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 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:
“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!”
“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?”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.
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?”
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.
“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——”
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——”
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——”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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?”
“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.