THE OTHER HEIR
A general air of vague foreboding hung over the Wheeler household. Mrs.
Wheeler tried to rally from the shock of the inexplicable bugle call, but
though she was bright and cheerful, it was fully evident that her manner
was forced and her gayety assumed.
Maida, solicitous for her mother, was more than ever resolved not to
disclose the news of another possible heir to the estate, though the more
she thought about it, the more she felt sure Samuel Appleby had spoken
the truth.
She decided that he had learned of the other heir, and that he was none
too honest to be willing to keep the fact a secret, if, in turn, he could
serve his own ends. She did not need to be told that if she would look on
young Sam with favor, her father would perforce lend his aid to the
campaign. And, in that case, she knew that the other heir would never be
mentioned again.
And yet, the price—the acceptance of young Sam, was more than she could
pay. To give up Jeff Allen, her own true love, and marry a man of such a
different type and calibre as Sam Appleby was—it was too much! And Jeff
would have something to say about that! Yet, she must decide for herself.
If she made the supreme sacrifice, it must be done as if of her own
volition. If her parents or her lover guessed that she was acting under
compulsion, they would put an end to the project.
But could she, even if willing to sacrifice herself, could she ask Sam
Appleby to take her? Yet she knew this would be the easiest thing in the
world. A mere hint to Mr. Appleby that she approved of his son would
bring the younger man down to the house at once and matters would then
take care of themselves.
But could she do it? She looked at Jeff, as he sat talking to her father,
his strong, fine face alight with the earnestness of their discussion. He
was a man of a thousand—her own Jeffrey. No, she could not break his
heart—she had no right to do that. It would be a crime to blot out the
joy and happiness from the eager young face.
And then she looked at the other dear face. Her father, worn and aging,
but still in rugged health. Could she let the inevitable happen, and see
him turned out of the home that he loved—the home that had so long been
his sanctuary, his refuge from the cold injustice of his fellow-men?
And her mother, almost ill from her fright and foreboding. To add the
disaster of poverty and homelessness—no, she couldn’t do that!
And so poor Maida wondered and worried; her thoughts going round in a
circle, and coming back to the two men she loved, and knew she must break
one heart or the other.
At one moment her duty to her parents seemed preëminent. Then, again, she
realized a duty to herself and to the man who loved her.
“I don’t know _what_ to do,” she thought, piteously; “I’ll wait till Mr.
Appleby comes back here, and then I’ll tell him just how I’m placed.
Perhaps I can appeal to his better nature.”
But Maida Wheeler well knew that however she might appeal to Samuel
Appleby, it would be in vain. She knew from the very fact that he came to
her home, and made the offers and threats that he did make, that his mind
was made up, and no power on earth could move him from his decision. He
had a strong case, he probably thought; the offer of full pardon to Dan
Wheeler, and the offer to Maida to keep quiet about another heir, would,
he doubtless thought, be sufficient to win his cause.
“What an awful man he is,” she thought. “I wish he were dead! I know I
oughtn’t to wish that, but I do. I’d kill him myself if it would help
father. I oughtn’t to say that—and I don’t suppose I really would do it,
but it would simplify matters a lot! And somebody said, ‘We are all
capable of crime—even the best of us.’ Well, of course I wouldn’t kill
the old man, but he’d better not give me a real good chance!”
“What are you thinking about, little girl?” asked Allen, turning to her.
Maida looked at him and then at her father, and said, deliberately:
“I was just thinking how I’d like to kill Samuel Appleby.”
“Senior, junior, or both?” laughed Allen, who thought little of her
words, save as a jest.
“Senior, I meant, but we may as well make it a wholesale slaughter.”
“Don’t, Maida,” her father looked grieved. “Don’t speak flippantly of
such subjects.”
“Well, father, why not be honest? Wouldn’t you like to kill him?”
“No, child—not that.”
“But you’d be glad if he were dead! There, you needn’t answer. But if you
were absolutely honest, you’d have to admit it.”
“I’ll admit it,” said her mother, wearily. “Samuel Appleby has spoiled
all our lives—is still spoiling them. He does it for his own selfish
interests. He has ruined the happiness of my husband, myself, my
daughter, and my prospective son-in-law. Is it any wonder that we should
honestly wish he were dead? It may not sound Christian—but it is an
honest expression of human nature.”
“It is, Mrs. Wheeler,” and Allen’s face looked more pained than shocked.
“But, all the same, we oughtn’t to talk like that.”
“No, indeed,” agreed Wheeler. “Please, Maida, darling, don’t say such
things. And, Sara, if you must say them, say them to me when we are
alone. It’s no sort of talk for these young people’s ears.”
“Why, I said it before mother did!” Maida broke out. “And I mean it! I’m
at the end of my rope. If that man is to hound us and torture us all our
lives, I can’t help wishing him dead.”
“There, there, daughter, please don’t.”
“I won’t, dad. I’ll never say it again. But I put myself on record, and
if the rest of you were honest, you’d do the same thing!”
“That we’d like to kill him?” asked Allen, smiling at the idea.
“I didn’t say that—I said we wish him dead. If a nice, convenient stroke
of lightning came his way, or——”
“Maida, hush!” her father spoke sternly; “I won’t allow such talk! It
isn’t like you, my child, and it isn’t——”
“Isn’t good form, I s’pose!” she interrupted. “Well, I’ll let up, dads,
and I am a little ashamed of myself. Mother, maybe the phantom bugler was
announcing the death of old Appleby!”
“Hush, Maida! What has got into you?”
“I’m incorrigible, I guess——”
“You are!” and Allen smiled fondly at her. “Come out for a walk in the
sunshine with me, and get these awful thoughts out of your brain.”
“I know I’m a criminal,” said Maida, as they walked down a garden path;
“but I can’t help it. I’ve more to bear than you know of, Jeff, and you
must make allowance.”
“I do, sweetheart. And I know how you’re troubled, and all that, but
don’t say such dreadful things. I know you don’t mean them.”
“No, I don’t—at least, I don’t think I do. But I won’t say them any more.
I think I lost my head——”
“Forget it. You’re upset and nervous and your mother’s worry reflects
itself on you. Is there really a bugler tradition?”
“Not over here. There was one connected with mother’s family long ago, in
England, I believe. Of course, it was just one of those old spook yarns
that most old houses have over there. But mother always remembered it.
She has told everybody who ever visited here about it, and I think she
always expected to hear the thing. Queer, though, wasn’t it?”
“Not very. It’s explainable by natural means, of course. Probably we’ll
never know who it was, but it was no phantom, be sure of that.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, except that it has upset mother so
dreadfully. But she’ll get over it—if nothing happens.”
“Nothing will happen—if by that you mean a death in the family. More
likely a marriage will take place!”
“Not ours, Jeff. I think that bugler sounded the death-knell of our
hopes.”
“Maida! What is the matter with you? Why are you talking like that? I
know you’ve something on your mind that you haven’t told me yet.
Something pretty serious, for it makes you say the strangest things! Tell
me, darling, won’t you?”
“I can’t, Jeff. I mean, there isn’t anything. Wait till those people come
back again. You’ll be here, won’t you? They’re coming to-morrow.”
“You bet I will! I’ll see what I can do with old curmudgeon. You know I’m
argumentative.”
“That won’t do any good with Appleby. What he wants is help from dad. If
he doesn’t get that, he’ll punish us all.”
“And he can’t get that, for your dad won’t give it. So it looks as if we
must all take our punishment. Well, we’re prepared.”
“You wouldn’t speak so lightly if you knew everything!”
“That’s why I ask you to tell me everything. Do, Maida, I’m sure I can
help you.”
“Wait till they come,” was all Maida would say in response to his
repeated requests.
And at last they came.
Smiling and hearty, Samuel Appleby reëntered the Wheeler home, apparently
as self-assured and hopeful as when he left it.
Keefe was courteous and polite as always and Genevieve Lane was prettier
than ever by reason of some new Boston-bought clothes.
Allen was introduced to the newcomers and sized up by one glance of
Samuel Appleby’s keen eyes. Privately he decided that this young man was
a very formidable rival of his son. But he greeted Allen with great
cordiality, which Jeff thought it best to return, although he felt an
instinctive dislike for the man’s personality.
“Come along with me, Maida,” and with daring familiarity, Genevieve put
her hand through Maida’s arm and drew her toward the stairs. “I have the
same room, I s’pose,” she babbled on; “I’ve lots of new things I want to
show you. And,” she added as they entered the room, and she closed the
door, “I want a talkfest with you before the others begin.”
“What about?” asked Maida, feeling the subject would be one of
importance.
“Well, it’s just this. And don’t be too shocked if I speak right out in
meetin’. I’ve determined to marry into this bunch that I’m working for.”
“Have you?” laughed Maida. “Are they equally determined?”
“I’m not joking—I’m in dead earnest. A poor girl has got to do the best
she can for herself in this cold world. Well, I’m going to corral one of
the three: old man Appleby, young man Appleby, or Curt Keefe.”
“Which one, for choice?” Maida still spoke lightly.
“You don’t think I’m in earnest, but I am. Well, I’d rather have young
Sam. Next, I’d choose his father; and, lastly, I’m pretty sure I could
nail Curtie Keefe.”
Maida couldn’t help her disapproval showing in her face, but she said:
“It isn’t just the way I’d go about selecting a husband, but if it’s your
way, all right. Can I help you?”
“Do you mean that?”
“Why, yes, if I can do anything practical.”
“Oh, you can! It’s only to keep off the grass, regarding young Sam.”
“You mean not to try to charm him myself?”
“Just about that. And I’ll tell you why I say this. It seems old Appleby
has about made up his mind that you’re the right and proper mate for
young Appleby. Oh, you needn’t draw yourself up in that haughty
fashion—he’s good enough for you, Miss!”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” and Maida laughed in spite of herself at
Genevieve’s manner. “But, truly, I don’t want him. You see I’m engaged to
Mr. Allen.”
“I know it, but that cuts no ice with Pa Appleby. He plans to oust Mr.
Allen and put his son in his place.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Maida’s heart sank, for she had anticipated
something like this. “Am I to be consulted?”
“Now, look here, Maida Wheeler. You needn’t take that attitude, for it
won’t get you anywhere. You don’t know Mr. Appleby as I do. What he says
goes—_goes_, understand?”
Maida went white. “But such a thing as you speak of won’t go!” she
exclaimed.
“I’m not sure it won’t, if he so ordains it,” Miss Lane said, gravely.
“But I just wanted your assurance that you don’t hanker after Sammy-boy,
so I can go ahead and annex him myself.”
“In defiance of Mr. Appleby’s intents?”
“I may be able to circumvent him. I’m some little schemer myself. And he
may die.”
“What?”
“Yep. He has an unsatisfactory heart, and it may go back on him at any
minute.”
“What a thing to bank on!”
“It may happen all the same. But I’ve other irons in the fire. Run along,
now; I’ve work to do. You’re a dear girl, Maida, and the time may come
when I can help you.”
The round, rosy-cheeked face looked very serious, and Maida said,
gratefully: “I may be very glad of such help, Genevieve.”
Then she went away.
Samuel Appleby was lying in wait for her.
“Here you are, my girl,” he said, as she came downstairs. “Come for a
ramble with me, won’t you?”
And, knowing that the encounter was inevitable, Maida went.
Appleby wasted no time in preliminaries.
“I’ve got to go home to-morrow morning,” he said. “I’ve got to have this
matter of your father’s help in the campaign settled before I go.”
“I thought it was settled,” returned Maida, calmly. “You know he will
never give you the help you ask. And oh, please, Mr. Appleby, won’t you
give up the question? You have ruined my father’s life—all our lives;
won’t you cease bothering him, and, whether you let him get his full
pardon or not, won’t you stop trying to coerce his will?”
“No; I will not. You are very pleading and persuasive, my girl, but I
have my own ax to grind. Now, here’s a proposition. If you—I’ll speak
plainly—if you will consent to marry my son, I’ll get your father’s full
pardon, and I’ll not ask for his campaign support.”
Maida gasped. All her troubles removed at once—but at such a price! She
thought of Allen, and a great wave of love surged over her.
“Oh, I can’t—I can’t,” she moaned. “What _are_ you, Mr. Appleby? I love
my chosen mate, my _fiancé_, Jeffrey Allen. Would you ask me to give him
up and marry your son, whom I esteem highly, but do not love?”
“Certainly; I ask just that. You are free to say yes or no!”
“Then, I say no. There _must_ be some other way! Give me some other
chance, even though it be a harder one!”
“All right, I will.” Mr. Appleby’s face was hard now, his lips set in a
straight line; he was about to play his last card. “All right, I will.
Here it is. The other heir, of whom I spoke to you the other day, is
Curtis Keefe.”
“Mr. Keefe!”
“Yes—but wait—he doesn’t know it. I hit upon a clue in his chance
reference to his mother’s family, and unknown to him I investigated
genealogies and all that, and it is positive, he is the heir to all this
estate, and not your mother.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, absolutely certain. But, remember, he doesn’t know it. He has no
idea of such a thing. Now, if you’ll marry Sam, Keefe shall _never_ know.
I’ll burn all the papers that I have in evidence. You and I will forget
the secret, and your father and mother can rest in undisturbed possession
here for the rest of their lives.”
“And you wouldn’t insist on father’s campaign work?”
“If you marry my son, I rather think your father will lend his aid—at
least in some few matters, without urging. But he shall not be urged
beyond his wishes, rest assured of that. In a word, Maida, all that you
want or desire shall be yours except your choice of a husband. And I’ll
wager that inside of a year, you’ll be wondering what you ever saw in
young Allen, and rejoicing that you are the wife of the governor
instead!”
“I can’t do it—oh, _I can’t!_ And, then, too, there’s Mr. Keefe—and the
heirship!”
“Mr. Keefe and the airship!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe himself, as he came
round the corner and met them face to face. “Am I to go up in an airship?
And when?”
Appleby flashed a quick glance at Maida, which she rightly interpreted to
mean to let Keefe rest unenlightened as to his error.
“You’re not the Mr. Keefe we meant,” said Appleby, smiling at his
secretary. “There are others.”
And then Appleby walked away, feeling his best plan was to let Maida
think things over.
“What Keefe is going up in an airship?” Curt insisted, his curiosity
aroused.
“I don’t know,” said Maida, listlessly. “Mr. Appleby was telling me some
airship yarn. I didn’t half listen. I—I can’t bear that man!”
“I can’t blame you for that, Miss Wheeler. But we’re going away
to-morrow, and he’ll be out of your way.”
“No; he has me in a trap. He has arranged it so—oh, what am I saying!”
“Don’t go on, if you feel you might regret it. Of course, as Mr.
Appleby’s confidential secretary, I know most of his affairs. May I say
that I’m very sorry for you, and may I offer my help, if you can use me
in any way?”
“How kind you are, Mr. Keefe. But if you know the details of the matter,
you know that I am in a fearful dilemma. Oh, if only that man were out of
existence!”
“Oh, Miss Wheeler,” and Keefe looked undisguisedly shocked.
“I don’t mean anything wrong,” Maida’s eyes were piteous, “but I don’t
know what to do! I’ve no one to confide in—no way to turn for help—for
advice——”
“Why, Miss Wheeler, you have parents, friends——”
“No one that I can speak to! Forgive me, Mr. Keefe, but I am nearly out
of my mind. Forgive me, if I ask you to leave me—will you?”
“Of course, you poor child! I ought to have sensed that I was intruding!”
With a courteous bow, he walked away, leaving Maida alone on the seat
beneath the old sycamore.
She thought long and deeply. She seemed to grow older and more matured of
judgment as she dealt with the big questions in her mind.
After a long time she came to her decision. Torn and wracked with
emotions, she bravely faced the many-sided situation, and made up her
mind. Then she got up and walked into the house.
That afternoon, about five o’clock, Appleby and Wheeler sat in the
latter’s den, talking over the same old subject. Maida, hidden in the
window-seat, was listening. They did not know she was there, but they
would not have cared. They talked of nothing she did not already know.
Appleby grew angry and Wheeler grew angry. The talk was coming to a
climax, both men were holding on to their tempers, but it was clear one
or the other must give way soon.
Jeffrey Allen, about to go in search of Maida, saw a wisp of smoke
curling from the garage, which from his seat on the north veranda was in
plain view.
He ran toward the smoke, shouting “Fire!” as he ran, and in a few minutes
the garage was ablaze. The servants gathered about, Mrs. Wheeler looked
from her bedroom window, and Keefe joined Allen in attempts to subdue the
flames.
And with the efficient help of two chauffeurs and other willing workers
the fire was soon reduced to a smouldering heap of ashes.
Allen ran, then, to the den, to tell them there that the danger was past.
He entered to see Samuel Appleby dead in his chair, with a bullet through
his heart. Daniel Wheeler stood beside him, gazing distractedly at the
dead man. Maida, white and trembling, was half hidden as she stood just
inside the curtains of the window.
Not realizing that there was no hope of life, Allen shouted for help, and
tore open Appleby’s coat to feel his heart.
“He’s quite dead,” he said, in an awe-stricken tone. “But, we must get a
doctor at once!”
“I’ll telephone,” spoke up Genevieve’s quiet voice, and with her usual
efficiency, she found the number and called the doctor.
“Now the police?” she went on, as if such matters belonged to her
province.
“Certainly,” said Curtis Keefe, who stood by his late employer, taking
charge, by common consent.
“Who killed him?” said Genevieve, in a hushed tone, as she left the
telephone.
All looked from one to another, but nobody replied.
Mrs. Wheeler came to the doorway.
“I knew it!” she cried; “the phantom bugler!”
“But the phantom bugler didn’t kill him,” said Genevieve, “and we must
find out who did!”