CHAPTER XXVIII. 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