"Yourself or Captain Burton. I saw him to-day."
"That is very likely," she replied, quietly divining Van Zwieten's intention. "Captain Burton is staying at the 'Chequers Inn.' At least he was staying there, but he left for London at five."
"Oh, indeed! He must have changed his mind then, for it was after six when I saw him."
"I suppose he is privileged to change his mind," said Brenda. All the same she was puzzled to account for Harold's remaining at Chippingholt.
Thwarted in this direction, Van Zwieten tried another. He was bent on making Brenda confess an interest in Burton, so as to lead up to an explanation of his own feelings. "It is strange," said he, slowly, "that Captain Burton does not stay at the Manor."
"Why do you think it strange, Mr. van Zwieten?"
"Ach! is it not strange? His brother Wilfred stays there--he is there now. Mr. Malet is Captain Burton's cousin, and he is hospitable--not to me," added he, with a sleepy smile; "Mr. Malet does not like me."
Brenda ignored this last remark. "If you ask Captain Burton for his reasons I have no doubt he will gratify your curiosity," she said coldly.
"Oh, I do not care; it is nothing to me." Van Zwieten paused, then resumed very deliberately, "I do not like Captain Burton."
"Really! The loss is his."
"I do not like Captain Burton," repeated Van Zwieten, "because he likes you."
"What has that to do with me?" asked Brenda, injudiciously.
"Everything. I love you--I want to marry you!"
"You told me all about that, Mr. van Zwieten, and I told you I was unable to marry you. It was agreed that we should drop the subject."
"Captain Burton loves you and wants to marry you," pursued the big man, doggedly, "and so I do not like Captain Burton."
The situation was becoming embarrassing, but the man was evidently acting and speaking with a set purpose. "Please say no more, Mr. van Zwieten," said Brenda, trying to control her temper. Still he went on resolutely.
"When we are married we will see nothing of Captain Burton."
"That will never be. I shall never marry you."
"Oh, yes; your father is willing."
"But I am not." Brenda rose with a glance of anger. "How dare you take advantage of my father's absence to insult me?"
"I do not insult you," went on the Dutchman, with a quiet smile. "One does not insult one's future wife."
"I would rather die than marry you!" She walked to the door. "You have no right to speak to me like this. I refuse to see you again, and I shall tell my father of your behavior."
She swept out of the room in a fury, feeling herself helpless in the face of the man's persistency. Her departure, however, did not ruffle him in the least. He went on eating and smiling as though the interview had ended entirely to his satisfaction. After a good meal he lighted a cigar and went along to Mr. Scarse's study. The door was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer.
Van Zwieten was puzzled. There were matters connected with Mr. Scarse which he did not understand, and which he wished very much to understand. After pondering for a few moments, he put on a greatcoat, in spite of the warmth of the night, a smasher hat of the Boer style, and stepped out by the front door. Thence he passed round to the French windows which lighted the study. The blinds were down, and the yellow lamplight shone through them from within. Van Zwieten tried the catch of one window. It yielded, and he slipped into the room. The lamp, fully turned up, was on the table; some papers were spread out on the blotting-pad on the desk, but there was no one in the room. He glanced at the papers, but could gather nothing from them to account for the absence of Scarse. He reflected, and recollected what Brenda had said.
"A snuff-colored coat; a crape scarf!" he mused. "So!" Then he left the room, closed the window after him, and vanished stealthily as a cat into the blackness of the night.
Meanwhile Brenda had gone to her room furious with Van Zwieten and her father--with the former because he would persist in his attentions, with the latter because he exposed her to their annoyance. Not knowing that the Dutchman had gone out, she decided to remain upstairs, so as to avoid meeting him in the drawing-room. But her bedroom was so small, the night so hot, and she felt so restless, that eventually she decided to go up to Holt Manor and see Lady Jenny.
Gilbert's wife was a pretty, frivolous woman, with a good heart, a long tongue, and an infinite capacity for wasting money. Malet was devoted to her, and it was common talk that she could twist him round her finger. If she interested herself in the matter there might be a chance still of Harold's getting the money. Lady Jenny always declared, in her exaggerated way, that Brenda was the sweetest girl in the world, so, putting on her hat and cloak, Brenda determined to learn whether Lady Jenny really was her friend or merely a society acquaintance.
The night was moonless, hot, and almost without air. What the Scotch call uncanny. All day clouds had been rolling up from the south, and now the sky was an immense mass of bluish-black vapor hanging low over the dry and gasping earth. No breath of wind, no sound of life, human or animal. The earth lay dumb under that tent of gloom. Brenda felt stifled as she took the short way through the orchards. Knowing every inch of the ground, she made no mistake, and was occasionally aided by a vivid flash of lightning, which ran in sheets of sudden flame from east to west.
With her nimble feet and her knowledge of all the short cuts, it took her only twenty minutes to arrive at the Manor. She noted the time--nine o'clock--for the village chimes rang out as she halted at the porch of the great house. Here she was doomed to disappointment, for Lady Jenny--as the servant informed her--had gone to the Rectory with Mr. Wilfred Burton.
"Mr. Malet went out for a stroll too, miss," said the butler, who knew her very well; "but any message----"
"Oh, no message, Roberts," said Brenda, hurriedly; "that is--I will call on Lady Jenny to-morrow. Good-night."
"Won't you have an umbrella, miss? It looks stormy."
"No, thank you; I shall no doubt reach home before the storm breaks. Good-night."
But she was wrong in thinking so. Hardly had she left the park gates when the storm came. A blue zig-zag flared across the dark sky, there was a crash of thunder, and on the wings of a bitterly cold wind came the rain. The storm was tropical in its suddenness and fury. The wind struck Brenda like a solid mass, and she had to grasp the trunk of an apple-tree near by to keep her feet. With a hiss and a shriek the rain shot down--one deluge of water, as though the windows of heaven were opened as in the days of Noah's flood. A furious wind tore at the tree-tops, rending boughs, clashing the branches together, and sending a myriad leaves flying abroad like swarms of bees. The drenching rain spattered and drummed on the woods, and in the open was driven in slanting masses of water by the force of the blast. Anxious to get under shelter, and terrified by the fierce lightning, Brenda kilted up her skirts and ran blindly through the trees at the risk of breaking her head. Her feet squelched in the soaking grass, and she was shaken and driven like a leaf by the furious gusts. Still on she stumbled in a dazed condition. It was a witch storm, and the powers of hell rode on the flying clouds.
Suddenly her foot tripped, and she fell full length on
