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.
