CALM AFTER STORM
Two weeks later Mrs. Burton was in Maritzburg, by the sick-bed of her
husband. As prophesied by Wilfred, the attempt to relieve Ladysmith by
storming the impregnable positions of the enemy had failed. Certainly
Warren had been so successful as to have seized Spion Kop, but only to
abandon it on finding the position untenable. Then Buller very wisely
had fallen back on his original line of defence across the Tugela; and
the retreat had been conducted in a masterly fashion, without the loss
of a man or a gun. Brenda and her wounded husband had gone back also
to Spearman's Camp, and later on had gone on to Maritzburg. Wilfred
was left in his lonely grave under the shadow of Spion Kop, where also
lay the body of Van Zwieten.
Harold's wound was dangerous, but had not proved fatal. He had been
invalided home by the doctors; and so soon as he might be able to
travel he was to sail for England. But when that would be it was
difficult to say. For some days he had hovered between life and death;
but now he had turned the corner and was gradually winning his way
back to life under the loving and skillful care of his wife. He was
out of danger and on a fair way to recovery, but it would be many a
long day before he would be able to fight again.
In the meantime, Mr. Scarse, hearing that his daughter was safe and
sound, had now returned from Durban, and was staying at the same
hotel. He was thankful to know that at last she was to be spared the
persecutions of Van Zwieten, whose death he openly rejoiced in. He was
greatly astonished at the news that Wilfred had killed Malet, but he
hardly censured him so severely as a Little Englander might have been
expected to do in the circumstances. But, indeed, Mr. Scarse was by no
means so virulent against his country now as he had been in the past.
His visit to South Africa had opened his eyes to the other side of the
question, particularly to the many failings of the Boers. He had
learned from experience that England was not invariably wrong; that
however she might blunder, she had usually right on her side. In fact,
both as a father and a politician, Mr. Scarse was a reformed
character.
Harold was terribly distressed to hear of the death of his brother.
For a long time Brenda kept the news from him, fearing its effect in
his weak state. But the day came when it could no longer be withheld,
and she was obliged to tell him the truth.
It was a glorious tropical morning. Her father had gone out, and she
was seated by her husband's bed, holding his hand in her own. His
beard had grown, he was thin and haggard, but his eyes were bright and
full of intelligence. He was anxious, and able now to hear all that
had to be told. And she told him everything. He was amazed.
"Wilfred killed Malet!" he said, hardly believing his ears. "But he
had a sprained ankle on that night. It is impossible!"
"His sprain was feigned to protect himself," replied Brenda, sadly;
"it is all in his confession."
"He left a written confession?"
"Yes, he wrote everything as it happened on that night, and carried
the statement about with him, to be placed in the hands of you or
myself when he died. Hush, Harold, dear, you must not speak. Here is
my father."
Mr. Scarse entered on tiptoe to inquire how the invalid was getting
on. He brought in some fruit--always a welcome gift to the
convalescent. He had heard enough to acquaint him with the subject
under discussion. So busy had Brenda been in nursing her husband that
she had not found time to tell the whole story to her father. Now he
asked her for details, and she went over them again for his benefit.
"But why did Wilfred kill the man?" he asked.
"From sheer patriotic feeling," answered his daughter. "He found out
that Mr. Malet was supplying information about our defences to Van
Zwieten, and he remonstrated with him. Malet laughed at his scruples
and denied his complicity. Then Wilfred searched Mr. Malet's desk and
found papers which proved conclusively his treachery. Then it was he
decided to kill him to save the honor of the family."
"Well," said Scarse, reflectively, "murder is a terrible crime; but if
ever it is excusable, surely it is in such circumstances as these."
"So I think," chimed in Harold. "A man who betrays his country should
not be allowed to live. In his place I would have acted just as
Wilfred did. It was not a murder; it was well-deserved extermination."
"It is terrible, nevertheless. Read the confession, Brenda," said Mr.
Scarse.
"No. I can tell you the story better. Harold must not be wearied, and
the confession is long. Wilfred has stated at great length the reasons
which led him to this act, and sets out a strong defence of it. He
never regretted it at all events."
"Go on, Brenda, dear child. I am anxious to hear how he did it."
She glanced at Harold to see if he was listening, and began: "I need
not weary you with his own defence," she said. "As I have told you,
from papers in Mr. Malet's desk he found out that he was a traitor,
and was supplying Van Zwieten with information concerning the plans of
the Government, the number of men and guns which we could place in the
field, and many other things which the Transvaal authorities wished to
know. Had Kruger and his gang not known that we were wholly
unprepared, they would not have dared to defy Great Britain and
risk this war. Mr. Malet, it appears, is responsible for a great
deal--indeed, for the whole war!"
"The scoundrel!" Harold said weakly. "I am glad, indeed, that Wilfred
shot him. I would have done so myself."
"To ward off suspicions from his doings, Malet posed as an
Imperialist. He saw Van Zwieten only at intervals. It was to obtain
possession of some papers from Malet that Van Zwieten came down to
Chippingholt, and for that reason he extorted an invitation from you,
father."
"I thought he was anxious to come," Mr. Scarse said. "Now I can see it
all."
She continued: "Wilfred heard that Van Zwieten was at the cottage, and
kept a sharp eye on Malet. He found out that he was to meet Van
Zwieten on that night and give him some documents. He then made up his
mind to kill him, to save--as I have said--the honor of the family, as
well as to punish him for his wickedness in betraying his own country.
"Shortly before nine o'clock, Van Zwieten came to the Manor and
entered the library by one of the French windows. It was his voice
that Lady Jenny heard when she went to see if her husband was back
from his walk. Indeed, it was Malet who brought Van Zwieten to the
library to give him the papers. When Lady Jenny was on her way to the
Rectory to see you, Harold, Wilfred escorted her. She mentioned that
she had heard voices in the library, and wondered with whom her
husband had been speaking. Wilfred guessed at once that the man was at
his scoundrelly work, and was more than ever determined to put a stop
to it. To get away from Lady Jenny without exciting her suspicion, and
also to prove an _alibi_ in case he shot the man, he pretended to
sprain his ankle. Lady Jenny was quite unsuspicious, and went on to
the Rectory alone. As you know, she never reached it, having been
stopped by the storm. As soon as she was out of sight, Wilfred
hastened back to the house with the intention of confronting both men,
and killing Malet if he did not take the papers back from Van Zwieten.
He also entered the library by the French window, so the servants
never saw him come in. He found the room empty, as Van Zwieten had
gone away, and Malet with him--I suppose it was to receive further
instructions. Wilfred saw the revolvers belonging to Harold on a
side-table, for Mr. Malet had been using them that afternoon. He took
one, found that it was loaded, and hastened after the pair. Knowing
that Van Zwieten was at our cottage, he went first in that direction;
but for a long time he could see neither of them. At last he caught
sight of Malet in the orchards, just before the storm. He was talking
with a man whom Wilfred took to be you, father."
"My brother, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Brenda. "It was Uncle Robert. He heard high words
between the two and saw the struggle."
"That was when the crape scarf was torn?"
"Undoubtedly. Malet must have torn it and held it in his hand without
thinking. Well, Wilfred saw Malet throw the other man to the ground
just when the storm broke, and hurry away to get back to shelter in
the Manor; but the storm was so violent that he took shelter instead
under a tree. Wilfred crept up to him and waited, but it was so dark
that he could not see him plainly enough to shoot straight, and he
was, of course, unwilling to risk failure. Then a flash of lightning
revealed Mr. Malet. Wilfred sprang forward and grasped him by the
shoulder. He cried out. I heard him myself. I was only a short
distance away. When the darkness closed down again, Wilfred put the
muzzle of the revolver close to his head and blew his brains out. Then
he ran away, and in the darkness tripped over a stump. The revolver
flew out of his hand, and he lost it."
"Van Zwieten found it?"
"Yes. Wilfred was a good deal troubled about it, for he knew that
Harold's name was on it, and he feared lest he should on that account
be accused of the murder."
"As I was, indeed, said Harold.
"Yes, dear, I know; but not officially. If, for instance, you had
been arrested on the charge, then Wilfred would have come forward and
have told the whole story. As it was, he kept silence."
"And what did he do after he had killed Malet?" asked Mr. Scarse.
"He went back to the place where Lady Jenny had left him, and waited
for some time in case she should return. You see, to exonerate himself
he thought it well to keep up the fiction of the sprained ankle. Then,
as Lady Jenny did not return, he went home, and gave out that his
ankle was sprained."
"But didn't the doctors find out the truth?"
"No; he took good care not to show his foot to any one. He wrapped it
up in wet cloths and made a great fuss about it, but, in the
excitement over the inquest, the doctor took no notice of it."
"I wonder Lady Jenny didn't find out the fraud," said Harold.
"In that case, Wilfred would have owned up to it and confessed the
whole thing. And I don't believe she would have minded much, if she
had known what a traitor her husband was."
"No; I dare say she would have applauded Wilfred. She is a true
patriot is Lady Jenny," said Harold, with a feeble laugh. "Besides, on
account of Robert's wife, she and her husband had become estranged for
many a long day. But did Van Zwieten never guess?"
"No," said Brenda, reflectively, "I don't think he did. He believed
Lady Jenny herself had done it out of revenge; but he could not prove
that, and, under the circumstances, lest his own affairs should come
out, he thought it wiser to hold his tongue. Well, that is the story,
and a very painful one it is. I am sure that Wilfred acted for the
best, and did what he conceived to be his duty both to his country and
his family; but it is dreadful to think he should have stained his
hands with blood."
"I don't altogether agree with you, my dear," said Mr. Scarse,
energetically. "If Malet had been detected in his treasonable
dealings, under martial law he would have been shot openly. As it was,
Wilfred executed the sentence privately. I am not one to defend
murder, you know, but I cannot bring myself to look upon this as
murder."
"Wilfred was insane on the subject of patriotism," said Harold. "He
was hardly responsible for his actions when he shot Malet. I don't
blame him. The reptile deserved his punishment; and Van Zwieten
deserved his fate. Wilfred did no more than was right, and he rid the
world of two scoundrels."
"You forget, Van Zwieten fired first," put in Brenda. "Wilfred only
defended himself. I can't pretend I am sorry that Van Zwieten is dead,
because so long as he lived he would never have ceased to persecute
me. But let his evil die with him, Harold."
"So far as that goes I never want to hear his name!"
"Now you are overtaxing your strength talking, dear," said Brenda,
arranging the bedclothes. "You must be quiet and try and rest."
"Yes, do," said Mr. Scarse. "I want to have a few words with Brenda."
So Harold lay back, and, after a time, fell into a sleep. His wife
told off one of the nurses to stay beside him, and herself went out
with her father. When they had gone a short distance he explained why
he wished to speak privately with her.
"Brenda," he said, "a will was found on Van Zwieten. It seems that
there is a sum of some five thousand pounds standing to his credit at
one of the London banks."
"Really, father; I never thought he was so well off. Evidently spying
paid. To whom has he left it?"
"To you, my dear!"
"To me?" She could hardly believe her ears. "I would not take it if I
were starving. I hated the man. How could I touch his money?"
"But, Brenda, think for a moment; is it not foolish to throw it away?
Five thousand pounds is a large sum."
"No, no, no!" repeated the girl, vehemently. "I will not touch it, I
tell you. That money was made out of spying and working evil against
England. I am sure Harold would think as I do about it."
And so Harold did think. Later on, when she returned, she found him
just awakened out of a refreshing sleep, and she told him of Van
Zwieten's strange bequest. He refused at once to accept it, and
commended her for having forestalled him in the decision.
"We can live on our own means, small as they are, dear; and, when the
war is over, I will beat my sword into a ploughshare and come out here
and turn farmer."
"That is if we are successful," said his wife smiling.
"Oh, I have no fear as to that. In a month or two there will be equal
rights for white man and black from the Zambesi to the Cape. But, in
any case, there'll be no more fighting for me, Brenda. I shall never
be the same man again."
"Who says so?" she asked quickly.
"The doctor. He says this wound will always trouble me, and that I
shall never be able to stand the English winters. Here the air is
balmy and the climate mild."
"In that case we'll do just as you suggest, dearest. There is nothing
to keep us in England. My father is wrapped up in his politics, and my
aunt and uncle care only for themselves. Yes, you are right, as you
always are, Harold. When the war is over we will settle here."
"We shall never think less of dear old England because we are exiles,
eh, Brenda?"
"Exiles! We shall not be exiles here. This is part of the British
Empire. Wherever the map is colored red there is England. Harold,
dear, do you know, I cannot get poor Wilfred out of my thoughts. In
his own way he was a true hero. He gave his life for his country."
"Yes, Brenda, I agree, just as much as many another man is doing here
at this moment. I cannot help feeling relieved that the mystery of
Malet's death is cleared up, and I am not ashamed now that I know it
was my brother who fired the shot. May such justice ever be done to
traitors!"
She knelt beside the bed and took his hands soothingly in her own.
"Don't talk any more about these things, dearest. They excite you. I
shouldn't have mentioned it. Let the past lie buried. All I know, and
all I care for, is that you are alive, and that I have you wholly to
myself. We will never be parted, Harold. We may be poor in the world's
goods, but we are rich indeed in love."
"And that is the best of all riches, dearest."
"Amen," she said and kissed her husband tenderly.
THE END.