For the next week Brenda lived in a state of bewilderment. Everything seemed to go wrong. Her father did not return, but wrote that his things were to be sent on to London, and that Brenda herself was to leave the cottage in charge of Mrs. Daw, and come up in a fortnight's time. Van Zwieten bowed himself out of Chippingholt without having told her of his interview with Harold. With his usual cunning, he had left Harold himself to do that; but Harold, leaving a message for Brenda that he was suddenly recalled to his regimental duties, had himself left by a later train, without either explanation or word of farewell.
Brenda was hopelessly at a loss to understand her lover's action, and in her despair sought Lady Jenny.
It was a week after the inquest, and the two women were seated in Lady Jenny's boudoir, a pleasant rose-hued room which looked out on to a Dutch garden. The usual verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown had been brought in by the usual opaque country jury, directed by a not over-intelligent coroner. Gilbert Malet's body had been laid away in the family vault, and Lady Jenny was utilizing for her husband the mourning she had worn for her father.
Brenda was paying her now a visit of condolence; but Lady Jenny showed clearly by her manner and curt speech that she stood in no need of sympathy. It was amazing to see the change that had taken place in her since her husband's death. Formerly she had been a gay, frivolous little woman, with ever a smile on her face; now Brenda found her a small image of stone, as hard, and every whit as cold. She could scarcely believe it was the same woman.
Finding that her sympathetic references to the dead man were received with coldness, Brenda tactfully changed the conversation. She mentioned her own anxiety about Harold's abrupt departure, and found Lady Jenny quite ready to talk on that subject. She loved Brenda and admired Harold, and wished to see them married. Consequently she was only too glad to smooth down Brenda's feathers, which were a good deal ruffled by her lover's strange behavior.
"My dear, you know a soldier's time is not his own," she said. "I expect Harold got a telegram, and had just time to pack and catch the first train."
"He should have sent for me," said Brenda; "I should have seen him off at the station."
"Well, I've no doubt he will explain his reasons when you meet in town. You go there next week, and Harold is only at Aldershot. He has written to you?"
"Several times, and always fondly. But he has never explained his leaving without seeing me. It's no good, Lady Jenny; I confess I am angry. Yet he may have avoided seeing me on account of the murder."
Lady Jenny looked up sharply. "Why should he?" Brenda hesitated. She was thinking of Harold's suspicions regarding her father, and did not want to tell them to the dead man's widow. For the moment she had forgotten to whom she was speaking. But, having committed herself so far, she was obliged to get out of the difficulty as best she could.
"You know Inspector Woke suspected Harold?" she said, nervously avoiding Lady Jenny's sharp black eyes; "he said----"
"I know--I know. Woke told me of his suspicions. He's a fool--to suspect Harold of killing Gilbert just because they had a few words is ridiculous, and I told him so. Nobody will ever know who killed Gilbert."
"You speak very confidently," said Brenda, amazed at her hard tone.
"Because I feel confident," retorted the other. "There is not a scrap of evidence against any one. All that could be said was said at the inquest. Woke and his police have been doing their best to get at the truth, and have failed. The revolver was not found; no one knew why Gilbert went out walking on that night, or whom he met, and--oh, the whole thing is over and done with. It is only one more of the many undiscovered crimes."
"Do you suspect any one?"
"Not a soul. Why should I? Gilbert had many enemies--so he said--but I don't know any of them, and I don't suppose any one of them would have gone the length of murder."
"The police here are such sillies," put in Brenda. "Why don't you get a clever detective down from London?"
"Because I think the case is hopeless, my dear," said the widow, gloomily, "and because it would cost a great deal too much money. I have not yet gone into the affairs of the estate, but I am afraid I shall not be over well off. Gilbert would play, and I suppose I was extravagant. We lived far beyond our means. This place is mortgaged heavily."
"What--the Manor?" asked Brenda, startled.
"Yes, all our property is mortgaged. I expect I shall be left with nothing but the ten thousand pounds for which Gilbert's life was insured. Fortunately it was settled on me at the time of our marriage, so his creditors can't touch it. I hate being poor," cried Lady Jenny, viciously; "and, so far as I can see, I shall be--very poor."
"I had no idea things were so bad."
"Nor had I until six months ago, when Gilbert told me. We have lived from hand to mouth since then. All Gilbert's efforts have been directed to staving off ruin."
Brenda's heart sank within her. "What about Harold's money?"
"Oh, Harold and Wilfred are all right," said Lady Jenny, hastily; "at least, I suppose so. Gilbert always said that he took good care of their money, and I think he did. He was not the man to place himself within reach of the law by appropriating trust monies--at least, I can't believe he would do such a thing. But next week the whole matter will be gone into. Then I suppose you and Harold will get married."
"Of course. In any case--money or no money--we shall be married."
"Oh, I don't know. It's absurd marrying on nothing. Gilbert was well off when I became his wife, or I shouldn't have married him; had I known he was a gambler, I should have refused him. He made a nice mess of his life."
"I thought you loved him."
"I did, a deal better than he deserved," said Lady Jenny, bitterly. "But--but--oh, what is the use of talking! He was a bad man--another woman--his fault--and I--my dear, don't you trust Harold. All men are bad."
"I always understood Mr. Malet was devoted to you."
"So did I--until I found him out. It came about in the strangest way--the discovery, I mean." Lady Jenny paused, as though considering whether to speak out or not. Finally she decided to hold her tongue. "But then these things concern only myself," said she, abruptly. "He deceived me--I was jealous--that is all you need know. But I cannot say that I sorrow for him now that he is dead."
"Oh, how can you speak so?"
"Because I am a woman, and jealous. When Harold deceives you, Brenda, you will feel as I do--feel that you could kill him with your own hand." Lady Jenny looked suddenly at the girl's blonde beauty. "But no! you are a cold Saxon girl, with little such spirit in you. I--my father was Irish, my mother Italian, and I have in me all the fire of Celt and Latin. It was well for Gilbert that he died when he did," she said between her teeth; "I don't know what I should have done!"
The bitterness and passion with which she spoke were both new to Brenda, who had never suspected her of such depth of feeling. Being in the dark, more or less, concerning its cause, she hardly knew what to say, so she held her peace. She felt that nothing she could say would alter her friend's feelings, and might possibly even aggravate them. After a turn up and down the room, the widow resumed her seat, and seemed to become calmer.
"Where are you going to stay in town, Brenda?"
"With my aunt, Mrs. St. Leger, in Kensington. My father always lives in his own rooms, you know. He doesn't want to be troubled with a grown-up daughter."
"He won't be troubled long if Harold is to be believed."
"You mean our marriage? No! But you know my father doesn't approve of it. He wants me to marry Mr. van Zwieten."
"That Dutchman! Horrid creature! I never could bear him. Gilbert liked him, though."
"Indeed!" said Brenda, rather surprised. "Mr. van Zwieten told me he and Mr. Malet were not friendly."
Lady Jenny laughed in a way not good to hear. "Very likely. Van Zwieten is cunning--slim, as his countrymen call it. I know more about him though than he thinks."
"Do you know who he is?"
"Yes, I know who he is, and how he makes his money, and why he is in England."
"How did you find out?" asked Brenda, breathlessly.
"Oh,thatI mustn't tell you--suppose you were to tell Van Zwieten?"
"Tell him!" repeated Miss Scarse, her face crimson, her eyes bright. "Why, I hate him more than any man I ever knew. He wants to marry me, and won't take a refusal. My father supports him, and, for Harold's sake, I have to fight them both."
"And you are not afraid of so formidable a foe?" said the widow, seeing her eyes droop.
"Not of my father, but I am afraid of Mr. van Zwieten. He is a terrible man, and has so powerful a will that he can almost impose it on mine. There is something hypnotic about him, and I feel scarcely mistress of myself when he is near me."
"Nonsense! You are fanciful, child."
"Indeed--indeed I am not," protested the girl, eagerly. "But you don't know how strong and obstinate he is. He never loses his temper, he just looks and looks with those terrible eyes of his, and repeats his desire--his will--his intentions--over and over again. I feel like a rabbit in the presence of a snake. And that's why I want Harold and me to be married soon, because I feel, if we are not, Mr. van Zwieten will compel me in spite of myself."
Lady Jenny bent forward and caught Brenda's wrists. "My dear, if Van Zwieten tries these pranks on, you send for me. If any one can save you from him, I can."
"But how?"
"That is my affair. Van Zwieten may be all you say, but I can make him afraid of me. Now you must go, my dear. I have a lot of letters to write."
Brenda went off much puzzled over Lady Jenny's attitude toward Van Zwieten. Evidently she knew something to the man's disadvantage. But Brenda was doubtful whether her friend could use her knowledge sufficiently cleverly to crush the Dutchman. His resource was extraordinary, and he was clever and unscrupulous enough to be able to defend himself in an emergency. However, she felt it was no use trying to forecast the future. She resolved to keep out of Van Zwieten's way and get Harold to marry her as soon as possible. Once she was Mrs. Burton, the Dutchman would be obliged to cease persecuting her.
For the next few days Brenda was fully occupied with her packing. As Harold was in London, or rather so near London that he could come up there quickly, she was glad to be going. She felt she must see him and have from him an explanation, and an understanding as to when their marriage could take place. At her aunt's she would be safe from Van Zwieten, since Mr. St. Leger did not like him; but Brenda knew well that for his own ends--whatever these might be--her father would, as ever, insist on her favoring Van Zwieten.
The only way to put an end to the intolerable situation was to marry Harold. With that, her father would no doubt wash his hands of her, but at least she would be relieved from the persecutions of the Dutchman, and would have some one to love and protect her. So it was with thankfulness that Brenda left the cottage.
In the train she found a travelling companion whom she did not expect--none other than Harold's brother. Wilfred's foot was now quite well, and he looked better in health than when Brenda had last seen him. He joined her at Langton Junction, and they travelled up in the same carriage, which they were fortunate enough to have to themselves. She was pleased that it was so, for she wanted to talk confidentially with Wilfred. They were the best of good friends.
"I am so glad your foot is all right again, Wilfred," she said cheerfully. "It is such a painful thing--a sprain."
"Yet for all that I am not sorry I sprained it," said Wilfred, turning his thin white face toward the girl.
"Not sorry! What do you mean?"
"Oh, it's an ill wind--you know."
"Yes, I suppose it is. But it's difficult to see what sort of 'good' one can look for from a sprained ankle!"
"Well, in this instance I fancy it did me a good turn. You see it rendered me physically helpless for the time being."
"My dear Wilfred--I confess you puzzle me."
"Do I? Well, I'll tell you what I mean. The night, almost the hour, I sprained my ankle, poor Malet was shot. So no one can possibly accusemeof having shot him!"
"But whowoulddare to accuse you of such a thing?"
"Oh, I don't know; that fool of an inspector was quite prepared to fix his beastly suspicions on Harold--told me as much."
"I know; but then you see Harold and Mr. Malet quarrelled. That was the reason Mr. Woke was suspicious. But of course Harold laughed at the idea."
"I should think so. I confess the whole thing licks me. I can't imagine who can have done it."
"No one knows. Lady Jenny says no one ever will know!"
"I suppose not. It seems to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Do you know, Brenda, Ihavehad my suspicions!"
A cold hand clutched the girl's heart. She immediately thought of her father. "Have you?" she faltered. "Of whom?"
"Well, I wouldn't tell every one, as I have really no sort of basis for them. They are the purest suspicions. But I suspect that big Dutchman who was staying at your place."
"Van Zwieten!" Brenda's mind ran over the events of that terrible night. The Dutchman had been out; he had come in after her. But again her father had told the servants that Van Zwieten was in the study with him--a distinct falsehood. Whichever way she looked at it, her father seemed to be mixed up in the matter. "Yet what possible motive could Van Zwieten have had to impel him to such a crime?" she asked Wilfred.
"It might be a political crime," said the young man, his face lighting up as it invariably did when he talked politics. "Gilbert was an Imperialist--always preaching and writing against the Boers. Van Zwieten is Dutch, and is going out to an appointment at Pretoria; also he is an intimate friend of Dr. Leyds. He might have wished to get Gilbert out of the way because he was dangerous to his schemes."
"Surely he wouldn't have gone the length of murder for such a reason."
"Oh, I don't know. If he could without being found out, I am certain he would. I don't say Van Zwieten fired the shot himself, but he might have hired some one to do it."
"What makes you think that, Wilfred?"
"Well, I was talking to the station-master at Chippingholt. He said that a man in a dark overcoat with a soft hat pulled over his eyes went to Langton Junction by the 10:30 train--the last train on that night. Van Zwieten saw him off at the station. He was seen to follow the man to the compartment and put his head through the window. There was evidently an understanding between them. Now you know, Brenda, few strangers come to Chippingholt, for there is nothing to see there. It was odd, to say the least of it, that Van Zwieten should have seen this fellow off. Moreover, he just left after the murder was committed."
"I don't see though how you are justified from this in thinking that either Van Zwieten or the other man is implicated in the murder," said Brenda after a pause. "They might simply have met on business."
"What sort of business?"
"I can't say, I am not in Mr. van Zwieten's confidence."
Wilfred's eyes flashed. "I wish I was!" he said emphatically. "I believe the fellow is a Boer spy!"
"I thought so too, and I told him so."
"What did he say?"
"He denied it. Wilfred, did any one see the face of this stranger?"
"No. He kept his coat collar turned up, and his hat well over his eyes. Why?"
"Nothing, I was only wondering." Brenda dreaded lest she should hear that the stranger was he who so closely resembled her father. She wondered, too, whether it was possible her father could have assisted this man to escape after he had shot Mr. Malet, for that the crime had been committed by the same man who wore the black crape scarf seemed conclusively proved by the presence of that piece of it in the victim's hand.
"I intend to keep a pretty close watch on Mr. van Zwieten," went on Wilfred. "In fact, that is why I have come up to town. If, as I suspect, he is a spy, the authorities must know of it. In the event of hostilities breaking out between this country and the Transvaal, he would of course be arrested at once."
"But you cannot prove his complicity in this matter, Wilfred?"
"I intend to have a shot at it any way," replied the young man, grimly. "But come, Brenda, here we are at Victoria. Let me put you in a hansom."
"Do come and see me, Wilfred. I'm at Mrs. St. Leger's."
"Thanks; I will. I may ask you to help me too in my pursuit of this Dutchman."
"How you seem to hate Mr. van Zwieten, Wilfred," she exclaimed. "Have you any especial reason to dislike him?"
"I hate him because he is the enemy of my country."
As the cab drove away, Brenda mused on the fervent patriotism of the man. Frail, neurotic, frequently ailing, a prey to chronic melancholia, yet he was of the stuff of which such men as Hampden, Pym and Cromwell are made. He believed in the greatness of England as he did in the existence of God. Her every triumph sent a thrill through him, her lightest disaster cut him to the quick. It was as if he were ever under the influence of a fixed idea. But if he were, the idea was at least a noble and an elevating one. His spirit was strong as his body was weak, and through his body he paid dearly for his patriotic emotions.
It had been Brenda's intention to drive at once to Kensington, but when she recalled all that Wilfred had said, she felt she must see her father, if only to clear her mind of suspicion. Had he assisted--as seemed probable--in the escape of the unknown man, he must have known that the creature was a murderer, since there could be no other reason for such a hurried and secretive flight. She felt she could not rest until she had the truth from his own lips. Hence she told the man to drive to his chambers in Star Street.
Fortunately the old man was in. He looked leaner and whiter, she thought, than ever. He was buried in the evening papers, from which he was cutting out slips, which he proceeded to paste into a large book. It was from these clippings of editorial opinion and collected data that he constructed his speeches, throwing in as flavoring a dash of his own dogmatic optimism, and some free expression reflecting the true humanity of other nations as compared with that of his own brutal country, of which, in truth, he had little to say that was not abusive.
As usual, he received Brenda coldly, and wondered why she had not driven at once to her aunt's. She soon explained to him her reasons.
"Father, I am worrying myself to death about that man with the crape scarf."
Scarse colored and averted his eyes. "Why, pray?" he asked.
"Because I can't get over his resemblance to you. Is he a relative?"
"No." Scarse cleared his throat and spoke. "The fact is, Brenda, I wore that crape scarf and snuff-colored coat myself. I am the man Harold saw."
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. Heisa 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!"