The Mystery of the Sycamore

“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.

CHAPTER VI

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.”