We will leave Mabel and her friends on the Island of Kaahlanai (the isle
of the sun ) and we will return to the home of Mr. Miller.
After Mabel’s departure, the wedding of Lucy Maynard, which was soon to
take place, was hastened by Harry Howard being sent by his firm to
Europe. Not wishing to go without his bride, the preparations for the
wedding were hurried, and six weeks after Mabel had sailed for Australia
Harry and Lucy were married. Their wedding was a grand affair, Mrs.
Maynard’s ambition being satisfied in the matter of display and expense,
as her brother, Mr. Miller made liberal provision for Lucy in every
respect. After the wedding the bride and groom left for New York on
their way to Europe, and Mrs. Maynard was perfectly happy as a wedding
trip to Europe was the acme of refinement and could only be indulged in
by a select few.
As the weeks dragged themselves wearily into months and still no tidings
came of the Western Shore, or her ill-fated crew or passengers, Mr.
Miller gave up his loved daughter as lost. He no longer took an interest
in his business but would sit with folded hands thinking of Mabel for
hours at a time. Mrs. Maynard tried in every way to have her brother
throw off his grief. One day she said to him, “Why don’t you try to
arouse yourself from this melancholy, James, and take some interest in
the life around you? You can’t bring Mabel back by this ceaseless
mourning.”
Mr. Miller’s face was pitiful as he looked up and reiterated, “Interest
in life. What interest have I in life, now that she, my darling child,
is gone? What have I worked for all these years, but for her sake? What
did I care for money, but that she might enjoy it? No, there is nothing
left for me to live for. Oh, why, why did I ever let her leave me? Now
in my old age she is gone, gone.” He dropped his head in his hands and
his whole frame shook with emotion.
Mrs. Maynard’s face darkened. She had no patience with such grief which
after months could show no signs of abatement. Her nature could not
comprehend it. Mr. Miller’s constant brooding over his trouble soon told
upon his health, and rapidly developed a disease that had been lurking
in his system for years. So quickly did his health fail that about ten
months after Mabel left home, he was no longer able to leave his bed.
Day by day he grew worse until six weeks later, when he was laid to rest
in Lone Mountain cemetery, and Mabel was now an orphan.
The day after the funeral Mr. Faxon, Mr. Miller’s lawyer, read the will
to Mrs. Maynard.
“Why, Mr. Faxon, he could not have been in his right mind when he made
such a will,” exclaimed Mrs. Maynard.
“I think he was, my dear Mrs. Maynard. Why do you doubt it?”
“Would any man in his right senses make such an absurd will as that?”
“Why, Mrs. Maynard, I do not see anything absurd in it. He has left you
well cared for.”
“Well cared for? What do you mean Mr. Faxon? Has he done right by his
only sister to simply give me the income of his estate? Don’t you see I
can’t sell or dispose of a single thing? Do you think that is just?” she
asked.
“Well, you surely would not wish to dispose of this home would you?”
“Well, no, of course not, but I don’t like to feel myself bound so
strictly.”
“Then I am sure your income from the estate will be a handsome one.”
“Yes I know, as an income, but it is not pleasant to feel that I cannot
sell anything if I wish to, just because my brother happened to have a
crazy idea in his brain that his drowned daughter would come from the
dead some day and need it. I declare, I lose all patience when I think
of it.” She paced angrily up and down the room as she said this; in her
heart was no feeling of sorrow for the loss of her brother, but rather
one of baffled ambition at having all his wealth kept from her immediate
possession.
“I do not know, Mrs. Maynard, but what if I had a daughter disappear as
mysteriously as Mabel has, I should feel as Mr. Miller did.”
“Oh, nonsense! As I said before, it is an absurd idea that after all
these months she should ever come back. And even if he had felt so, why
couldn’t he have contented himself with putting the time at five years,
instead of twenty, that the estate is to be held for her? I shall not
want money then as I do now. Why, Mr. Faxon, do you realize that I shall
be an old woman at the end of twenty years?”
“Not an old woman,” replied Mr. Faxon, for he was something of a
diplomat and would not make so damaging an admission to any woman, much
less to one of Mrs. Maynard’s disposition, as that such a thing were
possible as for a lady to grow old. “Not an old women surely, Mrs.
Maynard, but simply twenty years older, but you see it is then to go to
Lucy and her children if she should have any. You, of course, will have
your allowance.”
She made a quick dart, with her hand, toward the will which lay on the
table between them. Mr. Faxon, however, saw her intention and coolly
placed his hand over the papers, then, gathering them slowly up asked:
“Did you wish to see that clause, Mrs. Maynard?”
“No, I remember now you did read such a condition, but it is unjust to
rob me of what should rightfully be mine, just for a whim, and then,
after waiting all those years, to see it slip through my fingers.”
She could no longer control her rage, but broke forth in a torrent of
angry words, in the midst of which Mr. Faxon reached for his hat and
bowed himself out.