A SHOT IN THE DARKNESS.
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.