CHAPTER IV THE BIG SYCAMORE TREE
At the south door the Appleby car stood waiting.
Genevieve was saying good-bye to Maida, with the affection of an oldfriend.
“We’re coming back, you know,” she reminded, “in two or three days, andplease say you’ll be glad to see me!”
“Of course,” Maida assented, but her lip trembled and her eyes showedsigns of ready tears.
“Cheer up,” Genevieve babbled on. “I’m your friend—whatever comes withtime!”
“So am I,” put in Curtis Keefe. “Good-bye for a few days, Miss Wheeler.”
How Maida did it, she scarcely knew herself, but she forced a smile, andeven when Samuel Appleby gave her a warning glance at parting she bravelyresponded to his farewell words, and even gaily waved her hand as the carrolled down the drive.
Once out of earshot, Appleby broke out:
“I played my trump card! No, you needn’t ask me what I was, for I don’tpropose to tell you. But it will take the trick, I’m sure. Why, it’s gotto!”
“It must be something pretty forcible, then,” said Keefe, “for it lookedto me about as likely as snow in summertime, that any of those rigidPuritans would ever give in an inch to your persuasions.”
“Or mine,” added Genevieve. “Never before have I failed so utterly tomake any headway when I set out to be really persuasive.”
“You did your best, Miss Lane,” and Appleby looked at her with the air ofone appraising the efficiency of a salesman. “I confess I didn’t thinkWheeler would be quite such a hardshell—after all these years.”
“He’s just like concrete,” Keefe observed. “They all are. I didn’t knowthere were such conscientious people left in this wicked old world!”
“They’re not really in the world,” Appleby declared. “They’ve merelyvegetated in that house of theirs, never going anywhere——”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Appleby,” and Genevieve shook her head, “Boston isn’tthe only burg on the planet! They often go to New York, and that’s goingsome!”
“Not really often—I asked Wheeler. He hasn’t been for five or six years,and though Maida goes occasionally, to visit friends, she soon runs backhome to her father.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Keefe said, “they’re by no means mossbacks orhayseeds. They’re right there with the goods, when it comes to modernliterature or up-to-date news——”
“Oh, yes, they’re a highbrow bunch,” Appleby spoke impatiently; “but arecluse like that is no sort of a man! The truth is, I’m at the end of mypatience! I’ve got to put this thing over with less palaver andcircumlocution. I thought I’d give him a chance—just put the thing up tohim squarely once—and, as he doesn’t see fit to meet me half-way, he’sgot to be the loser, that’s all.”
“He seems to be the loser, as it is.” This from Keefe.
“But nothing to what’s coming to him! Why, the idea of my sparing him atall is ridiculous! If he doesn’t come down, he’s got to be wiped out!That’s what it amounts to!”
“Wiped out—how?”
“Figuratively and literally! Mentally, morally and physically! That’show! I’ve stood all I can—I’ve waited long enough—too long—and now I’mgoing to play the game my own way! As I said, I played a trump card—Iraised one pretty definite ruction just before we left. Now, that may dothe business—and, it may not! If not, then desperate measures arenecessary—and will be used!”
“Good gracious, Mr. Appleby!” Genevieve piped up from her fur collarwhich nearly muffled her little face. “You sound positively murderous!”
“Murder! Pooh, I’d kill Dan Wheeler in a minute, if that would help Sam!But I don’t want Wheeler dead—I want him alive—I want his help—hisinfluence—yet, when he sits there looking like a stone wall, and about aseasy to overthrow, I declare I _could_ kill him! But I don’t intend to.It’s far more likely he’d kill me!”
“Why?” exclaimed Keefe. “Why should he? And—but you’re joking.”
“Not at all. Wheeler isn’t of the murderer type, or I’d be taking my lifein my hands to go into his house! He hates me with all the strength of ahard, bigoted, but strictly just nature. He thinks I was unjust in thematter of his pardon, he thinks I was contemptible, and false to ourold-time friendship; and he would be honestly and truly glad if I weredead. But—thank heaven—he’s no murderer!”
“Of course not!” cried Genevieve. “How you do talk! As if murder were aneveryday performance! Why, people in our class don’t kill each other!”
The placid assumption of equality of class with her employer was soconsistently Miss Lane’s usual attitude, that it caused no mental commentfrom either of her hearers. Her services were so valuable that any suchlittle idiosyncrasy was tolerated.
“Of course we don’t—often,” agreed Appleby, “but I’d wager a good bitthat if Dan Wheeler could bump me off without his conscience knowingit—off I’d go!”
“I don’t know about that,” said Genevieve, musingly—“but I do believethat girl would do it!”
“What?” cried Keefe. “Maida!”
“Yes; she’s a lamb for looks, but she’s got a lion’s heart—if anybodyever had one! Talk about a tigress protecting her cubs; it would be amilk-and-water performance beside Maida Wheeler shielding her father—orfighting for him—yes, or killing somebody for him!”
“Rubbish!” laughed Appleby. “Maida might be willing enough, in that lionheart of hers—but little girls don’t go around killing people.”
“I know it, and I don’t expect her to. But I only say she’s capable ofit.”
“Goethe says—(Keefe spoke in his superior way)—‘We are all capable ofcrime, even the best of us.’”
“I remember that phrase,” mused Appleby. “Is it Goethe’s? Well, I don’tsay it’s literally true, for lots of people are too much of a jellyfishmakeup to have such a capability. But I do believe there are lots ofstrong, forcible people, who are absolutely capable of crime—if theopportunity offers.”
“That’s it,” and Genevieve nodded her head wisely. “Opportunity is whatcounts. I’ve read detective stories, and they prove it. Be careful, Mr.Appleby, how you trust yourself alone with Mr. Wheeler.”
“That will do,” he reprimanded. “I can take care of myself, Miss Lane.”
Genevieve always knew when she had gone too far, and, instead of sulking,she tactfully changed the subject and entertained the others with heramusing chatter, at which she was a success.
At that very moment, Maida Wheeler, alone in her room, was sobbingwildly, yet using every precaution that she shouldn’t be heard.
Thrown across her bed, her face buried in the pillows, she fairly shookwith the intensity of her grief.
But, as often happens, after she had brought her crying spell to afinish—and exhausted Nature insists on a finish—she rose and bathed herflushed face and sat down to think it out calmly.
Yet the more she thought the less calm she grew.
For the first time in her life she was face to face with a great questionwhich she could not refer to her parents. Always she had confided inthem, and matters that seemed great to her, even though trifling inthemselves, were invariably settled and straightened out by her wise andloving father or mother.
But now, Samuel Appleby had told her a secret—a dreadful secret—that shemust not only weigh and decide about, but must—at least, until shedecided—keep from her parents.
“For,” Maida thought, “if I tell them, they’ll at once insist on knowingwho the rightful heir is, they’ll give over the place to him—and whatwill become of us?”
Her conscience was as active as ever it was, her sense of right and wrongwas in no way warped or blunted, but instinct told her that she must keepthis matter entirely to herself until she had come to her own conclusion.Moreover, she realized, the conclusion must be her own—the decision mustbe arrived at by herself, and unaided.
Finally, accepting
all this, she resolved to put the whole thing out ofher mind for the moment. Her parents were so intimately acquainted withher every mood or shade of demeanor, they would see at once thatsomething was troubling her mind, unless she used the utmost care toprevent it. Care, too, not to overdo her precaution. It would be quite asevident that she was concealing something, if she were unusually gay orcarefree of manner.
So the poor child went downstairs, determined to forget utterly the newsshe had heard, until such time as she could be again by herself.
And she succeeded. Though haunted by a vague sense of being deceitful,she behaved so entirely as usual, that neither of her parents suspectedher of pretense.
Moreover, the subject of Samuel Appleby’s visit was such a fruitfulsource of conversation that there was less chance of minorconsiderations.
“Never will I consent,” her father was reiterating, as Maida entered theroom. “Why, Sara, I’d rather have the conditional pardon rescinded,rather pay full penalty of my conviction, than stand for the things youngSam’s campaign must stand for!”
A clenched fist came down on the table by way of emphasis.
“Now, dad,” said Maida, gaily, “don’t thump around like that! You look asif you’d like to thump Mr. Appleby!”
“And I should! I wish I could bang into his head just how I feel aboutit——”
“Oh, he knows!” and Mrs. Wheeler smiled. “He knows perfectly how youfeel.”
“But, truly, mother, don’t you think dad could—well, not do anythingwrong—but just give in to Mr. Appleby—for—for my sake?”
“Maida—dear—that is our only stumbling-block. Your father and I would notbudge one step, for ourselves—but for you, and for Jeffrey—oh, my dearlittle girl, that’s what makes it so hard.”
“For us, then—father, can’t you—for our sake——”
Maida broke down. It wasn’t for her sake she was pleading—nor for thesake of her lover. It was for the sake of her parents—that they mightremain in comfort—and yet, comfort at the expense of honesty? Oh, theproblem was too great—she hadn’t worked it out yet.
“I can’t think,” her father’s grave voice broke in on her tumultuousthoughts. “I can’t believe, Maida, that you would want my freedom at thecost of my seared conscience.”
“No, oh, no, father, I don’t—you know I don’t. But what is this dreadfulthing you’d have to countenance if you linked up on the Appleby side? Arethey pirates—or rascals?”
“Not from their own point of view,” and Dan Wheeler smiled. “They thinkwe are! You can’t understand politics, child, but you must know that aman who is heart and soul in sympathy with the principles of his partycan’t conscientiously cross over and work for the other side.”
“Yes, I know that, and I know that tells the whole story. But, father,think what there is at stake. Your freedom—and—ours!”
“I know that, Maida dear, and you can never know how my very soul is tornas I try to persuade myself that for those reasons it would be right forme to consent. Yet——”
He passed his hand wearily across his brow, and then folding his arms onthe table he let his head sink down upon them.
Maida flew to his side. “Father, dearest,” she crooned over him, as shecaressed his bowed head, “don’t think of it for a minute! You know I’dgive up anything—I’d give up Jeff—if it means one speck of good for you.”
“I know it, dear child, but—run away, now, Maida, leave me to myself.”
Understanding, both Maida and her mother quietly left the room.
“I’m sorry, girlie dear, that you have to be involved in these scenes,”Mrs. Wheeler said fondly, as the two went to the sitting-room.
“Don’t talk that way, mother. I’m part of the family, and I’m old enoughto have a share and a voice in all these matters. But just think what itwould mean, if father had his pardon! Look at this room, and think, hehas never been in it! Never has seen the pictures—the view from thewindow, the general coziness of it all.”
“I know, dear, but that’s an old story. Your father is accustomed toliving only in his own rooms——”
“And not to be able to go to the other end of the dining-room orliving-room, if he chooses! It’s outrageous!”
“Yes, Maida, I quite agree—but no more outrageous than it was lastweek—or last year.”
“Yes, it is! It grows more outrageous every minute! Mother, what did thatold will say? That you must live in Massachusetts?”
“Yes—you know that, dear.”
“Of course I do. And if you lived elsewhere, what then?”
“I forfeit the inheritance.”
“And what would become of it?”
“In default of any other heirs, it would go to the State ofMassachusetts.”
“And there are no other heirs?”
“What ails you, Maida? You know all this. No, there are no other heirs.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as we can be. Your father had every possible search made. Therewere advertisements kept in the papers for years, and able lawyers didall they could to find heirs if there were any. And, finding none, wewere advised that there were none, and we could rest in undisturbedpossession.”
“Suppose one should appear, what then?”
“Then, little girl, we’d give him the keys of the house, and walk out.”
“Where would we walk to?”
“I’ve no idea. In fact, I can’t imagine where we could walk to. But that,thank heaven, is not one of our troubles. Your father would indeed bedesperately fixed if it were! You know, Maida, from a fine capablebusiness man, he became a wreck, because of that unjust trial.”
“Father _never_ committed the forgery?”
“Of course not, dear.”
“Who did?”
“We don’t know. It was cleverly done, and the crime was purposelyfastened on your father, because he was about to be made the rivalcandidate of Mr. Appleby, for governor.”
“I know. And Mr. Appleby was at the bottom of it!”
“Your father doesn’t admit that——”
“He must have been.”
“Hush, Maida. These matters are not for you to judge. You know yourfather has done all he honestly could to be fully pardoned, or todiscover the real criminal, and as he hasn’t succeeded, you must restcontent with the knowledge that there was no stone left unturned.”
“But, mother, suppose Mr. Appleby has something more up his sleeve.Suppose he comes down on dad with some unexpected, some unforeseen blowthat——”
“Maida, be quiet. Don’t make me sorry that we have let you into ourconfidence as far as we have. These are matters above your head. Shouldsuch a thing as you hint occur, your father can deal with it.”
“But I want to help——”
“And you can best do that by not trying to help! Your part is to divertyour father, to love him and cheer him and entertain him. You know this,and you know for you to undertake to advise or suggest is not onlyridiculous but disastrous.”
“All right, mother, I’ll be good. I don’t mean to be silly.”
“You are, when you assume ability you don’t possess.” Mrs. Wheeler’sloving smile robbed the words of any harsh effect. “Run along now, andsee if dad won’t go for a walk with you; and don’t refer to anythingunpleasant.”
Maida went, and found Wheeler quite ready for a stroll
“Which way?” he asked as they crossed the south veranda.
“Round the park, and bring up under the tree, and have tea there,”dictated Maida, her heart already lighter as she obeyed her mother’sdictum to avoid unpleasant subjects.
But as they walked on, and trivial talk seemed to pall, they naturallyreverted to the discussion of their recent guests.
“Mr. Appleby is an old curmudgeon,” Maida declared; “Mr. Keefe is niceand well-behaved; but the little Lane girl is a scream! I never saw anyone so funny. Now she was quite a grand lady, and then she was a commonlittle piece! But underneath it
all she showed a lot of good sense andI’m sure in her work she has real ability.”
“Appleby wouldn’t keep her if she didn’t have,” her father rejoined; “butwhy do you call him a curmudgeon? He’s very well-mannered.”
“Oh, yes, he is. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure just what acurmudgeon is. But—he’s it, anyway.”
“I gather you don’t especially admire my old friend.”
“Friend! If he’s a friend—give me enemies!”
“Fie, fie, Maida, what do you mean? Remember, he gave me my pardon.”
“Yes, a high old pardon! Say, dad, tell me again exactly how he wordedthat letter about the tree.”
“I’ve told you a dozen times! He didn’t mean anything anyhow. He onlysaid, that when the big sycamore tree went into Massachusetts I couldgo.”
“What a crazy thing to say, wasn’t it?”
“It was because we had been talking about the play of _Macbeth_. Youremember, ’Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.”
“Oh, yes, and then it did come—by a trick.”
“Yes, the men came, carrying branches. We’d been talking about it,discussing some point, and then—it seemed clever, I suppose—to Appleby,and he wrote that about the sycamore.”
“Meaning—never?”
“Meaning never.”
“But Birnam Wood did go.”
“Only by a trick, and that would not work in this case. Why, are youthinking of carrying a branch of sycamore into Massachusetts?”
Maida returned his smile as she answered: “I’d manage to carry the wholetree in, if it would do any good! But, I s’pose, old Puritan Father,you’re too conscientious to take advantage of a trick?”
“Can’t say, till I know the details of the game. But I doubt Appleby’sbeing unable to see through your trick, and then—where are you?”
“That wouldn’t matter. Trick or no trick, if the big sycamore went intoMassachusetts, you could go. But I don’t see any good plan for getting itin. And, too, Sycamore Ridge wouldn’t be Sycamore Ridge without it. Don’tyou love the old tree, dad?”
“Of course, as I love every stick and stone about the place. It has beena real haven to me in my perturbed life.”
“Suppose you had to leave it, daddy?”
“I think I’d die, dear. Unless, that is, we could go back home.”
“Isn’t this home?”
“It’s the dearest spot on earth—outside my native state.”
“There, there, dad, don’t let’s talk about it. We’re here for keeps——”
“Heaven send we are, dearest! I couldn’t face the loss of this place.What made you think of such a thing?”
“Oh, I’m thinking of all sorts of things to-day. But, father, while we’retalking of moving—couldn’t you—oh, couldn’t you, bring yourself, somehow,to do what Mr. Appleby wants you to do? I don’t know much about it—butfather, darling, if you _only could_!”
“Maida, my little girl, don’t think I haven’t tried. Don’t think I don’trealize what it means to you and Jeff. I know—oh, I _do_ know how itwould simplify matters if I should go over to the Appleby side—and pushSam’s campaign—as I could do it. I know that it would mean my fullpardon, my return to my old home, my reunion with old scenes andassociations. And more than that, it would mean the happiness of my onlychild—my daughter—and her chosen husband. And yet, Maida, as God is myjudge, I am honest in my assertion that I _can’t_ so betray my honor andspend my remaining years a living lie. I can’t do it, Maida—I _can’t_.”
And the calm, sorrowful countenance he turned to the girl was morepositive and final than any further protestation could have been.
The Mystery of the Sycamore Page 4
