Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
(Library of Congress)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
A TRAITOR IN LONDON
BY
FERGUS HUME
Author of
"The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "Hagar of the Pawn Shop,"
Etc., Etc.
F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY
9 AND 11 EAST SIXTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON--JOHN LONG
COPYRIGHT, 1900
BY
F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY
_A Traitor in London_
A Traitor in London.
CHAPTER I.
CUPID IN LEADING STRINGS.
"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!"