wilfred waiting to speak to her. He was greatly agitated and took her hand as if to give her courage.
"Brenda, I have bad news for you!"
"It is Harold!" she cried, pale to the lips.
"Yes, it is Harold. I have only just heard."
"He is dead?"
"No. I hope not--I don't know but he fell while leading the attack on one of the small kopjes. They are just going out to bring in the wounded. I thought----"
"Yes, I'll come," said Brenda, anticipating his speech. "Is it far?"
"No, not very. Make haste. God grant we may find him alive!"
She needed no second bidding, but hastily gathered together some medical comforts, wrapped herself in a cloak and came out. In silence they walked toward the fatal spot which had been pointed out to Wilfred by a private who had seen Harold fall. She did not weep. Her emotion was too deep for tears. The moment which she had been dreading all these months had arrived--unexpectedly, as all such moments do. Now she felt that the actual event was not so terrible as the expectation had been. There was a chance that he might be alive. He was wiry, healthy, clean-blooded and clean living, and the Mauser bullets, as Brenda had seen, inflicted a clean wound. Full of silent prayer she walked on. Had she heard of this in England she would have been distracted; but somehow, since she was on the spot and would soon be with him, it did not seem quite so terrible. At all events he had fallen in the forefront of battle, doing his work, and not by the treachery of Van Zwieten. If he died he could not die more gloriously. There was comfort in that thought.
"I saw Van Zwieten to-day," said Wilfred, suddenly.
"You did? Where? When?" asked Brenda, wondering if after all the scoundrel could have had anything to do with this mishap to her husband.
"On the lower slopes. I was looking through my field-glass and saw him quite plainly riding about on a big black horse. I recognized him by his long golden beard. I am certain it was he; that was why I wanted you to come with me to see after Harold."
"I don't understand----"
"Because as Van Zwieten is about the place he is bound to hear that Harold has been shot. He has spies everywhere; and from one of our prisoners I heard that he had described Harold's appearance to several Boer sharp-shooters, that the poor chap might be picked off."
"Do you know the prisoner's name?"
"Yes; and he's a fine old fellow who did good service to you--Piet Bok!"
"Then he was not killed at the time we escaped?"
"No, only touched on the right arm. He was taken prisoner this morning. I would have come and told you, but I couldn't get away. I saw him by chance, and he recognized me from my resemblance to Harold. I told him he was wrong and then he informed me of Van Zwieten's new villainy. By this time the man who picked off Harold has, no doubt, told Van Zwieten, and has received his reward. And that scoundrel will probably come down to see if the news is true."
"What?" shrieked Brenda. "Oh, don't, Wilfred! If he finds Harold still alive he will kill him."
"That's what I thought; and that's why I got you to come with me. I feel certain that the brute will be there."
She uttered a cry of mingled terror and pain. "Oh, Wilfred, do not let us lose a moment. Harold, my darling!" She began to run.
"Come, Brenda, keep as quiet as you can. You'll need all your strength!"
A glorious moon filled the world with its pale radiance. The shadows of the mountains and kopjes were black as Indian ink in the white light. Here and there were points of fire, and in the distance a glimpse of the white tents of the camp. To the right rose the great mass of Spion Kop, with its flat table top dark and menacing. But a few hours and there would be a deadly struggle on that pinnacle. Already the generals were maturing their plans for the assault. Occasionally the boom of a gun could be heard, for the Boers had not yet desisted from firing, in spite of the lateness of the hour. Brenda paid no heed to all this. She strained her eyes toward the rising ground they were approaching. Was he dead or alive? All her life was bound up in the answer to that question.
The Indian bearers swung along at a slow trot, and she followed closely on Wilfred's arm. He felt her shiver although the night was warm, and did his best to console her. And she never forgot his brotherly kindness at that terrible hour.
They climbed up the slope which earlier in the day had been swept by rifle fire. Now the Boers had retreated to another point of vantage, and the position was held by a small force of our men. As the ambulance party approached it was challenged and the word was given. In a few minutes the bearers were within the entrenchments.
"Glad you've come," said the officer in charge; "there are many poor fellows here who require your attention. The enemy are removing their dead now."
He addressed these remarks to the doctor, but he saluted when he saw Brenda, whom he knew. "I expected you, Mrs. Burton. Your husband is over yonder. We have made him as comfortable as possible."
"Then he is not dead?" gasped Brenda, turning faint.
"Oh, no," he said cheerily, "he is worth a dozen dead men. You'll soon pull him round. Over there."
He pointed to the left and she hurried away. Wilfred lingered behind to speak to the officer. "Have you noticed a particularly tall man with the Boers?" he asked, "a man with a golden beard?"
"Yes. He asked after Burton. It seems he was a friend of his before the war."
"Has he seen him?" asked Wilfred, turning pale, for well he knew the reason of Van Zwieten's inquiries.
"No, I think not. But he intends to look him up shortly. I think your brother will pull through, Burton," and he hurried away to attend to his duties. Wilfred stood still and meditated. He grasped his revolver. "The man has lived too long," he murmured; "I must do it!"
Then he moved toward the group round his brother. Brenda was supporting his head, and a doctor was examining the wound in the poor fellow's chest. "We must wait till we get him to the hospital," he said. "Have him put into the ambulance, Mrs. Burton."
"Has he a chance, doctor?" she asked with quivering lips.
"I can't say yet. The bullet has pierced the lung. Hope for the best."
Then he hurried away with his attendants, and Brenda was left alone with her husband and Wilfred. Harold was quite unconscious, but breathing faintly, and as she bent over him, with an agonized face, she prayed that God would spare his life. Wilfred stood beside her and looked down silently on that countenance waxen in the light of the lantern. As he stood there, as Brenda placed Harold's head on her knees, both heard a mocking voice beside them.
"Well, Mrs. Burton, you are a widow at last!"
She gave a cry of horror at the ill-omened words, and Wilfred turned with a bound to clutch Van Zwieten by the throat.
"You hound!" he cried. "You miserable dog!" and he hurled the big man to the ground.
Taken by surprise, the Dutchman had fallen; but he rose to his feet with an ugly scowl, cursing bitterly. "I'll pay you out for this!" he said menacingly. "At present my business is with Mrs. Burton."
"I refuse to speak to you," cried she. "You are a wicked man, and God will punish you."
"I rather think that it is you who have been punished," he sneered. "Your husband is dead, or pretty near it. Now it is my turn."
"He is not dead. He will live when you are lying in your grave. Leave me; you have done harm enough!"
"But he has not paid for it!" cried Wilfred, savagely.
"No, nor will he pay!" cried Van Zwieten, defiantly.
Wilfred pulled out his revolver. "I will make you pay!" he said. "You shall fight me!"
The Dutchman was no coward, but he drew back from the terrible expression on the young man's face, accentuated as it was in the strong moonlight.
"I refuse to fight with you," he said sullenly. "This matter has nothing to do with you. If I choose to marry your brother's widow, that is my business. Mind your own!"
"You shall marry no one," said Wilfred, harshly, "for I intend to kill you."
Brenda did not speak. She listened absently while the two men wrangled. Van Zwieten looked at her for a moment, then he turned his back on Wilfred.
"I will not fight you," he repeated.
The other man sprang forward and struck him on the cheek with his fist. "Will that make you fight?"
With a roar of rage Van Zwieten turned and flung himself forward. He caught the younger man in his arms like a child and threw him on the grass. Then he drew out his revolver and fired at the prostrate man. But Brenda had looked up, and seeing his intention had sprung to her feet and grasped his arm. The shot went wide, and in his rage Van Zwieten struck her--the woman he loved--struck her to the ground. And before he could recover himself sufficiently to fire a second time, he fell with a hoarse cry, shot twice through the breast by Wilfred Burton.
"Nemesis has come up with you at last," said the young man, picking up Brenda in his arms.
The sound of the shots had attracted the attention of the men near at hand. "Good God, Burton, what have you done?" cried an officer.
"Killed some vermin," was the reply. "Here, bring the ambulance along and put Burton into it."
"Wilfred!" shrieked Brenda, who had recovered her breath, "is he dead?"
"No," said Van Zwieten, faintly, "not dead--but dying--I have lost!"
No one attempted to molest Wilfred. "I can explain myself to the commanding officer," he said. "He will approve of what I have done."
By this time the other Boers had taken their departure, or there might have been trouble at this violation of the armistice. Brenda aided the men to place Harold in the ambulance, and when she had made him comfortable, returned to the side of Wilfred, who was explaining his conduct to the officer in command. Van Zwieten heard her footstep--or he must have felt her presence near him. He opened his eyes. "I am done for," he said. "I suppose it is just, but I loved you, Brenda!"
Much as she hated him, she could not see him die there without making an effort to save him. She tried to staunch the wound, but it was impossible. The doctor had long since taken his departure. Seeing that all human aid was useless, she moistened the man's lips with brandy.
"Thank you," he said faintly. "Will you forgive me?"
"Yes, I forgive you," she whispered, "but you must ask forgiveness of God."
Van Zwieten shook his head feebly. "It is too late for that. Ask Burton to forgive me. He has punished me. He can afford to be generous."
Wilfred overheard the words. "I forgive you the ill you have done my family, but I do not forgive you for seeking the hospitality of my country and betraying it. Come, Brenda!"
"I can tell you something about that," said Van Zwieten, in a weak voice. "Come near."
Quite unsuspicious, Wilfred knelt down beside him. In an instant Van Zwieten raised his revolver and shot him through the throat. He fell back with the blood pouring from his mouth.
Van Zwieten laughed. "Quits!" he said. Then he fell back dead.
All was confusion. Brenda knelt beside her brother-in-law, and took his head in her lap, while the others crowded round Van Zwieten's dead body. Wilfred opened his eyes, saw Brenda's eyes bending over him, and whispered, "Bend down, quick!"
She put her ear to his mouth, and heard him whisper in broken words, "In my breast-pocket--look yourself--packet--confession. I shot Malet."
"You--oh!" gasped Brenda. "Why?"
Wilfred Burton raised himself up with one last expiring effort. "For England!" he cried. "For England--God bless Eng----" Then he too fell back a corpse. Brenda fainted.
Two weeks later Mrs. Burton was in Maritzburg, by the sick-bed of her husband. As prophesied by Wilfred, the attempt to relieve Ladysmith by storming the impregnable positions of the enemy had failed. Certainly Warren had been so successful as to have seized Spion Kop, but only to abandon it on finding the position untenable. Then Buller very wisely had fallen back on his original line of defence across the Tugela; and the retreat had been conducted in a masterly fashion, without the loss of a man or a gun. Brenda and her wounded husband had gone back also to Spearman's Camp, and later on had gone on to Maritzburg. Wilfred was left in his lonely grave under the shadow of Spion Kop, where also lay the body of Van Zwieten.
Harold's wound was dangerous, but had not proved fatal. He had been invalided home by the doctors; and so soon as he might be able to travel he was to sail for England. But when that would be it was difficult to say. For some days he had hovered between life and death; but now he had turned the corner and was gradually winning his way back to life under the loving and skillful care of his wife. He was out of danger and on a fair way to recovery, but it would be many a long day before he would be able to fight again.
In the meantime, Mr. Scarse, hearing that his daughter was safe and sound, had now returned from Durban, and was staying at the same hotel. He was thankful to know that at last she was to be spared the persecutions of Van Zwieten, whose death he openly rejoiced in. He was greatly astonished at the news that Wilfred had killed Malet, but he hardly censured him so severely as a Little Englander might have been expected to do in the circumstances. But, indeed, Mr. Scarse was by no means so virulent against his country now as he had been in the past. His visit to South Africa had opened his eyes to the other side of the question, particularly to the many failings of the Boers. He had learned from experience that England was not invariably wrong; that however she might blunder, she had usually right on her side. In fact, both as a father and a politician, Mr. Scarse was a reformed character.
Harold was terribly distressed to hear of the death of his brother. For a long time Brenda kept the news from him, fearing its effect in his weak state. But the day came when it could no longer be withheld, and she was obliged to tell him the truth.
It was a glorious tropical morning. Her father had gone out, and she was seated by her husband's bed, holding his hand in her own. His beard had grown, he was thin and haggard, but his eyes were bright and full of intelligence. He was anxious, and able now to hear all that had to be told. And she told him everything. He was amazed.
"Wilfred killed Malet!" he said, hardly believing his ears. "But he had a sprained ankle on that night. It is impossible!"
"His sprain was feigned to protect himself," replied Brenda, sadly; "it is all in his confession."
"He left a written confession?"
"Yes, he wrote everything as it happened on that night, and carried the statement about with him, to be placed in the hands of you or myself when he died. Hush, Harold, dear, you must not speak. Here is my father."
Mr. Scarse entered on tiptoe to inquire how the invalid was getting on. He brought in some fruit--always a welcome gift to the convalescent. He had heard enough to acquaint him with the subject under discussion. So busy had Brenda been in nursing her husband that she had not found time to tell the whole story to her father. Now he asked her for details, and she went over them again for his benefit.
"But why did Wilfred kill the man?" he asked.
"From sheer patriotic feeling," answered his daughter. "He found out that Mr. Malet was supplying information about our defences to Van Zwieten, and he remonstrated with him. Malet laughed at his scruples and denied his complicity. Then Wilfred searched Mr. Malet's desk and found papers which proved conclusively his treachery. Then it was he decided to kill him to save the honor of the family."
"Well," said Scarse, reflectively, "murder is a terrible crime; but if ever it is excusable, surely it is in such circumstances as these."
"So I think," chimed in Harold. "A man who betrays his country should not be allowed to live. In his place I would have acted just as Wilfred did. It was not a murder; it was well-deserved extermination."
"It is terrible, nevertheless. Read the confession, Brenda," said Mr. Scarse.
"No. I can tell you the story better. Harold must not be wearied, and the confession is long. Wilfred has stated at great length the reasons which led him to this act, and sets out a strong defence of it. He never regretted it at all events."
"Go on, Brenda, dear child. I am anxious to hear how he did it."
She glanced at Harold to see if he was listening, and began: "I need not weary you with his own defence," she said. "As I have told you, from papers in Mr. Malet's desk he found out that he was a traitor, and was supplying Van Zwieten with information concerning the plans of the Government, the number of men and guns which we could place in the field, and many other things which the Transvaal authorities wished to know. Had Kruger and his gang not known that we were wholly unprepared, they would not have dared to defy Great Britain and risk this war. Mr. Malet, it appears, is responsible for a great deal--indeed, for the whole war!"
"The scoundrel!" Harold said weakly. "I am glad, indeed, that Wilfred shot him. I would have done so myself."
"To ward off suspicions from his doings, Malet posed as an Imperialist. He saw Van Zwieten only at intervals. It was to obtain possession of some papers from Malet that Van Zwieten came down to Chippingholt, and for that reason he extorted an invitation from you, father."
"I thought he was anxious to come," Mr. Scarse said. "Now I can see it all."
She continued: "Wilfred heard that Van Zwieten was at the cottage, and kept a sharp eye on Malet. He found out that he was to meet Van Zwieten on that night and give him some documents. He then made up his mind to kill him, to save--as I have said--the honor of the family, as well as to punish him for his wickedness in betraying his own country.
"Shortly before nine o'clock, Van Zwieten came to the Manor and entered the library by one of the French windows. It was his voice that Lady Jenny heard when she went to see if her husband was back from his walk. Indeed, it was Malet who brought Van Zwieten to the library to give him the papers. When Lady Jenny was on her way to the Rectory to see you, Harold, Wilfred escorted her. She mentioned that she had heard voices in the library, and wondered with whom her husband had been speaking. Wilfred guessed at once that the man was at his scoundrelly work, and was more than ever determined to put a stop to it. To get away from Lady Jenny without exciting her suspicion, and also to prove analibiin case he shot the man, he pretended to sprain his ankle. Lady Jenny was quite unsuspicious, and went on to the Rectory alone. As you know, she never reached it, having been stopped by the storm. As soon as she was out of sight, Wilfred hastened back to the house with the intention of confronting both men, and killing Malet if he did not take the papers back from Van Zwieten. He also entered the library by the French window, so the servants never saw him come in. He found the room empty, as Van Zwieten had gone away, and Malet with him--I suppose it was to receive further instructions. Wilfred saw the revolvers belonging to Harold on a side-table, for Mr. Malet had been using them that afternoon. He took one, found that it was loaded, and hastened after the pair. Knowing that Van Zwieten was at our cottage, he went first in that direction; but for a long time he could see neither of them. At last he caught sight of Malet in the orchards, just before the storm. He was talking with a man whom Wilfred took to be you, father."
"My brother, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Brenda. "It was Uncle Robert. He heard high words between the two and saw the struggle."
"That was when the crape scarf was torn?"
"Undoubtedly. Malet must have torn it and held it in his hand without thinking. Well, Wilfred saw Malet throw the other man to the ground just when the storm broke, and hurry away to get back to shelter in the Manor; but the storm was so violent that he took shelter instead under a tree. Wilfred crept up to him and waited, but it was so dark that he could not see him plainly enough to shoot straight, and he was, of course, unwilling to risk failure. Then a flash of lightning revealed Mr. Malet. Wilfred sprang forward and grasped him by the shoulder. He cried out. I heard him myself. I was only a short distance away. When the darkness closed down again, Wilfred put the muzzle of the revolver close to his head and blew his brains out. Then he ran away, and in the darkness tripped over a stump. The revolver flew out of his hand, and he lost it."
"Van Zwieten found it?"
"Yes. Wilfred was a good deal troubled about it, for he knew that Harold's name was on it, and he feared lest he should on that account be accused of the murder."
"As I was, indeed, said Harold.
"Yes, dear, I know; but not officially. If, for instance, you had been arrested on the charge, then Wilfred would have come forward and have told the whole story. As it was, he kept silence."
"And what did he do after he had killed Malet?" asked Mr. Scarse.
"He went back to the place where Lady Jenny had left him, and waited for some time in case she should return. You see, to exonerate himself he thought it well to keep up the fiction of the sprained ankle. Then, as Lady Jenny did not return, he went home, and gave out that his ankle was sprained."
"But didn't the doctors find out the truth?"
"No; he took good care not to show his foot to any one. He wrapped it up in wet cloths and made a great fuss about it, but, in the excitement over the inquest, the doctor took no notice of it."
"I wonder Lady Jenny didn't find out the fraud," said Harold.
"In that case, Wilfred would have owned up to it and confessed the whole thing. And I don't believe she would have minded much, if she had known what a traitor her husband was."
"No; I dare say she would have applauded Wilfred. She is a true patriot is Lady Jenny," said Harold, with a feeble laugh. "Besides, on account of Robert's wife, she and her husband had become estranged for many a long day. But did Van Zwieten never guess?"
"No," said Brenda, reflectively, "I don't think he did. He believed Lady Jenny herself had done it out of revenge; but he could not prove that, and, under the circumstances, lest his own affairs should come out, he thought it wiser to hold his tongue. Well, that is the story, and a very painful one it is. I am sure that Wilfred acted for the best, and did what he conceived to be his duty both to his country and his family; but it is dreadful to think he should have stained his hands with blood."
"I don't altogether agree with you, my dear," said Mr. Scarse, energetically. "If Malet had been detected in his treasonable dealings, under martial law he would have been shot openly. As it was, Wilfred executed the sentence privately. I am not one to defend murder, you know, but I cannot bring myself to look upon this as murder."
"Wilfred was insane on the subject of patriotism," said Harold. "He was hardly responsible for his actions when he shot Malet. I don't blame him. The reptile deserved his punishment; and Van Zwieten deserved his fate. Wilfred did no more than was right, and he rid the world of two scoundrels."
"You forget, Van Zwieten fired first," put in Brenda. "Wilfred only defended himself. I can't pretend I am sorry that Van Zwieten is dead, because so long as he lived he would never have ceased to persecute me. But let his evil die with him, Harold."
"So far as that goes I never want to hear his name!"
"Now you are overtaxing your strength talking, dear," said Brenda, arranging the bedclothes. "You must be quiet and try and rest."
"Yes, do," said Mr. Scarse. "I want to have a few words with Brenda."
So Harold lay back, and, after a time, fell into a sleep. His wife told off one of the nurses to stay beside him, and herself went out with her father. When they had gone a short distance he explained why he wished to speak privately with her.
"Brenda," he said, "a will was found on Van Zwieten. It seems that there is a sum of some five thousand pounds standing to his credit at one of the London banks."
"Really, father; I never thought he was so well off. Evidently spying paid. To whom has he left it?"
"To you, my dear!"
"To me?" She could hardly believe her ears. "I would not take it if I were starving. I hated the man. How could I touch his money?"
"But, Brenda, think for a moment; is it not foolish to throw it away? Five thousand pounds is a large sum."
"No, no, no!" repeated the girl, vehemently. "I will not touch it, I tell you. That money was made out of spying and working evil against England. I am sure Harold would think as I do about it."
And so Harold did think. Later on, when she returned, she found him just awakened out of a refreshing sleep, and she told him of Van Zwieten's strange bequest. He refused at once to accept it, and commended her for having forestalled him in the decision.
"We can live on our own means, small as they are, dear; and, when the war is over, I will beat my sword into a ploughshare and come out here and turn farmer."
"That is if we are successful," said his wife smiling.
"Oh, I have no fear as to that. In a month or two there will be equal rights for white man and black from the Zambesi to the Cape. But, in any case, there'll be no more fighting for me, Brenda. I shall never be the same man again."
"Who says so?" she asked quickly.
"The doctor. He says this wound will always trouble me, and that I shall never be able to stand the English winters. Here the air is balmy and the climate mild."
"In that case we'll do just as you suggest, dearest. There is nothing to keep us in England. My father is wrapped up in his politics, and my aunt and uncle care only for themselves. Yes, you are right, as you always are, Harold. When the war is over we will settle here."
"We shall never think less of dear old England because we are exiles, eh, Brenda?"
"Exiles! We shall not be exiles here. This is part of the British Empire. Wherever the map is colored red there is England. Harold, dear, do you know, I cannot get poor Wilfred out of my thoughts. In his own way he was a true hero. He gave his life for his country."
"Yes, Brenda, I agree, just as much as many another man is doing here at this moment. I cannot help feeling relieved that the mystery of Malet's death is cleared up, and I am not ashamed now that I know it was my brother who fired the shot. May such justice ever be done to traitors!"
She knelt beside the bed and took his hands soothingly in her own. "Don't talk any more about these things, dearest. They excite you. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Let the past lie buried. All I know, and all I care for, is that you are alive, and that I have you wholly to myself. We will never be parted, Harold. We may be poor in the world's goods, but we are rich indeed in love."
"And that is the best of all riches, dearest."
"Amen," she said and kissed her husband tenderly.