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Mystery of the Sycamore

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<h2 id="c4">CHAPTER IV THE BIG SYCAMORE TREE</h2> At the south door the Appleby car stood waiting. Genevieve was saying good-bye to Maida, with the affection of an old friend. “We’re coming back, you know,” she reminded, “in two or three days, and please say you’ll be glad to see me!” “Of course,” Maida assented, but her lip trembled and her eyes showed signs of ready tears. “Cheer up,” Genevieve babbled on. “I’m your friend—whatever comes with time!” “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, and even when Samuel Appleby gave her a warning glance at parting she bravely responded to his farewell words, and even gaily waved her hand as the car rolled down the drive. Once out of earshot, Appleby broke out: <div class="pb" id="Page_66">[66]</div> “I played my trump card! No, you needn’t ask me what I was, for I don’t propose to tell you. But it will take the trick, I’m sure. Why, it’s got to!” “It must be something pretty forcible, then,” said Keefe, “for it looked to me about as likely as snow in summertime, that any of those rigid Puritans would ever give in an inch to your persuasions.” “Or mine,” added Genevieve. “Never before have I failed so utterly to make any headway when I set out to be really persuasive.” “You did your best, Miss Lane,” and Appleby looked at her with the air of one appraising the efficiency of a salesman. “I confess I didn’t think Wheeler would be quite such a hardshell—after all these years.” “He’s just like concrete,” Keefe observed. “They all are. I didn’t know there were such conscientious people left in this wicked old world!” “They’re not really in the world,” Appleby declared. “They’ve merely vegetated in that house of theirs, never going anywhere——” “Oh, come now, Mr. Appleby,” and Genevieve shook her head, “Boston isn’t the only burg on the planet! They often go to New York, and that’s going some!” <div class="pb" id="Page_67">[67]</div> “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 back home to her father.” “It doesn’t matter,” Keefe said, “they’re by no means mossbacks or hayseeds. They’re right there with the goods, when it comes to modern literature or up-to-date news——” “Oh, yes, they’re a highbrow bunch,” Appleby spoke impatiently; “but a recluse like that is no sort of a man! The truth is, I’m at the end of my patience! I’ve got to put this thing over with less palaver and circumlocution. I thought I’d give him a chance—just put the thing up to him squarely once—and, as he doesn’t see fit to meet me half-way, he’s got 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 at all is ridiculous! If he doesn’t come down, he’s got to be wiped out! That’s what it amounts to!” “Wiped out—how?” <div class="pb" id="Page_68">[68]</div> “Figuratively and literally! Mentally, morally and physically! That’s how! I’ve stood all I can—I’ve waited long enough—too long—and now I’m going to play the game my own way! As I said, I played a trump card—I raised one pretty definite ruction just before we left. Now, that may do the business—and, it may not! If not, then desperate measures are necessary—and will be used!” “Good gracious, Mr. Appleby!” Genevieve piped up from her fur collar which 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—his influence—yet, when he sits there looking like a stone wall, and about as easy 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 life in my hands to go into his house! He hates me with all the strength of a hard, bigoted, but strictly just nature. He thinks I was unjust in the matter of his pardon, he thinks I was contemptible, and false to our old-time friendship; and he would be honestly and truly glad if I were dead. But—thank heaven—he’s no murderer!” <div class="pb" id="Page_69">[69]</div> “Of course not!” cried Genevieve. “How you do talk! As if murder were an everyday performance! Why, people in our class don’t kill each other!” The placid assumption of equality of class with her employer was so consistently Miss Lane’s usual attitude, that it caused no mental comment from either of her hearers. Her services were so valuable that any such little idiosyncrasy was tolerated. “Of course we don’t—often,” agreed Appleby, “but I’d wager a good bit that if Dan Wheeler could bump me off without his conscience knowing it—off I’d go!” “I don’t know about that,” said Genevieve, musingly—“but I do believe that girl would do it!” “What?” cried Keefe. “Maida!” “Yes; she’s a lamb for looks, but she’s got a lion’s heart—if anybody ever had one! Talk about a tigress protecting her cubs; it would be a milk-and-water performance beside Maida Wheeler shielding her father—or fighting for him—yes, or killing somebody for him!” “Rubbish!” laughed Appleby. “Maida might be willing enough, in that lion heart of hers—but little girls don’t go around killing people.” <div class="pb" id="Page_70">[70]</div> “I know it, and I don’t expect her to. But I only say she’s capable of it.” “Goethe says—(Keefe spoke in his superior way)—‘We are all capable of crime, even the best of us.’” “I remember that phrase,” mused Appleby. “Is it Goethe’s? Well, I don’t say it’s literally true, for lots of people are too much of a jellyfish makeup to have such a capability. But I do believe there are lots of strong, forcible people, who are absolutely capable of crime—if the opportunity offers.” “That’s it,” and Genevieve nodded her head wisely. “Opportunity is what counts. 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 her amusing chatter, at which she was a success. At that very moment, Maida Wheeler, alone in her room, was sobbing wildly, yet using every precaution that she shouldn’t be heard. <div class="pb" id="Page_71">[71]</div> Thrown across her bed, her face buried in the pillows, she fairly shook with the intensity of her grief. But, as often happens, after she had brought her crying spell to a finish—and exhausted Nature insists on a finish—she rose and bathed her flushed 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 question which she could not refer to her parents. Always she had confided in them, and matters that seemed great to her, even though trifling in themselves, were invariably settled and straightened out by her wise and loving father or mother. But now, Samuel Appleby had told her a secret—a dreadful secret—that she must not only weigh and decide about, but must—at least, until she decided—keep from her parents. “For,” Maida thought, “if I tell them, they’ll at once insist on knowing who the rightful heir is, they’ll give over the place to him—and what will become of us?” <div class="pb" id="Page_72">[72]</div> Her conscience was as active as ever it was, her sense of right and wrong was in no way warped or blunted, but instinct told her that she must keep this matter entirely to herself until she had come to her own conclusion. Moreover, she realized, the conclusion must be her own—the decision must be arrived at by herself, and unaided. Finally, accepting all this, she resolved to put the whole thing out of her mind for the moment. Her parents were so intimately acquainted with her every mood or shade of demeanor, they would see at once that something was troubling her mind, unless she used the utmost care to prevent it. Care, too, not to overdo her precaution. It would be quite as evident that she was concealing something, if she were unusually gay or carefree of manner. So the poor child went downstairs, determined to forget utterly the news she 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 suspected her of pretense. Moreover, the subject of Samuel Appleby’s visit was such a fruitful source of conversation that there was less chance of minor considerations. <div class="pb" id="Page_73">[73]</div> “Never will I consent,” her father was reiterating, as Maida entered the room. “Why, Sara, I’d rather have the conditional pardon rescinded, rather pay full penalty of my conviction, than stand for the things young Sam’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 as if you’d like to thump Mr. Appleby!” “And I should! I wish I could bang into his head just how I feel about it——” “Oh, he knows!” and Mrs. Wheeler smiled. “He knows perfectly how you feel.” “But, truly, mother, don’t you think dad could—well, not do anything wrong—but just give in to Mr. Appleby—for—for my sake?” “Maida—dear—that is our only stumbling-block. Your father and I would not budge one step, for ourselves—but for you, and for Jeffrey—oh, my dear little girl, that’s what makes it so hard.” “For us, then—father, can’t you—for our sake——” <div class="pb" id="Page_74">[74]</div> Maida broke down. It wasn’t for her sake she was pleading—nor for the sake of her lover. It was for the sake of her parents—that they might remain in comfort—and yet, comfort at the expense of honesty? Oh, the problem was too great—she hadn’t worked it out yet. “I can’t think,” her father’s grave voice broke in on her tumultuous thoughts. “I can’t believe, Maida, that you would want my freedom at the cost of my seared conscience.” “No, oh, no, father, I don’t—you know I don’t. But what is this dreadful thing you’d have to countenance if you linked up on the Appleby side? Are they pirates—or rascals?” “Not from their own point of view,” and Dan Wheeler smiled. “They think we are! You can’t understand politics, child, but you must know that a man who is heart and soul in sympathy with the principles of his party can’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 torn as I try to persuade myself that for those reasons it would be right for me to consent. Yet——” <div class="pb" id="Page_75">[75]</div> He passed his hand wearily across his brow, and then folding his arms on the table he let his head sink down upon them. Maida flew to his side. “Father, dearest,” she crooned over him, as she caressed his bowed head, “don’t think of it for a minute! You know I’d give 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 enough to have a share and a voice in all these matters. But just think what it would mean, if father had his pardon! Look at this room, and think, he has never been in it! Never has seen the pictures—the view from the window, the general coziness of it all.” “I know, dear, but that’s an old story. Your father is accustomed to living only in his own rooms——” <div class="pb" id="Page_76">[76]</div> “And not to be able to go to the other end of the dining-room or living-room, if he chooses! It’s outrageous!” “Yes, Maida, I quite agree—but no more outrageous than it was last week—or last year.” “Yes, it is! It grows more outrageous every minute! Mother, what did that old 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 of Massachusetts.” “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. There were advertisements kept in the papers for years, and able lawyers did all they could to find heirs if there were any. And, finding none, we were advised that there were none, and we could rest in undisturbed possession.” “Suppose one should appear, what then?” <div class="pb" id="Page_77">[77]</div> “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 be desperately fixed if it were! You know, Maida, from a fine capable business 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 purposely fastened on your father, because he was about to be made the rival candidate 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 your father has done all he honestly could to be fully pardoned, or to discover the real criminal, and as he hasn’t succeeded, you must rest content with the knowledge that there was no stone left unturned.” <div class="pb" id="Page_78">[78]</div> “But, mother, suppose Mr. Appleby has something more up his sleeve. Suppose he comes down on dad with some unexpected, some unforeseen blow that——” “Maida, be quiet. Don’t make me sorry that we have let you into our confidence as far as we have. These are matters above your head. Should such 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 divert your 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 only ridiculous 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’s loving smile robbed the words of any harsh effect. “Run along now, and see if dad won’t go for a walk with you; and don’t refer to anything unpleasant.” Maida went, and found Wheeler quite ready for a stroll “Which way?” he asked as they crossed the south veranda. <div class="pb" id="Page_79">[79]</div> “Round the park, and bring up under the tree, and have tea there,” dictated Maida, her heart already lighter as she obeyed her mother’s dictum to avoid unpleasant subjects. But as they walked on, and trivial talk seemed to pall, they naturally reverted to the discussion of their recent guests. “Mr. Appleby is an old curmudgeon,” Maida declared; “Mr. Keefe is nice and well-behaved; but the little Lane girl is a scream! I never saw any one so funny. Now she was quite a grand lady, and then she was a common little piece! But underneath it all she showed a lot of good sense and I’m sure in her work she has real ability.” “Appleby wouldn’t keep her if she didn’t have,” her father rejoined; “but why 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 a curmudgeon 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.” <div class="pb" id="Page_80">[80]</div> “Yes, a high old pardon! Say, dad, tell me again exactly how he worded that letter about the tree.” “I’ve told you a dozen times! He didn’t mean anything anyhow. He only said, that when the big sycamore tree went into Massachusetts I could go.” “What a crazy thing to say, wasn’t it?” “It was because we had been talking about the play of Macbeth. You remember, ’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 you thinking of carrying a branch of sycamore into Massachusetts?” Maida returned his smile as she answered: “I’d manage to carry the whole tree in, if it would do any good! But, I s’pose, old Puritan Father, you’re too conscientious to take advantage of a trick?” <div class="pb" id="Page_81">[81]</div> “Can’t say, till I know the details of the game. But I doubt Appleby’s being unable to see through your trick, and then—where are you?” “That wouldn’t matter. Trick or no trick, if the big sycamore went into Massachusetts, you could go. But I don’t see any good plan for getting it in. And, too, Sycamore Ridge wouldn’t be Sycamore Ridge without it. Don’t you love the old tree, dad?” “Of course, as I love every stick and stone about the place. It has been a 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?” <div class="pb" id="Page_82">[82]</div> “Oh, I’m thinking of all sorts of things to-day. But, father, while we’re talking 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—but father, darling, if you only could!” “Maida, my little girl, don’t think I haven’t tried. Don’t think I don’t realize what it means to you and Jeff. I know—oh, I do know how it would simplify matters if I should go over to the Appleby side—and push Sam’s campaign—as I could do it. I know that it would mean my full pardon, my return to my old home, my reunion with old scenes and associations. And more than that, it would mean the happiness of my only child—my daughter—and her chosen husband. And yet, Maida, as God is my judge, I am honest in my assertion that I can’t so betray my honor and spend 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 more positive and final than any further protestation could have been. <div class="pb" id="Page_83">[83]</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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