A STORY OF THE PAST.
The old man sprang up with the light of fury in his pale eyes and
flung himself on Van Zwieten. For an instant he was more than a match
for the big Dutchman.
"How dare you--I have no brother," he gasped. Then as suddenly this
strength, born of anger, went out of him, and he became weak as a
child. Van Zwieten picked him up like a baby and flung him roughly
into a chair.
"Sit there," he said sternly. "I mean to know the whole of this
story," and he busied himself lighting the lamp.
"There is--no--no story."
"There is, and, what's more, you will tell it to me."
"I won't," cried Mr. Scarse, shivering and forgetting his previous
denial. "You can't force me to speak."
"I can--I will," said the Dutchman, grimly. Then, the lamp being
lighted, he sat down in an armchair on the other side of the fireplace
opposite to his host and produced a cigar. "Begin, please."
Scarse staggered to his feet--he was shaken by his own nerves and Van
Zwieten's rough treatment--and moved slowly toward the door. The
Dutchman rose and ran past him with a lightness and speed surprising
in so heavy a man. He reached the door before Mr. Scarse did. The next
moment it was locked and the key in Van Zwieten's pocket. "Go back to
your seat, please," said Van Zwieten, politely.
"I won't--I am master here," cried the old man, his voice shrill with
anger. "What do you mean by treating me like this? I'll call the
police."
The Dutchman pulled out the key and held it toward Scarse. "As you
please," he said with a sneer. "Call the police and I'll give you in
charge."
"Give me in charge, you villain!--for what?"
"For murdering Gilbert Malet. Aha, my dear friend, you did not count
on my knowing that, did you? You are quite unaware that I followed you
from your cottage into the orchards, where you----"
"I did not--I did not!" wailed Scarse, shrinking back.
"No, you did not," retorted Van Zwieten, "but you were near the spot
where Malet was killed, and near it about the time he was shot. You
will find it difficult to refute my evidence if I am compelled to give
it. On the whole, Mr. Stuart Scarse, I think you had better sit down
and talk sensibly."
Scarse glared like an angry cat. But physically and morally the
Dutchman was too much for him. With an attempt at dignity he returned
to his seat.
"I am at a loss to understand this extraordinary behavior, Mr. Van
Zwieten," he said, in his most stately manner, "and I deny the
shameful accusation you have made. Perhaps you will be kind enough to
apologize and leave my rooms."
"My dear friend, I shall do neither." Van Zwieten carefully lighted
his cigar. "I am waiting to hear the story."
"What story?" asked the other, willfully misunderstanding.
"The story about your brother and his visit to Chippingholt--to murder
our dear friend. I know some of it from your brother, but----"
"I have no brother, I tell you!"
"Oh, yes, I think so. A twin brother named--Robert--Robert Scarse."
"He is dead to me."
"Ah, that is quite another thing. He has come to life for the purpose
of throwing some light on this mystery. Indeed, I think you had better
tell me why he murdered Gilbert Malet."
"He did not murder him."
"Oh, yes, he did; and I should like to have details, please--his
motive and all that."
"I refuse to give them to you."
Van Zwieten rose and buttoned his coat. "Very good," said he; "then I
shall see a magistrate and tell him all I know."
"What do you know?"
"Sufficient to have Robert arrested for the murder, and you as his
accomplice."
Mr. Scarse shivered again, and bit his lip. Then he seemed to make up
his mind.
"Sit down. Don't be in a hurry. I will tell you all I can. Of course
you will keep secret what I tell you."
"Of course! I never talk without good reason. So you have a twin
brother?"
"Yes; Robert. He is--he--he is not in his right mind."
"So I should think from his talk and his extraordinary apparel. A
black crape scarf is quite original. By the way, your daughter saw him
to-day."
"Brenda?" cried Scarse, horrified. "Then she knows----"
"Nothing--except that Robert is wonderfully like you. I got him away
before she could speak to him. This I did for your sake--and my own!"
"You wish to make quite sure of getting Brenda--to force me!"
"Not exactly that," smiled Van Zwieten, "since I know that you are
already quite willing she should marry me. But I wish to use the
knowledge to force her into giving up Burton and becoming my wife."
"You would tell her of Robert's existence?"
"Not if I could help myself," said the Dutchman, politely. "Believe
me, my dear friend, I am very discreet. You can safely confide in me."
"It seems I am forced to," grumbled Mr. Scarse, ungraciously. "What is
it you particularly wish to know?"
"The whole story about your brother, and why you deny him. I am sure
it will be most interesting. Go on, please, I am waiting."
Mr. Scarse looked at his tyrant savagely. He would dearly have liked
to refuse, but he realized that he was on perilous ground. Van Zwieten
knew just enough to be dangerous. He must not be allowed to make use
of his knowledge, even if he had to be told more. Besides, Mr. Scarse
was satisfied that for Brenda's sake he would keep quiet. Therefore he
made a virtue of necessity and launched at once into a family history,
of which in no other circumstances would he have spoken to any living
soul. It was the very fact of the Dutchman's having it in his power to
force his confidence that angered him. No man likes to be coerced.
"I don't think the story will interest you much," he said, sulkily;
"but such as it is, I will relate it. Robert Scarse is my twin
brother, and is as like me as it is possible for one man to be like
another. His appearance deceived young Burton and the Chippingholt
folk."
"I know they took him for you. And on account of that scarf they paid
you the compliment of thinking you were out of your mind."
Mr. Scarse shrugged his shoulders. "As if I cared," he said
contemptuously. "My speeches in the House prove that I am sane enough.
Well, Robert is my brother, and I was--I am--very fond of him. My
sister Julia--Mrs. St. Leger, you know--never liked him, and when we
cast him off she made up her mind to regard him as dead. She never
even admits that she has a brother. I am her only relative--at least
the only one she acknowledges."
"And why, pray, was Robert cast off thus, and by his affectionate
twin?"
"Don't be sarcastic, Van Zwieten, it does not suit you," snapped
Scarse. "My brother was a bad lot. At school and college he led the
authorities a devil of a dance until he was expelled. When he came to
London he took to gambling and drinking. I was never like that. My one
desire was to get into Parliament, where my father had been before me,
and serve my country. My sister married St. Leger--he was a subaltern
then--and went out to India. My mother died, and there was no one to
check Robert's pranks. My father paid his debts so often that we
became quite impoverished. That is why I am so poor."
"Are you poor?" asked Van Zwieten, thinking regretfully that
Brenda--sweet as she was--would have no dowry.
"As poor as a church mouse. I married a woman with six hundred a year,
and out of that Brenda has two hundred a year. I can't touch it. What
with the other four hundred and my own money I have but a thousand a
year all told--little enough for a man of my position. Of course, when
I die, my thousand a year will go to Brenda."
"Ah!" said Van Zwieten, with much satisfaction. He was sufficiently
Dutch to be very fond of money.
"You needn't look so pleased, Van Zwieten. Even if you _do_ marry
Brenda--which I doubt since she hates you so--you won't get my money.
I'll live a long time yet, and, in any case, I'll settle it on her so
that her husband--whoever he may be--can't touch it."
"Quite right, Mr. Scarse. But about Robert? Please go on."
"Well, Robert crowned his pranks by committing forgery, and my father
had to pay I don't know how many thousands to hush the matter up. You
can make no use of this admission, Mr. van Zwieten, since the man
whose name was forged died long ago and the papers are all destroyed.
Robert went abroad after that, and my father cut him off with a
shilling. He forbade his name to be mentioned, and declared he was no
son of his. Mrs. St. Leger acted in the same way, and I followed suit.
I could do nothing else--if I had, my father would have disinherited
me."
"Most affectionate twin!"
"Don't talk like that," cried Mr. Scarse, angrily. "Who are you to
judge me? I still love my brother--after all, he is my own flesh and
blood, and nearer and dearer to me than it is possible for you to
imagine. But he is supposed to be dead these thirty and more years,
and why should I bring him forth into the world only to be disgraced?
I allow him a small income, and under another name he is as happy as
ever he will be. By the way," he broke off suddenly, "how did you find
out his real name?"
"Oh, I saw the resemblance and made use of my knowledge of his being
in Chippingholt to force him into confessing the truth. I will tell
you about that later on. Go on with your story, which is truly
remarkable."
"Truly criminal, I think," Mr. Scarse said gloomily; "a nice family
history for a sedate English gentleman to have. I wonder what my
constituents would say if they heard it? Ah, there is a skeleton in
every house. In a way it is a relief to me to talk of it even to you,
Van Zwieten. Mrs. St. Leger will never mention or listen to the
subject."
"Well, well, my friend,"--Van Zwieten was becoming impatient of this
digression,--"what did your brother do when he was cut off from his
family?"
"You'll never believe it when I tell you. Strange to say, he mended
his ways. On the Continent--in Switzerland, I fancy--he came into
contact with some Socialists and imbibed their ideas. He put away all
his fine clothes and extravagant tastes and became quite humble and
simple."
"Because he had no money to do otherwise."
"There is something in that. Well, he lived among these Socialists for
many a long year. He went to Russia and saw Tolstoi, knew Karl Marx,
and threw himself headlong into schemes whereby the human race was to
be saved by all manner of devices, having as their basis the equitable
division of property. Then he married a young girl--a Swiss, the
daughter of one of his socialistic friends--and returned to England.
He was poor, so I helped him."
"Out of your poverty!--how noble!" sneered Van Zwieten, lighting a
fresh cigar.
"Oh, I was richer then. I was married and my wife had money. Then she
died a few years after Brenda was born, and I put the child to school
as soon as she was of an age. She was brought up away from me," he
went on sadly; "that is why I have such small influence over her."
"You will have influence enough to make her marry me, my friend."
"I doubt it--I doubt it. Well, my brother lived in a poor way, having
but little money, besides which, his ideas were all against luxury.
His wife was beautiful and frivolous and had no love for him. She
coveted money and position, neither of which he could give her, and
would not if he could. That was ten years ago."
"Ah! and what happened then?"
"My brother's wife met Malet. He was handsome, rich, and a scoundrel,
and he ran away with her."
Van Zwieten appeared astonished. "He wasn't then married to Lady
Jenny?"
"No, he married Lady Jenny later. But he ran off with my brother's
wife to Italy. And the shock of his wife's treachery gave poor Robert
brain fever."
"He loved her then?"
"He worshipped her. She was his life--he lived only to make her happy.
Well, he had his recompense! She deceived him, deserted him. Without a
word she eloped with that scoundrel. Robert lost his reason, and I had
to put him in an asylum. There he was for two years. When he came out
he went in search of his wife, for he still loved her. Malet by that
time had come back alone, and shortly afterward he married Lady Jenny.
The reptile! do you wonder that I hated him? For Robert's sake I saw
him and forced him to tell the truth. I threatened to inform his wife
of his past if he did not."
"But all that was before the marriage. No woman would care if----"
"Lady Jenny would. She is half Italian and of an extremely jealous
disposition. She loved Malet--God only knows why--and had she found
out the truth then she would have left him. But Malet told me where to
find my brother's wife, and I held my tongue."
"Did Lady Jenny ever learn this story?"
"You shall hear. Robert found his wife and took her back. She was a
complete wreck and terribly unhappy. They lived at Poplar under
another name on the small income I could allow them. For years I saw
very little of Robert. Then he took it into his head to pose as a
prophet of evil, predicting woe to England. He assumed that
snuff-colored coat and wore the crape scarf as a symbol of his
mourning. He was frequently in trouble with the police, and several
times I helped him out of his scrapes."
"Why don't you shut him up again?"
"Ah! my friend, how could I take the poor fellow from his dying wife?
All those years she was bedridden and dying slowly. I could not part
them. Latterly he used to come now and again to see me at
Chippingholt, usually at night and in ordinary dress. On one occasion
he arrived in the daytime and met Lady Jenny. He knew her by sight,
and he told her the truth about his wife and her husband. That was a
year ago. Lady Jenny was furious, and I believe she quarrelled with
her husband. After that they were never the same to one another. She
loved him once, but after that she must have hated him. Robert was
foolish to have told her. It could do no good."
"Well--what then?"
"He went away, and for months I saw nothing of him. The next I heard
was when Brenda told me Harold Burton had met a man like me with a
crape scarf round his neck. From the description I recognized Robert,
and knew that his mind must be more than ever unhinged for him to have
come down in what he called his prophetic robes. I knew he would not
come to see me till dusk, and I waited anxiously. But he did not
appear, so I went out to look for him. It struck me that he might be
lurking round the Manor gates to see Gilbert Malet, and perhaps to do
him an injury. I searched for a long time, and was caught in the
storm. Then I found Robert in the orchards and led him home. He told
me his news."
"What was his news?"
"His wife was dead, and he had come to tell Malet."