"It's an infernal shame!"
"I call it common sense!"
"Call it what you please, Malet. I deny your right to keep back my money."
"Right? Your father's will gives me every right. If I approve of your marriage, the money will be paid down on your wedding day."
"But you don't approve, confound you!"
"Certainly not. Brenda Scarse is not the wife for you, Harold."
"That's my business."
"Mine also--under the will. Come, come now; don't lose your temper."
The elder speaker smiled as he proffered this advice, knowing well that he was provoking his cousin beyond all bounds. Harold Burton was young, fiery-tempered, and in love. To be thwarted in his love was something more than exasperating to this impetuous lover. The irritating request that he should keep his temper caused him to lose it promptly; and for the next five minutes Mr. Gilbert Malet was witness of a fine exhibition of unrestrained rage. He trembled for the furniture, almost for his own personal safety, though he managed to preserve a duly dignified outward calm. While Harold stamped about the room, his burly cousin posed before a fireless grate and trimmed his nails, and waited until the young man should have exhausted this wholly unnecessary display of violence.
They were in the library of Holt Manor. It was a sombre, monkish room; almost ascetic in its severity. Bookcases and furniture were of black oak, carpet and curtains of a deep red color; and windows of stained glass subdued the light suitably for study and meditation. But on this occasion the windows were open to the brilliant daylight of an August afternoon, and shafts of golden sunshine poured into the room. From the terrace stretching before the house, vast woods sloped toward Chippingholt village, where red-roofed houses clustered round a brawling stream, and rose again on the further side to sweep to the distant hills in unbroken masses of green. Manor and village took their Teutonic names from these forests, and buried in greenery, might have passed as the domain of the Sleeping Beauty. Her palace was undoubtedly girdled by just such a wood.
But this sylvan beauty did not appeal to the pair in the library. The stout, domineering owner of the Manor who trimmed his nails and smiled blandly had the stronger position of the two, and he knew it well--so well that he could afford to ignore the virile wrath of his ward. Strictly speaking, Captain Burton was not a ward, if that word implies minority. He was thirty years of age, in a lancer regiment, and possessed of an income sufficient to emancipate him from the control of his cousin Gilbert. Still, though possible for one, his income was certainly not possible for two, and if Gilbert chose he could increase his capital by twenty thousand pounds. But the stumbling-block was the condition attached to the disposal of the money. Only if Malet approved of the prospective bride was he to part with the legacy. As such he did not approve of Brenda Scarse, so matters were at a standstill. Nor could Harold well see how he was to move them. Finding all his rage of no avail, he gradually subsided and had recourse to methods more pacific.
"Let me understand this matter clearly," he said, taking a seat with a resolute air. "Independent of my three hundred a year, you hold twenty thousand pounds of my money."
"To be correct," replied Malet in a genial tone, "I hold forty thousand pounds, to be equally shared between you and your brother Wilfred when you marry. The three hundred a year which you each possess I have nothing to do with."
"Well, I want to marry, and----"
"You do--against my wishes. If I do not approve of your choice I need not pay you this money. I can hold it until I die."
"And then?" asked Harold, sharply.
Gilbert shrugged his burly shoulders. "Then it goes to you and Wilfred direct. There is no provision made for my handing it over to another trustee. You are bound to get your share in the long run; but I am not thinking of dying just yet, my dear Harold."
"I can't imagine what possessed my father ever to make so foolish a will."
"Your father was guided by experience, my boy. He made a miserable marriage himself, and did not want you or Wilfred to go and do likewise. He had evidently confidence in my judgment, and knew that I would stand between you and folly."
"Confound your impudence," shouted Harold, his dark face crimson with anger. "You're only fifteen years older than I am. At the age of thirty I am surely capable of selecting my own wife!"
"I hardly think so, when you select Miss Scarse!"
"What the deuce have you against her?"
"Nothing, personally. She is a nice girl, a very nice girl, but poor. A man of your extravagant tastes should marry money. Brenda is well enough, for herself," continued Malet, with odious familiarity, for which Harold could have struck him, "but her father!--Stuart Scarse is a Little Englander!"
Captain Burton was taken aback at the irrelevancy of this remark. "What the devil has that to do with her or me?" he demanded bluntly.
"Everything, if you love your country. You belong to a Conservative family. You are a soldier, and the time is coming when we must all rally round the flag and preserve the Empire. Scarse is a member of that pernicious band which desires the dismemberment of our glorious----
"Oh, I'm sick of this!" Harold jumped up and crammed on his cap. "Your political ideas have nothing to do with my marriage. You have no reason to object to Miss Scarse. Once for all, will you pay me this money?"
"No, I will not. I shall not agree to your marrying the daughter of a Little Englander."
"Then I shall throw the estate into Chancery."
Malet looked uneasy, but sneered. "By all means, if you want the whole forty thousand to go to fee the lawyers! But, before you risk losing your money, let me advise you to make sure of Miss Brenda Scarse!"
"What do you mean?"
"Ask Mr. van Zwieten, who is staying with her father."
"Oh!" said Harold, contemptuously, "Brenda has told me all about him. Her father wants her to marry him, and it is true he is in love with her; but Brenda loves me, and will never consent to become the wife of that Boer!
"Van Zwieten is no Boer. He is a Dutchman, born in Amsterdam."
"And a friend of yours," sneered Captain Burton. "He is no friend of mine!" shouted Malet, somewhat ruffled. "I detest the man as much as I do Scarse. If----"
"Look here, Gilbert, I don't want any more of this. I trust Brenda, and I intend to marry her."
"Very good. Then you'll have to starve on your three hundred a year."
"You refuse to give me the money?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I'm glad I don't live under your roof and can tell you what I think of you. You are a mean hound, Malet--keep back, or I'll knock you down. Yes, a mean hound! This is not your real reason for refusing to pay me this money. I'll go up to town to-day and have your trusteeship inquired into."
Gilbert changed color and looked dangerous. "You can act as you please, Harold; but recollect that my powers are very clearly defined under the will. I am not accountable to you or to Wilfred or to any one else for the money. I have no need to defend my honor."
"That we shall see." Harold opened the door and looked back. "This is the last time I shall enter your house. You meddle with my private affairs, you keep back money rightfully belonging to me on the most frivolous pretext, and, in fact, make yourself objectionable in every way; but, I warn you, the law will force you to alter your behavior."
"The law cannot touch me!" cried Gilbert, furiously. "I can account for the money and pay it when it should be paid. Out of my house----!"
"I am going--and, see here, Gilbert Malet, if the law affords me no redress, I shall take it into my own hands. Yes, you may well turn pale. I'll make it hot for you--you swindler!" and Captain Burton, banging the door, marched out of the house, furious at his helpless position.
Left alone, Malet wiped his bald forehead and sank into a chair. "Pooh!" he muttered, striving to reassure himself. "He can do nothing. I am his cousin. My honor is his honor. I'm in pretty deep water, but I'll get ashore yet. There's only one way--only one!" Then Mr. Malet proceeded to cogitate upon that one and only way, and the obstacles which prevented his taking it. His thoughts for the next half hour did not make for peace of mind altogether.
Meanwhile, Captain Burton, fuming with rage, strode on through the green woods to the lady of his love. They had arranged to meet and discuss the result of this interview. As Mr. Scarse did not approve of his attentions toward his daughter, the cottage where she dwelt was forbidden ground to Harold. He was compelled, therefore, to meet her by stealth in the woods. But the glorious summer day made that no hardship. He knew the precise spot where Brenda would be waiting for him--under an ancient oak, which had seen many generations of lovers--and he increased his pace that he might the sooner unburden to her his mind. As he left the park and made his way through the orchards which surrounded Chippingholt, he saw Mr. Scarse no great distance away.
"That's a queer get-up the old man's got on," muttered Harold, perplexed at the wholly unusual combination of a snuff-colored greatcoat and a huge black scarf. "Never saw him in that rig before. I wonder what it means!"
As he came up within a dozen paces of the thin, white-haired figure, he was more than ever puzzled, for he noticed that the black scarf was of crape--there must have been several yards of it wound round the old man's neck. It was undoubtedly Mr. Scarse. There was no mistaking that clean-shaven, parchment-like visage. Burton took off his cap in greeting, but did not speak. He knew the old man was not well-disposed toward him. Mr. Scarse looked blankly at him and pressed on without sign of recognition; and even though he had half expected it, Captain Burton felt mortified at this cut direct.
"Brenda and I will have to marry without his consent," he thought; "never mind!"
But he did mind. To marry a girl in the face of parental opposition was all against his inclinations. The future looked dismal enough to him at the moment, and his spirits were only further depressed as the sky began to blacken over with portentous clouds. Impressionable as he was, this endorsement of nature was full of meaning for him in his then pessimistic frame of mind. The sunshine faded to a cold grey, the leaves overhead shivered, and seemed to wither at the breath of the chill wind; and when he caught sight of Brenda's white dress under the oak, her figure looked lonely and forlorn. The darkling sky, the bitter wind, the stealthy meeting, the solitary figure--all these things struck at his heart, and it was a pale and silent lover who kissed his sweetheart under the ancient tree. His melancholy communicated itself to Brenda.
"Bad news, dear--you have bad news," she murmured, looking into his downcast face. "I can see it in your eyes."
They sat silent on the rustic seat. The birds had ceased to sing, the sun to shine, and the summer breeze was cold--cold as their hearts and hands in that moment of sadness.
They were a handsome couple. The man tall, thin-flanked, and soldiery of bearing; dark eyes, dark hair, dark moustache, and a clean-cut, bronzed face, alert, vivacious, and full of intelligence. Brenda was a stately blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and passionate as one of those stormy queens of the Nibelungen Lied, to whom love, insistent and impassioned, was as the breath of life. Both were filled with the exuberant vitality of youth, fit to overcome all obstacles, greatly daring and resolutely courageous. Yet, seated there, hand in hand, they were full of despondency--even to cowardice. Brenda felt that was so, and made an effort to rouse herself and him.
"Come, dear," she said, kissing her lover, "the sun will shine again. Things can't be so bad as to be past mending. He has refused?"
"Absolutely. He won't give me the money."
"On the ground that he does not approve of me!" Harold nodded. "He tried to make out that you were in love with Van Zwieten!"
"Oh! he is so ready to stoop to any meanness," said Brenda, scornfully. "I always disliked Mr. Malet. Perhaps my dislike is hereditary, for my father detests him."
"On political grounds?"
"Of course. But those are strongest of all grounds for hatred. Religion and politics have caused more trouble and more wars than--" she broke off suddenly. "Of course you don't believe this about Mr. van Zwieten."
"Need you ask?" said Burton, tenderly. "The fellow is staying with you still?"
"Yes. He has been here for the last two days talking politics with father, and worrying me. Thank goodness, he goes to-morrow!"
"Glad of it," growled Burton. "He is the Beast mentioned in Revelation. By the way, Brenda, who is Van Zwieten?"
Miss Scarse looked puzzled. "A friend of my father's."
"Yes; but what is his position--where does he come from--how does he make his income? There is something mysterious about the fellow."
"He comes from Holland--he is a friend of Dr. Leyds--and he is shortly going out to fill some post under the Transvaal Government. That's all I know about him."
"He seems to have plenty of money."
"Yes, he spends a good deal, to judge from what I saw of him in town last season. Then he is a popular cricketer, you know."
"I know. But the idea of a foreigner playing cricket!"
"Well, Mr. van Zwieten does, and very well too. You must have seen about his play in the papers. He is a great man at Lord's."
"All the same, he is a mystery; and he is too much mixed up with the Boers to please me. If there is a war, I hope he'll be with them that I may have a shy at him."
Brenda laughed, and pressed her lover's arm. "You silly boy, you are jealous."
"I am, I am. Who wouldn't be jealous of you? But this is not war, Brenda dear. Let us talk about ourselves. I can't get this twenty thousand pounds until Malet dies. I see nothing for it but to marry on my three hundred a year. I dare say we'll scrape along somehow."
"I have two hundred a year of my own," cried Brenda, vivaciously; "that makes ten pounds a week. We can easily manage on that, dear."
"But your father?"
"Oh, he wants me to marry Mr. van Zwieten, of course," said she, with great scorn. "So I must just do without his consent, that's all. It sounds wrong, Harold, doesn't it? But my father has never done his duty by me. Like most men who serve the public, he has sacrificed his all to that. I was left to bring myself up as best I could and so I think I have the right to dispose of myself. My father is nothing to me--you are everything."
"Dearest!" He kissed her. "Then let us marry--but no--" he broke off abruptly. "If war should break out in South Africa I would have to leave you!"
"But I wouldn't be left," said Brenda, merrily. "I would go out with you--yes, to the front!"
"I'm afraid you couldn't do that."
"I could and I would. I would go officially as a nurse. But, Harold, why don't you see your lawyer about this money? He may find means to force Mr. Malet to pay it to you."
"I intend to see him to-morrow, dearest. I am going up to town by the six train this evening, though I confess I don't like leaving you with this Van Zwieten."
"I think I can undertake to keep Mr. van Zwieten at his distance," said Brenda, quietly, "even though my father encourages him."
"I believe your father hates me," said Harold, gloomily, "He cut me just now."
"Cut you, dear; what do you mean?"
"Just what I say, Brenda. I met you father, and he cut me dead."
She stared at her lover in amazement. "You can't possibly have seen my father," she said decisively. "He is ill with influenza, and hasn't left his room for two days!"
After many and fervent farewells, the lovers embraced and went home. It was understood that Harold should go to London that evening by the five o'clock local from Chippingholt, which connected with the express at Langton Junction, some twenty miles away. After seeing his lawyer, he was to write her a full account of the interview, and arrange definitely the details for their marriage. Meanwhile, to set his mind at rest, Brenda promised to see as little of Van Zwieten as possible.
As her father was ill, she was compelled to play the part of hostess--an ungrateful one enough toward a guest she so disliked--but as the Dutchman had arranged to leave next morning, she hoped for so short a time to obey the laws of hospitality, and at the same time keep him at his distance. But even so the situation was a trying one, and Brenda relished it little.
The cottage was an unpretentious little place on the borders of Chippingholt, where the orchards began to stretch toward the woods. Scarse was not well off, and had been fortunate enough to obtain it at quite a nominal rental. He kept a cook and one housemaid, both of whom Brenda looked after; and despite his slender means, his style of living was in every way refined. The largest room in the house had been turned into a study, and here Brenda now found her father buried in blue-books, pamphlets and newspapers.
Scarse was a lean, tall anæmic-looking creature. His hair was quite white, his pallid and wrinkled face clean-shaven, and his whole aspect was one of peevishness and querulousness. In spite of the warmth he had ordered a fire to be lighted, and, wrapped in a llama wool dressing-gown, he crouched over it with the Daily Mail spread out upon his knees. He looked ill and cross, and seemed terribly feeble. Brenda was more than ever certain, now that she saw him, that Harold had been mistaken in thinking it was he whom he had met. He looked, she thought, more fit for bed than for walking.
"Come in, come in," he said in his thin, cantankerous voice. "Shut the door, Brenda; there is quite a draught."
"Are you no better, father?" she asked, coming toward him and taking his hand. Scarse snatched it away.
"Not a bit, my dear. This thing has a hold of me--I am aching all over. Of course it comes just to prevent my speaking at the Trafalgar Square meeting next week!"
"You can send an excuse."
"I can't and I won't," snapped her father. "This paper shows me how necessary it is for all men to protest against this unjust war, which has been forced upon the Boers. I must speak in favor of that honest, God-fearing band of farmers, who are in danger of being crushed by a capitalist war. I want to see Van Zwieten about this article. It is perfectly scandalous. Where is he?"
"I don't know. I've not seen him all the afternoon."
"Is that the way you attend to your guests?"
"He is no guest of mine," cried Brenda, indignantly. "I can't bear the man. His mere presence is most objectionable to me."
"You are a foolish, strong-headed girl, Brenda. Van Zwieten wants to marry you, as I have told you, and he is----
"I won't marry him. I detest the man."
"And you fancy you are in love with that scamp of a Burton?" said Scarse, frowning.
"Harold is not a scamp, father. He is noble and honest, and everything that is good. I will marry no one but him."
"I shall never give my consent--never!"
"Then I must do without it," replied Brenda, determinedly. "I do not want to behave otherwise than as a daughter should, father, but I love Harold, and I hate Van Zwieten."
"Don't be silly," said the M.P., querulously. "Van Zwieten is well off. He is a good match for you. He can give you a good position."
"In the Transvaal, I suppose," scoffed Brenda.
"Yes. And where could you live better than in a new land, where the vices of civilization have not penetrated! I don't speak of Johannesburg, that sink of iniquity, but of Pretoria, and of those towns where the Boer element exists pure and simple, With your husband in the Government you can help him to build up an ideal state."
"I don't want to build up anything. Harold and I can be happy by ourselves."
"You shall never marry the scamp, I tell you," cried Scarse, angrily. "Let alone his character, which is bad, he is the cousin of that scoundrel Malet, who is a bigoted Imperialist--one who is doing his best to ruin this country by advocating annexation of all and everything. He is one of those who are urging on this war. I hate the man."
"Only because you differ from him in politics."
"No, on other grounds which do not concern you. I know Malet--none better--and I would gladly see him dead."
"Father!" Brenda was amazed at the savage energy of the old man. "What has Mr. Malet done to you that you should hate him so?"
"Never mind! I hate him and I hate that young Burton."
"Well, father," said Brenda, quietly, "you need not have shown it quite so plainly to-day. Harold said you met him this afternoon and cut him." This was a tentative remark, as Brenda was certain her father could not have been out.
"Met Burton!" said he, raising himself angrily. "What do you mean, child?"
"Were you not out to-day?"
"No, I have not left this room."
"But Harold said he saw you with a snuff-colored coat and a crape scarf round your throat. Father!" Brenda shrieked, "what is it?"
She might well ask. Scarse was always pale, but now he was deathly white. He reared himself out of his chair with a look of terror in his eyes. It was in broken sentences he spoke. "Did … Harold Burton … see me … with a crape scarf … to-day?"
"Yes, yes; but was it you, father? Why did you wear----"
"Hush! Say no more, Brenda. Go away."
A faint color was coming back to his face, and he began to look more like himself, less like a corpse. Brenda was about to demur at leaving him, but he stopped her with a peremptory gesture. "Go away, Brenda, I say."
"But won't you explain----"
"There is nothing to explain; go away."
She was obliged to obey, and reluctantly she left the room. She could not understand her father's emotion, nor could she understand the presence in Chippingholt of this man with the crape scarf, who so nearly resembled him as to be mistaken for him by Harold. So far as she knew her father had no relatives. But he had always been very reticent about his family affairs. She knew nothing of his connections or his past life. Her mother she could scarce remember. She had died when Brenda was a tiny child, and ever since that time she had been brought up by strangers far away from home. Up to the age of twenty she had been at a boarding-school, and there she had seen next to nothing of her father. A casual visit on his part, and a few casual questions as to her welfare--her mental welfare chiefly--that represented Brenda's experience of the domestic affections and a father's love. When she had come of age Scarse had sent for her, and had established her in the cottage at Chippingholt, giving her occasionally a week in London during the season. He retained his bachelor chambers in Start Street, Piccadilly, but never took her there, and ever kept her at arm's length when she hungered for sympathy and love. No wonder, then, that in the all-important matter of her marriage she felt no inclination to obey the man who had been to her but a father in name: and no wonder she had fallen in love with Harold Burton, and was bent now on linking her life with his. He was the one human being who had held out to her affection and sympathy, and from him she determined no earthly power should part her. Her father treated her as a pawn on the chessboard of life, to be moved about as best suited his own purpose. She regarded herself as a human being, with the right to consider her own happiness, and to work out her own destiny.
"Never will I marry Van Zwieten," she reiterated to herself as she dressed for dinner. "The man is a tyrant and a brute. Father has done nothing for me that I should sacrifice myself so for him. Together Harold and I will shape a new life for ourselves. If father's neglect has done nothing else for me, it has at least made me self-reliant."
As she expected, her father did not appear at dinner, alleging his megrims as the reason for his non-appearance. But Brenda had a very shrewd idea that the appearance of this unknown man, who so resembled him, had more to do with it. She felt sure there was some sort of mystery. Her father's life was altogether so secretive. But she did not let it disturb her, and dismissed it from her mind, until a chance remark from Van Zwieten again roused her curiosity.
The Dutchman was tall of stature--well over six feet, and stout in proportion. A well set-up figure assuredly, and what would be termed a fine animal. His hair and beard were of an ochre color, and his sleepy blue eyes, although seeming to observe nothing, on the contrary took in everything. His complexion was delicate as a woman's, and he was slow and soft of speech and movement. A casual observer might have set him down as lethargic and small-brained. But Brenda knew that he possessed a fund of energy and cunning and dogged determination which could be exerted to the detriment of those whom his sleepy looks deceived. Those blue eyes could sparkle with fire, that soft, low voice could ring out like a trumpet, and that huge frame could be active and supple as any serpent. Waldo van Zwieten he was called, and he had lived in London now for the past five years.
He spoke three or four languages, especially English, with wonderful purity and fluency. He appeared to have plenty of money, and for the most part devoted himself to cricket as an exhilarating pastime for an idle man. In the capacity of a crack batsman he was highly popular. No one deemed him anything but a lazy foreigner--good-natured, and loving England and the English sufficiently well to become an English subject in all but an official sense. But he had never taken out letters of naturalization.
He was correctly attired now in evening dress, and took his seat at the table in his usual sleepy fashion. His blue eyes rested with a look of admiration on Brenda, whose blonde beauty was more dazzling than ever in her dinner dress of black gauze and silk. She apologized for her father's absence, and winced at Van Zwieten's compliments.
"You leave me nothing to desire, Miss Scarse," said he. "I could wish for no more delightful position than this."
"Please don't," replied Brenda, annoyed. "I'm sure you would rather talk politics to my father than nonsense to me."
"I never talk nonsense to any one, Miss Scarse; least of all to you. Thank you, I will take claret. By the way, it was rather unwise of Mr. Scarse to go out to-day with this cold upon him."
"He was not out to-day."
"Indeed, I think so. I saw him and spoke to him."
"You spoke to him? Had he a snuff-colored coat and a crape scarf on?"
"No; he was dressed as usual in his tweed suit."
Brenda looked at him sceptically. Her father had denied being out. Yet this man said he had actually spoken with him, but according to him he was not dressed like the man, Harold had described. Could two men be so much alike? And why had her father been so moved when she had related Harold's experience?
"Are you sure it was my father you spoke to?" she asked, after a pause.
Van Zwieten flashed a keen glance at her puzzled face, and was evidently as puzzled himself. "I am certain it was Mr. Scarse," he said quietly. "I had no reason to think otherwise. Why do you doubt my word?"
"My father denies having been out."
"In that case I should have said nothing. Mr. Scarse evidently has some reason for his denial. But cannot we select a more pleasant subject of conversation?"
"Such as what?" demanded Brenda, wondering at this sudden change.
"Yourself or Captain Burton. I saw him to-day."
"That is very likely," she replied, quietly divining Van Zwieten's intention. "Captain Burton is staying at the 'Chequers Inn.' At least he was staying there, but he left for London at five."
"Oh, indeed! He must have changed his mind then, for it was after six when I saw him."
"I suppose he is privileged to change his mind," said Brenda. All the same she was puzzled to account for Harold's remaining at Chippingholt.
Thwarted in this direction, Van Zwieten tried another. He was bent on making Brenda confess an interest in Burton, so as to lead up to an explanation of his own feelings. "It is strange," said he, slowly, "that Captain Burton does not stay at the Manor."
"Why do you think it strange, Mr. van Zwieten?"
"Ach! is it not strange? His brother Wilfred stays there--he is there now. Mr. Malet is Captain Burton's cousin, and he is hospitable--not to me," added he, with a sleepy smile; "Mr. Malet does not like me."
Brenda ignored this last remark. "If you ask Captain Burton for his reasons I have no doubt he will gratify your curiosity," she said coldly.
"Oh, I do not care; it is nothing to me." Van Zwieten paused, then resumed very deliberately, "I do not like Captain Burton."
"Really! The loss is his."
"I do not like Captain Burton," repeated Van Zwieten, "because he likes you."
"What has that to do with me?" asked Brenda, injudiciously.
"Everything. I love you--I want to marry you!"
"You told me all about that, Mr. van Zwieten, and I told you I was unable to marry you. It was agreed that we should drop the subject."
"Captain Burton loves you and wants to marry you," pursued the big man, doggedly, "and so I do not like Captain Burton."
The situation was becoming embarrassing, but the man was evidently acting and speaking with a set purpose. "Please say no more, Mr. van Zwieten," said Brenda, trying to control her temper. Still he went on resolutely.
"When we are married we will see nothing of Captain Burton."
"That will never be. I shall never marry you."
"Oh, yes; your father is willing."
"But I am not." Brenda rose with a glance of anger. "How dare you take advantage of my father's absence to insult me?"
"I do not insult you," went on the Dutchman, with a quiet smile. "One does not insult one's future wife."
"I would rather die than marry you!" She walked to the door. "You have no right to speak to me like this. I refuse to see you again, and I shall tell my father of your behavior."
She swept out of the room in a fury, feeling herself helpless in the face of the man's persistency. Her departure, however, did not ruffle him in the least. He went on eating and smiling as though the interview had ended entirely to his satisfaction. After a good meal he lighted a cigar and went along to Mr. Scarse's study. The door was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer.
Van Zwieten was puzzled. There were matters connected with Mr. Scarse which he did not understand, and which he wished very much to understand. After pondering for a few moments, he put on a greatcoat, in spite of the warmth of the night, a smasher hat of the Boer style, and stepped out by the front door. Thence he passed round to the French windows which lighted the study. The blinds were down, and the yellow lamplight shone through them from within. Van Zwieten tried the catch of one window. It yielded, and he slipped into the room. The lamp, fully turned up, was on the table; some papers were spread out on the blotting-pad on the desk, but there was no one in the room. He glanced at the papers, but could gather nothing from them to account for the absence of Scarse. He reflected, and recollected what Brenda had said.
"A snuff-colored coat; a crape scarf!" he mused. "So!" Then he left the room, closed the window after him, and vanished stealthily as a cat into the blackness of the night.
Meanwhile Brenda had gone to her room furious with Van Zwieten and her father--with the former because he would persist in his attentions, with the latter because he exposed her to their annoyance. Not knowing that the Dutchman had gone out, she decided to remain upstairs, so as to avoid meeting him in the drawing-room. But her bedroom was so small, the night so hot, and she felt so restless, that eventually she decided to go up to Holt Manor and see Lady Jenny.
Gilbert's wife was a pretty, frivolous woman, with a good heart, a long tongue, and an infinite capacity for wasting money. Malet was devoted to her, and it was common talk that she could twist him round her finger. If she interested herself in the matter there might be a chance still of Harold's getting the money. Lady Jenny always declared, in her exaggerated way, that Brenda was the sweetest girl in the world, so, putting on her hat and cloak, Brenda determined to learn whether Lady Jenny really was her friend or merely a society acquaintance.
The night was moonless, hot, and almost without air. What the Scotch call uncanny. All day clouds had been rolling up from the south, and now the sky was an immense mass of bluish-black vapor hanging low over the dry and gasping earth. No breath of wind, no sound of life, human or animal. The earth lay dumb under that tent of gloom. Brenda felt stifled as she took the short way through the orchards. Knowing every inch of the ground, she made no mistake, and was occasionally aided by a vivid flash of lightning, which ran in sheets of sudden flame from east to west.
With her nimble feet and her knowledge of all the short cuts, it took her only twenty minutes to arrive at the Manor. She noted the time--nine o'clock--for the village chimes rang out as she halted at the porch of the great house. Here she was doomed to disappointment, for Lady Jenny--as the servant informed her--had gone to the Rectory with Mr. Wilfred Burton.
"Mr. Malet went out for a stroll too, miss," said the butler, who knew her very well; "but any message----"
"Oh, no message, Roberts," said Brenda, hurriedly; "that is--I will call on Lady Jenny to-morrow. Good-night."
"Won't you have an umbrella, miss? It looks stormy."
"No, thank you; I shall no doubt reach home before the storm breaks. Good-night."
But she was wrong in thinking so. Hardly had she left the park gates when the storm came. A blue zig-zag flared across the dark sky, there was a crash of thunder, and on the wings of a bitterly cold wind came the rain. The storm was tropical in its suddenness and fury. The wind struck Brenda like a solid mass, and she had to grasp the trunk of an apple-tree near by to keep her feet. With a hiss and a shriek the rain shot down--one deluge of water, as though the windows of heaven were opened as in the days of Noah's flood. A furious wind tore at the tree-tops, rending boughs, clashing the branches together, and sending a myriad leaves flying abroad like swarms of bees. The drenching rain spattered and drummed on the woods, and in the open was driven in slanting masses of water by the force of the blast. Anxious to get under shelter, and terrified by the fierce lightning, Brenda kilted up her skirts and ran blindly through the trees at the risk of breaking her head. Her feet squelched in the soaking grass, and she was shaken and driven like a leaf by the furious gusts. Still on she stumbled in a dazed condition. It was a witch storm, and the powers of hell rode on the flying clouds.
Suddenly her foot tripped, and she fell full length on the grass, which was more like a morass. As she struggled to her knees the heavens overhead broke out in one dazzling sheet of flame, which for the moment threw a noonday light on the scene. There, under a tree, but a short distance away, Brenda saw a tall, dark, bulky figure standing. Hardly had the darkness shut down again when she heard a startled cry. Then a shot rang out with terrible distinctness, and then again the roaring of the tempest. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Brenda got on her feet, shaking and terrified. She ran forward. A second flare of lightning lighted the orchards with hell-fire, livid and blue. Almost at her feet she saw the body of a man. There came another deafening crash of thunder, and she staggered. A moment later and she lay senseless across the body of the unknown man shot in the darkness by an unknown hand.
The cook at Mr. Scarse's cottage was in a great state of alarm. She did not mind an ordinary tempest of respectable English character coming at its due and proper season. But this gale, at the close of a quiet summer day, arriving with so little warning and raging with such fury, had frightened her beyond measure. As a precautionary measure against the frequent lightning, she concealed the knives, covered up all the mirrors and reflective surfaces generally, and threw the fire-irons into the garden. Having thus safeguarded the cottage against the bolts of heaven, Mrs. Daw--so she was called--insisted that the housemaid, a whimpering orphan of meagre intelligence, should go round the house with her to see if any one or anything had been struck. They found dining-room, drawing-room and bedrooms deserted, and the door of their master's study locked.
"Lor'!" said Mrs. Daw, her fat face ashen pale, "an' 'e may be lyin' a corp in there, poor dear!"
"Oh, no, he ain't," responded the shaking housemaid; "I 'ear voices. Jus' put your eye to the key-hole, cook."
But the cook's valor did not extend thus far. She also heard the murmur of voices, and, thinking her master and his friend the Dutchman were within, knocked at the door to bring them out for company. "We may as well go to 'eaven in a 'eap," said Mrs. Daw, knocking steadily like a woodpecker.
The door opened so suddenly that the two women recoiled with shrieks against the wall of the passage. Scarse, looking pale and upset, stepped out and closed the door after him. Judging him by themselves, they attributed his scared appearance to fright at the storm, and were ready to receive any amount of sympathy. But it soon appeared that their master had none to give them.
"What's all this? Why are you here?" he demanded, angry and suspicious.
"It's the storm, sir," whimpered Mrs. Daw, holding on to the housemaid. "I'm that feared as never was. Miss Brenda's hout, sir, and Mr. van Zwieten's with you, and me an' Tilda's a-shakin' like jelly."
"Miss Brenda out!" repeated Scarse, starting. "Oh, yes, I recollect she said something about going to the Rectory." This was untrue, but he seemed to think it necessary to make some excuse even to the servants. "I dare say Miss Brenda has been storm-bound there, and, as you say, Mr. van Zwieten is with me. There is nothing to be afraid of. Go back to the kitchen."
"The 'ouse may be struck, sir!
"The house won't be struck," said Scarse, impatiently. "Don't be a fool. It is almost ten o'clock--go to bed," and stepping back into the study, he closed and locked the door. Cook and housemaid tottered back to the kitchen.
"I'll give notice to-morrer," wailed the former. "It ain't right for two lone women to be without a manly arm. If 'e only kep' a footman or a coachman it 'ud be a 'elp. 'And me the Church Service, Tilda, an' we'll pray as we may not be took."
"Ow, ain't it orful!" yelped Tilda, as a fiercer blast than usual shook the cottage. "Turn up the Berryial Service, cook."
This request the cook hurriedly obeyed, and the two were soon cheerfully employed in drawing what comfort they could from this somewhat depressing selection. The clock struck ten, and so unstrung were their nerves that they simultaneously jumped and shrieked.
Tilda declared that the candle burned blue; that a coal in the form of a coffin had jumped out of the kitchen range; and meanwhile the storm raved and howled without, shaking the house, tearing at doors and windows as though twenty thousand demons were trying to force an entrance. In their terrified frame of mind Mrs. Daw and her factotum actually believed that such might be the case.
But they soon had further cause for alarm. The kitchen door was tried, but Mrs. Daw had locked it. Immediately there came a furious knocking, insistent and incessant. Tilda shrieked, and scrambled under the table. Mrs. Daw dropped the Church Service, and grasped the poker with a trembling hand. There was a crash of thunder which went grinding over the roof--then the battering at the door again.
"Quick! Quick! Let me in!" wailed a voice, thin, high-pitched and terrified.
"Don't, don't!" shrieked Tilda, grovelling under the table. "Oh, lor', wot a bad girl I 'ave been."
But Mrs. Daw, somewhat recovered from her terror, thought she recognized the voice, in spite of its accent of pain. "Yer's a fool, Tilda. It's Miss Brenda!" and she unlocked the door, still grasping the poker in case she should be mistaken. As the door flew open a wild blast tore into the kitchen, and Tilda shrieked again. Mrs. Daw, too, uttered an exclamation, for Brenda fell forward, flung into her arms. The girl was soaking wet, wild-eyed and white-faced with terror. She could hardly speak, and clung, choking and shaking, to the terrified cook. The door banged to with a crash.
"Murder! Help!" gasped Brenda, hoarsely. "Oh, my God! he is dead!"
"Dead! Murder!" shrieked Mrs. Daw, dropping the poker, and Tilda wailed in sympathetic chorus. "Lor', miss! Who's 'e?"
"I don't know--he is dead--shot--in the orchards," said Brenda, and fell down in a dead faint for the second time that night. Usually she was not given to such feminine weakness, but the terrors of the night had proved altogether too much for her.
Having something human to deal with, Mrs. Daw recovered her presence of mind and unloosened Brenda's cloak. "Poor dear! she's frightened out of her wits, an' no wonder. Tilda, tell 'er pa there's murders and faintings. Look sharp!"
Tilda crawled from under the table and across the floor. She raised herself with a sudden effort of will, and was soon hammering at the study door.
"Master--sir! 'Elp--murder--perlice! Oh, sir," as Scarse came out hurriedly, "Miss Brenda's in the kitchen, an' there's murder!"
He seized her wrists with an ejaculation of alarm. "Who is murdered? Speak, girl!"
"I don't know. Miss Brenda sez as there's murder. Oh, lor', what will become of us!"
Scarse shook her so that her teeth chattered. "Go back to the kitchen," he said sternly. "I'll follow directly," and Tilda found herself hurled against the wall, with the study door closed and locked. Her surprise at such treatment overcame even her terror.
"Well, 'e is a father!" she gasped, and her wits being somewhat more agile now that she was less afraid, she flew to the dining-room and snatched the spirit-stand from the sideboard. With this she arrived in the kitchen and found Brenda regaining her senses.
"Ain't 'e comin'?" asked Mrs. Daw, slapping Brenda's hands violently as a restorative measure.
"In a minute. 'Ere, give 'er some brandy. Where's a glarss? Oh, a cup'll do. Oh, ain't it all dreadful; just 'ear the wind!"
"Hold your tongue and lock the door," said Mrs. Daw, snatching the cup from Tilda. "Come, miss, try and drink this."
She forced the strong spirit down Brenda's throat. The girl gasped and coughed, then the color slowly mounted to her cheeks, and she raised her head feebly.
"What is it?" she asked faintly. Then she shuddered and covered her face. "Ah! the murder! Shot!--shot--oh, God, how terrible!"
"Don't you be afraid, miss; the doors are all locked, an' nothin' or no one can git in." Then a shriek from Mrs. Daw followed a sudden clanging of the bell. "Whatever's that?"
"Front door," replied Tilda, casting a glance at the row of bells. "I'll answer; give 'er more brandy, cook."
As the housemaid left, Brenda moaned and struggled to her feet. "Oh, the terrible darkness--the body--his body--in the wet grass! Father! Where is my father?"
"'E's a comin', dearie," said Mrs. Daw, giving her more brandy. "Take another sup, dearie. Who is it as is murdered, miss?" she asked in a scared whisper.
"I don't know. I could not see--the darkness--I fell over the body. I saw nothing. Oh!" She started up with a shriek. "Oh, if it really should be Harold!" Then she was overcome with anguish, and Tilda darted back to the kitchen.
"Would you believe," cried she to Mrs. Daw, "it's the furriner! An' master said as 'e was in 'is study talkin' to 'im!"
"Lor', so 'e did!" said Mrs. Daw, awestruck at having detected her master in a lie. "And 'e was out all the time! What does Mr. van Zwieten say, Tilda?"
"Van Zwieten!" shrieked Brenda, who was clinging to the table. "Has he been out? Ah! he hated Harold--the dead man--oh!" her voice leaped an octave, "he has killed my Harold!"
"What!" shrieked the other woman in turn, and Mrs. Daw, throwing her apron over her head, began to scream with the full force of her lungs. Tilda joined in, losing all remnant of control, and Brenda sank in a chair white-faced and silent. The conviction that Harold had been murdered stunned her.
At this moment there was heard the sound of foot-steps coming rapidly nearer. Scarse, with an angry and terrified expression, appeared on the scene. Close behind him came Van Zwieten, who seemed, as ever, quite undisturbed and master of himself. Brenda caught sight of him, and darting forward, seized the man by the lapels of his coat. "Harold!" she cried, "you have killed my Harold!"
"Harold--Burton!" replied Scarse, aghast. "Is he dead?"
"Dead--murdered! Oh, I am certain of it. And you killed him. You! You!"
Van Zwieten said not a word, but remained perfectly calm. He saw that the girl was beside herself with terror and grief, that she knew not what she was saying or doing. Without a word he picked her up in his strong arms and carried her moaning and weeping into the drawing-room. Scarse rated Mrs. Daw and Tilda sharply for so losing their heads, and followed the Dutchman. But before leaving the kitchen he was careful to take with him the key of the back door. "No one leaves this house to-night," he said sharply "I must inquire into this. Give me that spirit-stand. Now go to bed, you fools."
"Bed!" wailed Mrs. Daw, as her master left the room. "Lor', I'll never sleep again--not for weeks any'ow. I daren't lie alone. Oh, what an 'orful night. I'll give notice to-morrow, that for sure!"
"So'll I," squeaked Tilda. With this the two went shivering to a common couch, full of prayers and terror, and prepared to die--if die they must--in company.
In the drawing-room Brenda was huddled up in a chair, terrified out of her wits. Van Zwieten, calm and masterful, stood before the fireplace with his big hands clasped loosely before him. His trousers were turned up, his boots were soaking, and there were raindrops in his curly hair. For the rest he was dry, and the storm had not made the slightest impress on his strong nerves. When Scarse entered he threw a steely and inquisitive glance at the old man, who winced and shrank back with an expression of fear on his face. Van Zwieten, ever on the alert for the signs of a guilty conscience, noted this with secret satisfaction.
"Now then, Brenda," said her father, recovering at last some of his presence of mind, "what is all this about? You say that Burton is dead--that Mr. van Zwieten killed him."
"Ah!" interposed the Dutchman, stroking his beard, "I should like to know how I managed that."
"You hated him!" cried Brenda, sitting up straight with a sudden access of vigor. "You told me so to-night at dinner!"
"Pardon me; I said I did not like Captain Burton. But as to hating him--" Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders; "that is an extreme word to use. But even if I did hate him you can hardly deduce from that that I should kill him!"
"He was shot, shot in the orchards, not far from the Manor gates. You were out----"
"That is scant evidence to justify a charge of murder," interposed Scarce, angrily. "You are unstrung and hysterical, Brenda. How did you come to be out yourself in such a storm?"
"I went to see Lady Jenny at the Manor, about--about Harold's money. She was not in, so I came back by the short cut through the orchards. A flash of lightning showed him to me there, standing under a tree. Then there was a shot and a cry, and I ran forward, and fell over his body."
"Whose body?"
"I don't know--at least, I think it was Harold's body. Mr. van Zwieten hated him."
"It may not be Harold at all," said her father, impatiently; "you are jumping to conclusions--the wildest conclusions, Brenda. Did you see his face?"
"No; how could I? It was dark."
"Then how on earth do you know it was Captain Burton?"