The Mystery of the Sycamore

“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.