THE BUGLE SOUNDED TAPS
Although the portions of the house and grounds that were used by Wheeler
included the most attractive spots, yet there were many forbidden places
that were a real temptation to him.
An especial one was the flower-covered arbor that had so charmed
Genevieve and another was the broad and beautiful north veranda. To be
sure, the south piazza was equally attractive, but it was galling to be
compelled to avoid any part of his own domain. However, the passing years
had made the conditions a matter of habit and it was only occasionally
that Wheeler’s annoyance was poignant.
In fact, he and his wife bore the cross better than did Maida. She had
never become reconciled to the unjust and arbitrary dictum of the
conditional pardon. She lived in a constant fear lest her father should
some day inadvertently and unintentionally step on the forbidden ground,
and it should be reported. Indeed, knowing her father’s quixotic honesty,
she was by no means sure he wouldn’t report it himself.
It had never occurred—probably never would occur, and yet, she often
imagined some sudden emergency, such as a fire, or burglars, that might
cause his impulsive invasion of the other side of the house.
In her anxiety she had spoken of this to Samuel Appleby when he was
there. But he gave her no satisfaction. He merely replied: “A condition
is a condition.”
Curtis Keefe had tried to help her cause, by saying: “Surely a case of
danger would prove an exception to the rule,” but Appleby had only shaken
his head in denial.
Though care had been taken to have the larger part of the house on the
Massachusetts side of the line, yet the rooms most used by the family
were in Connecticut. Here was Mr. Wheeler’s den, and this had come to be
the most used room in the whole house. Mrs. Wheeler’s sitting-room, which
her husband never had entered, was also attractive, but both mother and
daughter invaded the den, whenever leisure hours were to be enjoyed.
The den contained a large south bay window, which was Maida’s favorite
spot. It had a broad, comfortable window-seat, and here she spent much of
her time, curled up among the cushions, reading. There were long
curtains, which, half-drawn, hid her from view, and often she was there
for hours, without her father’s knowing it.
His own work was engrossing. Cut off from his established law business in
Massachusetts, he had at first felt unable to start it anew in different
surroundings. Then, owing to his wife’s large fortune, it was decided
that he should give up all business for a time. And as the time went on,
and there was no real necessity for an added income, Wheeler had indulged
in his hobby of book collecting, and had amassed a library of unique
charm as well as goodly intrinsic value.
Moreover, it kept him interested and occupied, and prevented his becoming
morose or melancholy over his restricted life.
So, many long days he worked away at his books, and Maida, hidden in the
window-seat, watched him lovingly in the intervals of her reading.
Sitting there, the morning after Samuel Appleby’s departure, she read not
at all, although a book lay open on her lap. She was trying to decide a
big matter, trying to solve a vexed question.
Maida’s was a straightforward nature. She never deceived herself. If she
did anything against her better judgment, even against her conscience, it
was with open eyes and understanding mind. She used no sophistry, no
pretence, and if she acted mistakenly she was always satisfied to abide
by the consequences.
And now, she set about her problem, systematically and methodically,
determined to decide upon her course, and then strictly follow it.
She glanced at her father, absorbed in his book catalogues and indexes,
and a great wave of love and devotion filled her heart. Surely no
sacrifice was too great that would bring peace or pleasure to that
martyred spirit.
That he was a martyr, Maida was as sure as she was that she was alive.
She knew him too well to believe for an instant that he had committed a
criminal act; it was an impossibility for one of his character. But that
she could do nothing about. The question had been raised and settled when
she was too young to know anything about it, and now, her simple duty was
to do anything she might to ease his burden and to help him to forget.
“And,” she said to herself, “first of all, he must stay in this home. He
positively _must_—and that’s all there is about that. Now, if he knows—if
he has the least hint that there is another heir, he’ll get out at
once—or at least, he’ll move heaven and earth to find the heir, and then
we’ll have to move. And where to? That’s an unanswerable question.
Anyway, I’ve only one sure conviction. I’ve got to keep from him all
knowledge or suspicion of that other heir!
“Maybe it isn’t true—maybe Mr. Appleby made it up—but I don’t think so.
At any rate, I have to proceed as if it were true, and do my best. And,
first of all, I’ve got to hush up my own conscience. I’ve too much of my
father’s nature to want to live here if it rightfully belongs to somebody
else. I feel like a thief already. But I’m going to bear that—I’m going
to live under that horrid conviction that I’m living a lie—for father’s
sake.”
Maida was in earnest. By nature and by training her conscience was
acutely sensitive to the finest shades of right and wrong. She actually
longed to announce the possibility of another heir and let justice decide
the case. But her filial devotion was, in this thing, greater even than
her conscience. Her mother, too, she knew, would be crushed by the
revelation of the secret, but would insist on thorough investigation,
and, if need be, on renunciation of the dear home.
Her mental struggle went on. At times it seemed as if she couldn’t live
beneath the weight of such a secret. Then, she knew she must do it. What
was her own peace of mind compared with her father’s? What was her own
freedom of conscience compared with his tranquillity?
She thought of telling Jeffrey Allen. But, she argued, he would feel as
the others would—indeed, as she herself did—that the matter must be
dragged out into the open and settled one way or the other.
No; she must bear the brunt of the thing alone. She must never tell any
one.
Then, the next point was, would Mr. Appleby tell? He hadn’t said so, but
she felt sure he would. Well, she must do all she could to prevent that.
He was to return in a day or two. By that time she must work out some
plan, must think up some way, to persuade him not to tell. What the
argument would be, she had no idea, but she was determined to try her
uttermost.
There was one way—but Maida blushed even at the thought.
Sam Appleby—young Sam—wanted to marry her—had wanted to for a year or
more. Many times she had refused him, and many times he had returned for
another attempt at persuasion. To consent to this would enable her to
control the senior Appleby’s revelations.
It would indeed be a last resort—she wouldn’t even think of it yet;
surely there was some other way!
The poor, tortured child was roused from her desperate plannings by a
cheery voice, calling:
“Maida—Maida! Here’s me!”
“Jeffrey!” she cried, springing from the window-seat, and out to greet
him.
“Dear!” he said, as he took her in his arms. “Dear, dearer, dearest!
_What_ is troubling you?”
“Trouble? Nothing! How can I be troubled when you’re here?”
“But you are! You can’t fool me, you know! Never mind, you can tell me
later. I’ve got three whole days—how’s that?”
“Splendid! How did it happen?”
“Old Bennett went off for a week’s rest—doctor’s orders—and he said, if I
did up my chores, nice and proper, I could take a little vacation myself.
Oh, you peach! You’re twice as beautifuller as ever!”
A whirlwind embrace followed this speech and left Maida, breathless and
laughing, while her father smiled benignly upon the pair.
It was some hours later that, as they sat under the big sycamore, Jeffrey
Allen begged Maida to tell him her troubles.
“For I know you’re pretty well broken up over something,” he declared.
“How do you know?” she smiled at him.
“Why, my girl, I know every shadow that crosses your dear heart.”
“Do I wear my heart on my sleeve, then?”
“You don’t have to, for me to see it. I recognize the signs from your
face, your manner, your voice—your whole being is trembling with some
fear or some deeply-rooted grief. So tell me all about it.”
And Maida told. Not the last horrible threat that Samuel Appleby had told
her alone, but the state of things as Appleby had presented it to Daniel
Wheeler himself.
“And so you see, Jeff, it’s a deadlock. Father won’t vote for young Sam—I
don’t mean only vote, but throw all his influence—and that means a lot—on
Sam’s side. And if he doesn’t, Mr. Appleby won’t get him pardoned—you
know we hoped he would this year——”
“Yes, dear; it would mean so much to us.”
“Yes, and to dad and mother, too. Well, there’s no hope of that, unless
father throws himself heart and soul into the Appleby campaign.”
“And he won’t do that?”
“Of course not. He couldn’t, Jeff. He’d have to subscribe to what he
doesn’t believe in—practically subscribe to a lie. And you know father——”
“Yes, and you, too—and myself! None of us would want him to do that,
Maida!”
“Doesn’t necessity _ever_ justify a fraud, Jeff?” The question was put so
wistfully that the young man smiled.
“Nixy! and you know that even better than I do, dear. Why, Maida, what I
love you most for—yes, even more than your dear, sweet, beauty of face,
is the marvellous beauty of your nature, your character. Your flawless
soul attracted me first of all—even as I saw it shining through your
clear, honest eyes.”
“Oh, Jeffrey,” and Maida’s clear eyes filled with tears, “I’m not honest,
I’m not true blue!”
“Then nobody on this green earth is! Don’t say such things, dear. I know
what you mean, that you _think_ you want your father to sacrifice his
principles, in part, at least, to gain his full pardon thereby. See how I
read your thoughts! But, you don’t really think that; you only think you
think it. If the thing came to a focus, you’d be the first one to forbid
the slightest deviation from the line of strictest truth and honor!”
“Oh, Jeff, do you think I would?”
“Of course I think so—I know it! You are a strange make-up, Maida. On an
impulse, I can imagine you doing something wrong—even something pretty
awful—but with even a little time for thought you _couldn’t_ do a wrong.”
“What!” Maida was truly surprised; “I could jump into any sort of
wickedness?”
“I didn’t quite put it that way,” Jeff laughed, “but—well, you know it’s
my theory, that given opportunity, anybody can yield to temptation.”
“Nonsense! It’s a poor sort of honor that gives out at a critical
moment!”
“Not at all. Most people can resist anything—except temptation! Given a
strong enough temptation and a perfect opportunity, and your staunchest,
most conscientious spirit is going to succumb.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t have to—and maybe it isn’t always true. But it often is.
Howsomever, it has no bearing on the present case. Your father is not
going to lose his head—and though you might do so”—he smiled at her—“I
can’t see you getting a chance! You’re not in on the deal, in any way,
are you?”
“No; except that Mr. Appleby asked me to use all my influence with
father.”
“Which you’ve done?”
“Yes; but it made not the slightest impression.”
“Of course not. I say, Maid, young Sam isn’t coming down here, is he?”
“Not that I know of,” but Maida couldn’t help her rising color, for she
knew what Allen was thinking.
“Just let him try it, that’s all! Just let him show his rubicund
countenance in these parts—if he wants trouble!”
“Does anybody ever _want_ trouble?” Maida smiled a little.
“Why, of course they do! Sometimes they want it so much that they borrow
it!”
“I’m not doing that! I’ve had it offered to me—in full measure, heaped
up, pressed down, and running over.”
“Poor little girl. Don’t take it so hard, dearest. I’ll have a talk with
your father, and we’ll see how matters really stand. I doubt it’s as bad
as you fear—and anyway, if no good results come our way, things are no
worse than they have been for years. Your father has lived fairly
contented and happy. Let things drift, and in another year or two, after
the election is a thing of the past, we can pick up the pardon question
again. By that time you and I will be—where will we be, Maida?”
“I don’t know, Jeff——”
“Well, we’ll be together, anyway. You’ll be my wife, and if we can’t live
in Boston—we can live out of Boston! And that’s all there is about that!”
“You’ll have to come here to live. There’s enough for us all.”
“Settle down here and sponge on your mother! I see it! But, never you
mind, lady fair, something will happen to smooth out our path. Perhaps
this old tree will take it into its head to go over into Massachusetts,
and so blaze a trail for your father—and you.”
“Oh, very likely. But I’ve renewed my vow—Jeff; unless father can go into
the state, _I_ never will!”
“All right, sweetheart. Renew your vow whenever its time limit expires.
I’m going to fix things so no vows will be needed—except our marriage
vows. Will you take them, dear?”
“When the time comes, yes.” But Maida did not smile, and Jeff, watching
her closely, concluded there was yet some point on which she had not
enlightened him. However, he asked no further question, but bided his
time.
“Guess I’ll chop down the old tree while I’m here, and ship it into
Massachusetts as firewood,” he suggested.
“Fine idea,” Maida acquiesced, “but you’d only have your trouble for your
pains. You see, the stipulation was, ‘without the intervention of human
hands.’”
“All right, we’ll chop it down by machinery, then.”
“I wish the tree promise meant anything, but it doesn’t. It was only made
as a proof positive how impossible was any chance of pardon.”
“But now a chance of pardon has come.”
“Yes, but a chance that cannot be taken. You’ll be here, Jeff, when they
come back. Then you can talk with Mr. Appleby, and maybe, as man to man,
you can convince him——”
“Convince nothing! Don’t you suppose I’ve tried every argument I know of,
with that old dunderhead? I’ve spent hours with him discussing your
father’s case. I’ve talked myself deaf, dumb and blind, with no scrap of
success. But, I don’t mind telling you, Maida, that I might have moved
the old duffer to leniency if it hadn’t been for—you.”
“Me?”
“Yes; you know well enough young Sam’s attitude toward you. And old
Appleby as good as said if I’d give up my claim on your favor, and give
sonny Sam a chance, there’d be hope for your father.”
“H’m. Indeed! You don’t say so! And you replied?”
“I didn’t reply much of anything. For if I’d said what I wanted to say,
he would have been quite justified in thinking that I was no fit mate for
a Christian girl! Let’s don’t talk about it.”
That night Maida went to her room, leaving Allen to have a long serious
talk with her father.
She hoped much from the confab, for Jeff Allen was a man of ideas, and of
good, sound judgment. He could see straight, and could advise sensibly
and well. And Maida hoped, too, that something would happen or some way
be devised that the secret told her by Appleby might be of no moment.
Perhaps there was no heir, save in the old man’s imagination. Or perhaps
it was only someone who would inherit a portion of the property, leaving
enough for their own support and comfort.
At any rate, she went to bed comforted and cheered by the knowledge that
Jeff was there, and that if there was anything to be done he would do it.
She had vague misgivings because she had not told him what Appleby had
threatened. But, she argued, if she decided to suppress that bit of news,
she must not breathe it to anybody—not even Jeff.
So, encouraged at the outlook, and exhausted by her day of worriment, she
slept soundly till well into the night.
Then she was awakened by a strange sound. It gave her, at first, a
strange impression of being on an ocean steamer. She couldn’t think why,
for her half-awake senses responded only to the vague sense of
familiarity with such a sound.
But wide awake in a moment, she heard more of it, and realized that it
was a bugle to which she listened—the clear, though not loud, notes of a
bugle. Amazed, she jumped from her bed, and looked out of a window in the
direction of the sound.
She saw nothing, and heard the last faint notes die away, as she
listened.
There was no further sound, and she returned to bed, and after a time
fell asleep again.
She pondered over the occurrence while dressing next morning, wondering
what it meant.
Downstairs she found only Jeffrey in the dining-room.
“Hear anything funny in the night, Maida?” he asked her.
“Yes; a bugle,” she returned. “Did you hear it?”
“Of course I did. Who plays the thing around here?”
“No one, that I know of. Wasn’t it rather strange?”
“Rath-er! I should say so. Made me think of the old English castles,
where spooks walk the parapets and play on bugles or bagpipes or some
such doings.”
“Oh, those silly stories! But this was a real bugle, played by a real
man.”
“How do you know?”
“By the sound.”
“Spook bugles sound just the same.”
“How do _you_ know?”
“How could they be heard if they didn’t? Here’s your father.
Good-morning, Mr. Wheeler. Who’s your musical neighbor?”
But Daniel Wheeler did not smile.
“Go up to your mother, Maida, dear,” he said; “she—she isn’t well. Cheer
her up all you can.”
“What’s the trouble?” Allen asked, solicitously, as Maida ran from the
room.
“A strange thing, my boy. Did you hear a bugle call last night?”
“Yes, sir; it sounded ‘taps.’ Is there a camp near by?”
“No; nothing of the sort. Now—well, to put it frankly, there is an old
tradition in Mrs. Wheeler’s family that a phantom bugler, in that very
way, announces an approaching death.”
“Good Lord! You don’t mean she believes that!”
“She does, and what can I say to disprove her belief? We all heard it.
Who could have done such a trick?”
“I don’t know who, but somebody did. That bugle was played by a pair of
good, strong human lungs—not by a spirit breath!”
“It sounded so, but that doesn’t affect Mrs. Wheeler’s belief. If I could
produce the bugler, and get him to admit it, she might believe him, but
otherwise, she’s sure it was the traditional bugler, and that earthly
days are numbered for some one of our little family.”
“You don’t believe this foolishness, sir?”
“I can’t; my nature rejects the very idea of the supernatural. Yet, who
could or would do it? There’s no neighbor who would, and I know of no one
round here who knows of the tradition.”
“Oh, pshaw, it’s the merest casual occurrence. A Boy Scout, like as
not—or a gay young chap returning from a merry party. There are lots of
explanations, quite apart from spooks!”
“I hope you can persuade Mrs. Wheeler of that. She is nervously ill, and
will hear of no rational explanation for the bugle call.”
“Beg her to come down to breakfast, do; then we’ll all jolly her up until
she loses her fears.”
But though Allen’s attempt was a brave one and ably seconded by Mrs.
Wheeler’s husband and daughter, they made not the slightest progress
toward relieving her fears or disabusing her mind of her conviction.