"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. Howcouldyou 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."
"Iwas 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 thereissomething?"
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 Imustconsider."
"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. Iwillknow 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 withThe 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!"