The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Nonsense! You imagine that. But never mind her, I’ve something to tell you. I know – Maida, mind you, I know what Mr. Appleby meant by the speech which I took to be ‘Mr. Keefe and the airship.’”

Maida’s face went white.

“Oh, no!” she cried, involuntarily. “Oh, no!”

“Yes,” Keefe went on, “and I know now he said heirship. Not strange I misunderstood, for the words are of the same sound – and, then I had no reason to think of myself in connection with an heirship!”

“And – and have you now?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve been over Mr. Appleby’s papers – as I had a right to do. You know I was his confidential secretary, and he kept no secrets from me – except those he wanted to keep!”

“Go on,” said Maida, calm now, and her eyes glistening with an expression of despair.

“Need I go on? You know the truth. You know that I am the rightful heir of this whole place. Sycamore Ridge is mine, and not your mother’s.”

“Yes.” The word was scarce audible. Poor Maida felt as if the last blow had fallen. She had seared her conscience, defied her sense of honor, crucified her very soul to keep this dreadful secret from her parents for their own sake, and now all her efforts were of no avail!

Curtis Keefe knew that the great estate was legally his, and now her dear parents would be turned out, homeless, penniless and broken down by sorrow and grief.

Even though he might allow them to stay there, they wouldn’t, she knew, consent to any such arrangement.

She lifted a blanched, strained face to his, as she said: “What – what are you going to do?”

“Just what you say,” Keefe replied, drawing closer to her side. “It’s all up to you, Maida dear. Don’t look offended; surely you know I love you – surely you know my one great desire is to make you my wife. Give your consent; say you will be mine, and rest assured, dearest, there will be no trouble about the ‘heirship.’ If you will marry me, I will promise never to divulge the secret so long as either of your parents live. They may keep this place, and, besides that, darling, I will guarantee to get your father a full pardon. I – well, I’m not speaking of it yet – but I’ll tell you that there is a possibility of my running for governor myself, since young Sam is voluntarily out of it. But, in any case, I have influence enough in certain quarters – influence increased by knowledge that I have gleaned here and there among the late Mr. Appleby’s papers – to secure a full and free pardon for your father. Now, Maida, girl, even if you don’t love me very much yet, can’t you say yes, in view of what I offer you?”

“How can you torture me so? Surely you know that I am engaged to Mr. Allen.”

“I didn’t know it was a positive engagement – but, anyway,” his voice grew hard, “it seems to me that any one so solicitous for her parents’ welfare and happiness as you have shown yourself, will not hesitate at a step which means so much more than others you have taken.”

“Oh, I don’t know what to do – what to say – let me think.”

“Yes, dear, think all you like. Take it quietly now. Remember that a decision in my favor means also a calm, peaceful and happy life insured to your parents. Refusal means a broken, shattered life, a precarious existence, and never a happy day for them again. Can you hesitate? I’m not so very unpresentable as a husband. You may not love me now, but you will! I’ll be so good to you that you can’t help it. Nor do I mean to win your heart only by what I shall do for you. For, Maida dearest, love begets love, and you will find yourself slowly perhaps, but surely, giving me your heart. And we will be so happy! Is it yes, my darling?”

The girl stared at him, her big brown eyes full of agony.

“You forget something,” she said, slowly. “I am a murderess!”

“Hush! Don’t say that awful word! You are not – and even if you were, I’ll prove you are not! Listen, Maida, if you’ll promise to marry me, I’ll find the real murderer – not you or your father, but the real murderer. I’ll get a signed confession – I’ll acquit you and your family of any implication in the deed, and I’ll produce the criminal himself. Now, will you say yes?”

“You can’t do all that,” she said, speaking in an awestruck whisper, as if he had proposed to perform a miracle.

“I can – I swear it!”

“Then, if you can do that, you ought to do it, anyway! In the interests of right and justice, in common honesty and decency, you ought to tell what you know!”

“Maida, I am a man and I am in love with you. That explains much. I will do all I have promised, to gain you as my bride – but not otherwise. As to right and justice – you’ve confessed the crime, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you confess it to me, now? Do you say to me that you killed Samuel Appleby?”

There was but a moment’s pause, and then Maida said, in a low tone: “Yes – I confess it to you, Mr. Keefe.”

“Then, do you see what I mean when I say I will produce the – murderer? Do you see that I mean to save you from the consequences of your own rash act – and prove you, to the world at large, innocent?”

Keefe looked straight into Maida’s eyes, and her own fell in confusion.

“Can you do it?” she asked, tremulously.

“When I say I will do a thing, I’ve already proved to my own satisfaction that I can do it. But, I’ll do it only at my own price. The price being you – you dear, delicious thing! Oh, Maida, you’ve no idea what it means to be loved as I love you! I’ll make you happy, my darling! I’ll make you forget all this horrible episode; I’ll give you a fairyland life. You shall be happier than you ever dreamed of.”

“But – Jeffrey – oh, I can’t.”

“Then – Miss Wheeler, you must take the consequences – all the consequences. Can you do that?”

“No,” Maida said, after an interval of silence. “I can’t. I am forced to accept your offer, Mr. Keefe – ”

“You may not accept it with that address.”

“Curtis, then. Curtis, I say, yes.”

CHAPTER XVI

MAIDA’S DECISION

“Maida, it cannot be. I shall never let you marry Mr. Keefe when I know how you love Jeffrey.” Sara Wheeler spoke quietly, but her agonized face and tear-filled eyes told of her deep distress. Though not demonstrative, she loved her daughter, her only child, with an affection that was almost idolatry, and she had been glad of the idea of Maida’s marriage to Jeffrey, for she knew of his sterling worth, and she knew the depth and sincerity of their attachment.

“Don’t say you won’t let me, mother,” Maida spoke in a dull, sad tone – a tone of calm despair. “It must be so. I’m not saying I love him – I’m not saying much about it all – but I tell you solemnly – it must be. And you must not raise a single word of objection – if you do, you will only make my hard lot harder.”

“But, dear, you must explain. I am your mother – I’ve always had your confidence, and I ought to be told why you are doing this thing.”

“That’s just the trouble, mother. I can’t tell you. And because of the confidence that has always been between us, you must trust me and believe that I am doing right – and doing the only possible thing. Oh, it is all hard enough, without having to argue about it. Why, my will power may give out! My soul strength may break down! Mother! don’t – don’t combat me! Don’t tempt me aside from the only straight line of duty and of right!”

“Child, you are not doing right! You cannot have a duty of which I know nothing! Of which your father knows nothing! Maida, my little girl, what is this thing that has warped your sense of right and wrong? Has Curtis Keefe won your heart away from Jeffrey – ”

“No – oh, no! Never that! But it would be a wrong to Jeffrey for me to marry him – it would be a wrong to – to all of us! By marrying Mr. Keefe I can make everything right – and – ” she suddenly assumed an air of cold, stern determination. “Mother, my mind is made up. You cannot change it, nor can you help me by trying. You only make it harder for me, and I beg of you to stop. And then – you know, mother – I killed Mr. Appleby – ”

“Hush, Maida, you never did! I know you didn’t!”

“But it was either I or father! You don’t believe he did, do you?”

“God help me! I don’t know what to believe! But I tried to say I did it – only I couldn’t carry it out – nor can you, dear.”

“Nor can father, then. Oh, mother, I did do that shooting! I did! I did!”

“Every assertion like that makes me more certain you didn’t,” and Mrs. Wheeler fondly caressed the head that lay on her breast. Maida was not hysterical, but so deeply troubled that she was nervously unstrung and now gave way to torrents of tears, and then ceased crying and bravely announced her plans.

“Please, mother darling, don’t talk about that. Suppose I tell you that even that matter will be all set right if I marry Curtis Keefe – and by no other means. Even Mr. Stone can’t find any other suspect than us three Wheelers. He doesn’t at all believe in the ‘bugler.’ Nobody does.”