CHAPTER XIII. THE END OF THE STORY.

"His wife was dead," repeated Van Zwieten, without showing much sympathy, "and he came down to tell you!"

"No, he came to tell Malet."

"And kill him?"

Scarse shook his head. "I am telling you the truth," he said. "If Robert were guilty I should admit it. The poor fellow is crazy, as you know, and at the worst can only be put away in an asylum again. I am not afraid for him, but I fear a public scandal, which might shake my position and force me to resign my seat. No, Robert did not kill the man. But he met him and told him the truth."

"About what hour was that?"

"Shortly after nine o'clock. I met Robert wandering in the orchards at a quarter past, and I took him home with me. Malet, according to the doctor's evidence, was shot about half-past nine. At that time Robert was conversing with me in my study."

"But he met Malet," insisted Van Zwieten, rather disappointed at this statement, which he had every reason to believe was true.

"Yes, he met Malet, and told him that his victim was dead. Malet grossly insulted Robert, and there was a quarrel. Unable to restrain his anger, Robert threw himself on Malet, but being an old man and feeble, he was easily overpowered and thrown to the ground. Robert told me this, and I believe it is the truth, because I found his crape scarf was torn--no doubt in the struggle. Malet left him lying on the wet grass and went off. He must have been shot almost immediately afterward."

"By whom?" asked Van Zwieten, keenly.

"Ah! that is the question. I have my suspicions, but I may be wrong. But when Brenda came home with the news of a murder I guessed that the victim was Malet. The servants came to my study door and found it locked. Robert was with me then, and I had locked the door because I did not want him to be seen. They thought it was you I was talking to, and I said it was you. When afterward you came in by the front door they knew, of course, that I had lied. Brenda asked me about that, and I still declared that you had been with me, but that you had gone out of the study window to the front door. I told her also that I was the man seen by Harold Burton."

"Why did you do that?"

"Can't you guess? To save Robert. He had a grievance against Malet, he had been struggling with him, and there was every chance that he might be accused of the murder. There was only my evidence to prove his alibi, and as I was his brother I dreaded lest my word should be insufficient. While the servants were with Brenda in the kitchen I went back to my study, put a coat of my own on Robert, and gave him a soft hat to pull down over his eyes. Then I gave him money, and told him to catch the ten-thirty train from Chippingholt to Langton Junction."

"Which he did," said Van Zwieten. "I was watching all that business through your study window. I followed Robert, wondering who he was, and watched him go off by the train. Then I came home to the house and was admitted, as you know."

"Why did you not speak to me?"

"It was not the proper moment to speak. I did not know who Robert was, and until I entered the house I knew nothing about the murder. I also guessed the victim was Malet, and I thought you must have hired this man to kill him, and having finished with him, had got him safely out of the way."

"Ah! you were anxious to trap me!" cried Mr. Scarse, angrily. "Well, you know the truth now, and you can do nothing. I burned the crape scarf and I told Brenda I was the man Harold had seen. If you choose to make a scandal, I shall tell my story exactly as I have told it to you, and prove Robert's innocence. At the worst he can only be put under restraint again."

"I don't wish to make any scandal," said the Dutchman, mildly, "more especially seeing that your daughter is to be my wife. You can rely on my silence if only on that account. But I'm glad I have heard this story now. I want to know who killed Malet."

"That I can't say," said Mr. Scarse, gloomily. "But I suspect the wife!"

"Lady Jenny!--and why?"

"Robert had a note written to her saying his wife was dead--he brought it with him. He sent it up to her by a boy that same evening. Of course the boy thought that Robert was me."

"I see!" cried Van Zwieten, with a shout. "Robert wanted to stir up Lady Jenny into killing her husband. He is not so crazy, to my thinking. But I don't see how the intelligence of the wife's death would achieve it," he added, shaking his head gravely. "Lady Jenny knew all about the matter, and hadn't harmed her husband. There was no reason why she should do it on that particular night."

"That is what puzzles me," replied Mr. Scarse. "Lady Jenny was out on that night. She did not go to the Rectory to see Captain Burton as she had intended. For that she gave the very unsatisfactory reason that she was caught in the storm. Is it not probable that she met her husband and killed him?"

"No. She would not carry a revolver. If they had already met and quarrelled about this dead woman, then it is possible she might in her jealous rage have made an attack upon her husband with anything to her hand. But a revolver would argue deliberation, and there was nothing sufficiently strong in the note your brother had prepared for her to urge her to deliberate murder."

"Burton found a piece of crape in the dead man's hand," argued Scarse, "and Lady Jenny was wearing crape for her father. There might have been a struggle, and the piece might have come off in his hand."

"Nonsense, Scarse. Ladies don't do that sort of thing. Besides, your brother wore crape too, and it is more likely that it was torn from his scarf. Malet might have kept it in his hand, without being conscious of it probably, when he went to his death."

"Then you think Lady Jenny is innocent?"

"It looks like it," Van Zwieten said with a queer smile; "but I'll let you know my opinion later on," and he rose to go.

"You will keep my secret," entreated Scarse, following his visitor to the door.

"Assuredly. I can make no use of it. I thought to find your brother guilty, but it seems he is not. The mystery deepens."

"But Lady Jenny?"

"True--Lady Jenny. Well, we shall see," and with this enigmatic speech the Dutchman withdrew.

Mr. Scarse went back to his chair, and until midnight sat looking drearily into the fire. But he was sufficiently thoughtful to send a letter to Brenda telling her of his safety in spite of the Trafalgar Square mob.

For the next few days he went about like a man in a dream. Although he knew very well that Van Zwieten would hold his tongue--for he had nothing to gain by wagging it--he blamed himself for having been coerced into a confession. To him the Dutchman was almost a stranger. He had been drawn to the man because he was going out to the Transvaal as an official, and Mr. Scarse had always sympathized with the little state in its struggle for independence. The Dutchman had drawn so pathetic a picture of that struggle, had spoken so feelingly of the Boers as a patriarchal people who desired only to be left tending their flocks and herds, that the English politician was touched. He had sworn to do all in his power to defend this simple people, had become extremely friendly with Van Zwieten, and in proof of that friendship had asked him down to Chippingholt. There the Dutchman, by spying and questioning, had learned so much of his family secrets as to have become his master. As such he had forced him into a confession, and Mr. Scarse felt--if a scandal was to be avoided--that he was at the man's mercy.

Of course Brenda would be the price of his silence. Formerly Scarse had been willing enough that his daughter should marry Van Zwieten. It would be a noble work for her to aid him to build up a new state in South Africa. But now he saw that the Dutchman was by no means the unselfish philanthropist he had supposed him to be. He was tricky and shifty. His was the iron hand in the velvet glove, and if he became Brenda's husband it was by no means improbable that he would ill-treat her. It did not seem right to force her into this marriage when she loved another man. After all, she was his daughter--his only daughter; and Scarse's paternal instinct awoke even thus late in the day to prompt him to protect and cherish her. If he felt for poor Robert and his woes, surely he could feel for the troubles of Brenda.

Musing thus, it occurred to him that he might frustrate any probable schemes of Van Zwieten by telling the whole truth to Brenda. Then let her marry Harold and defy the man. At all events he determined that Brenda should be introduced to the family skeleton, and accordingly one afternoon he drove to Kensington. Mrs. St. Leger was out, so was the colonel, and he found his daughter alone.

When he entered--for all the world like an old grey wolf--for his troubles had aged him--Brenda came forward with a look of astonishment in her eyes. Usually her father was not so attentive as to pay her a visit; and she could not conjecture the meaning of the tender expression on his face. As a matter of fact Mr. Scarse was realizing for the first time that this tall, beautiful girl was his daughter. But she could not divine this, and her welcome to him was, as usual, quite cold.

"How are you, father?" she said, kissing him in a conventional way. "I am glad to see you, but I expected Harold, and was quite astonished when you came in."

"And disappointed too, I suppose," said Scarse, in a low voice.

Something in his tone struck her sensitive ear as unusual. "No, I am glad to see you," she repeated, "but--but--but, you know, father, there was never much love lost between us."

"Ah, Brenda, I fear that too much love has been lost. I wish to speak openly and seriously to you, Brenda"--he looked at her piteously--"but I don't know how to begin."

"Are you not well, father?"

"Yes, yes, I am quite well," he replied, leaning on her shoulder as she led him to the sofa. "But I'm worried, dear, worried. Sit down here."

"Worried--what about?" She sat down, but could not as yet grasp the situation. It was so novel, so unexpected.

"About you--about myself. My dear, I have not been a good father to you."

Brenda stared. Were the heavens going to fall? So astonished was she by this wholly unexpected show of tenderness that she could make no answer. He looked at her anxiously and continued, "I fear I have been so engrossed by my duty to my country that I have forgotten my duty to you, my child. I should not have left you so long at school away from me. No wonder you have so little affection for me. I am not much more than a name to you. But I see now how wrong I have been, Brenda dear, and I want to do my best to make amends to you. You will let me?"

"Father!" she cried, all her warm and generous heart going out to him in his penitence. She threw her arms round his neck. "Don't say any more, dear. I have to ask your forgiveness too, for I have not been all a daughter should be to you."

"Ah, Brenda, it is my fault. I kept you from me. But that shall not be now, dear. I have found my daughter and I will keep her. Kiss me, Brenda."

She kissed him, and her eyes filled with tears. In that moment of joy in finding her father she forgot even Harold. These words of tenderness were balm to her aching heart, and, too deeply moved to speak, she wept on his shoulder. Henceforth she would be different--everything would be different. And the man himself was scarcely less moved.

"How foolish I have been, Brenda. I have lost the substance for the shadow."

"No, no, father. I love you. I have always loved you. But I thought you did not care for me."

"I care for you now, Brenda. Hush, hush, do not cry, child."

"You won't ask me to marry Mr. van Zwieten now, father?"

"No," replied he, vigorously. "I intend to have nothing further to do with that man."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, raising her head. "At last you have found him out!"

"No, dear, I have not exactly found him out, but I have come to the conclusion that he is double-dealing and dangerous. You shall not marry him, Brenda. You love Harold, and Harold shall be your husband. But I must not lose my daughter," he added tenderly.

"You shall not, father. You shall gain a son. Oh, how happy I am!" and laying her head upon his shoulder she wept tears of pure joy.

For some moments he did not speak, but held her to him closely. He, too, was happy--had not felt so happy for years. How he regretted now having kept this warm, pure affection at arm's length for so long. But time was passing, and Mrs. St. Leger and the colonel might be back at any moment, and he had much to tell her.

"Listen to me, Brenda dear," he said, raising her head gently. "Do you remember the man so like me whom Harold saw?"

"The man with the crape scarf? Of course I remember him, father." She looked steadfastly at him, expecting a revelation since he had so unexpectedly introduced the subject. "I saw him in Trafalgar Square on the day of the meeting."

"And you knew that it was not me?"

"Yes; but he was so like you, that had he not been on the platform I might easily have mistaken him for you, like Harold did."

"Had you spoken to him you would have found out your mistake," sighed Scarse.

"I wanted to, but Mr. van Zwieten took him away."

"I know--I know. Brenda, I deceived you about that man for your own sake and for mine. I took his sins on my shoulders that he might not get into trouble."

"What?" Brenda's voice rose almost to a shriek. "Did he kill Mr. Malet?"

"No, no," replied her father, eagerly. "I can prove to you that he did not. But, Brenda, do you not wonder why he is so like me, and why I take so deep an interest in him?"

"I do wonder. I thought he might be a relative. But you denied it, and Aunt Julia said she had no relative but you."

Mr. Scarse drooped his head. "Julia? Ah, she is still bitter against poor Robert!"

"Robert?--who is he?"

"My twin brother, Brenda--your uncle!"

"Oh!" Brenda threw up her hands in surprise. "And I never knew."

"No one knows but your aunt and myself, and she denies him--and Van Zwieten knows."

"Oh, father! How can he know?"

"I told him," replied Mr. Scarse, quietly. "I was forced to tell him, lest he should imagine the truth to be worse than it is. And he might have got me into trouble--and not only me, but poor, mad Robert."

"Mad! Is my uncle mad?"

"Yes, poor soul. Now I will tell you what made him mad--the same story that I was forced to tell Van Zwieten."

Brenda looked anxiously at her father and placed her hand in his. Grasping it hard, he related the sad family history he had told the Dutchman, suppressing nothing, extenuating nothing. Brenda listened in profound silence. At times her eyes flashed, at times she wept, but never a word did she say. When her father had finished her sorrow burst forth.

"My dear father, how good you are! To think I have been such a bad daughter, and you with all this worry on you! Oh, forgive me, forgive me!" and she threw herself sobbing into his arms.

"My dear, there is nothing to forgive. I have told you why I bore this trouble in silence--why I told Van Zwieten."

"Thank God you don't want me to marry him," sobbed Brenda. "Harold and I are going to be married quietly at Brighton."

"Better wait a while yet," said Scarse, nervously; "it will drive Van Zwieten into a corner if you marry now, and you don't know what he may do then."

"He can't do anything, father. If he does attempt it I have only to tell Lady Jenny; she can manage him. Harold has gone to see her about it."

Somewhat astonished at this, Scarse was about to ask what way Lady Jenny could control Van Zwieten when the door opened and Captain Burton walked in, looking considerably more cheerful than when Brenda had seen him last. He pulled up short at the amazing sight of the girl in her father's arms.

"Harold!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how glad I am you have come! I have so much to tell you; and father--father----"

"Father has just discovered that he has a dear daughter," said Scarse, holding out his hand to the astounded young man. "Yes, Harold, and I consent to your marriage gladly."

"But what about Van Zwieten?" gasped Captain Burton, utterly at a loss to understand this sudden change of front.

"He shall never marry Brenda. I'll tell you all about it."

"Wait one minute, father," cried the girl. "Harold, did you see Lady Jenny?"

"Yes, Brenda, I have seen her. It is all right; she can manage Van Zwieten. No, I won't tell you now. She particularly wishes to do that herself."