The Mystery of the Sycamore

  CHAPTER III ONE LAST ARGUMENT

  Adjoining the bedroom of Samuel Appleby at Sycamore Ridge was a smallsitting-room, also at his disposal. Here, later that same evening he satin confab with his two assistants.

  “We leave to-morrow afternoon,” he said to Keefe and Miss Lane. “Butbefore that, we’ve much to do. So far, we’ve accomplished nothing. I am alittle discouraged but not disheartened. I still have a trump card toplay, but I don’t want to use it unless absolutely necessary.”

  “If you were inclined to take us further into your confidence, Mr.Appleby,” Keefe began, and the older man interrupted:

  “That’s just what I propose to do. The time has come for it. Perhaps ifyou both know the situation you may work more intelligently.”

  “Sure we could!” exclaimed Genevieve. She was leaning forward in herchair, clasping her knees, her pretty evening frock disclosing herbabyishly soft neck and arms; but without a trace of self-consciousness,she thought only of the subject they were discussing.

  “There’s something queer,” she went on. “I can’t see through it. Why doesMr. Wheeler act so polite most of the time, and then do some outrageousthing, like——”

  “Like what?”

  “Like refusing to cross the room—or—why, he declined point-blank to gowith me to the north arbor, yet was perfectly willing to take me to theJapanese tea-house!”

  “That’s just the point of the whole thing,” said Appleby, seriously;“here’s the explanation in a nutshell. Years ago, Daniel Wheeler waspardoned for a crime he had committed——”

  “He did commit it, then?” interrupted Keefe.

  “He was tried and convicted. He was sentenced. And I, being governor atthe time, pardoned him on the one condition, that he never again set footinside the boundaries of the State of Massachusetts.”

  “Whee!” exclaimed Genevieve; “never go to Boston!”

  “Nor anywhere else in the state. But this is the complication: Mrs.Wheeler, who is, by the way, a distant connection of my own family,inherited a large fortune on condition that she live in Massachusetts. Soyou see, the situation was peculiar. To keep her inheritance, Mrs.Wheeler must live in Massachusetts. Yet Mr. Wheeler could not enter thestate without forfeiting his pardon.”

  “What a mess!” cried Genevieve, but Keefe said: “You planned thatpurposely, Mr. Appleby?”

  “Of course,” was the straightforward reply.

  “Then I don’t see how you can expect Mr. Wheeler’s help in the campaign.”

  “By offering him a complete pardon, of course.”

  “But go on with the story,” demanded Genevieve. “What did they do aboutthe Massachusetts business?”

  “As you see,” returned Appleby, “this house is built on the state linebetween Massachusetts and Connecticut. It is carefully planned and built,and all the rooms or parts of rooms that Mr. Wheeler uses or enters areon the Connecticut side, yet the house is more than half inMassachusetts, which secures the estate to Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “Well, I never!” Genevieve exclaimed. “So that’s why he can’t go to thenorth arbor—it’s in Massachusetts!”

  “Of course it is. Also, he never goes into the northern end of thedining-room or the living-room.”

  “Or hall.”

  “Or hall. In fact, he merely is careful to keep on his own side of adefinitely drawn line, and therefore complies with the restrictions. Hisden and his own bedroom and bath are all on the south side, while Mrs.Wheeler has a sitting-room, boudoir, and so forth, on the north side. Sheand Maida can go all over the house, but Mr. Wheeler is restricted.However, they’ve lived that way so long, it has become second nature tothem, and nobody bothers much about it.”

  “Do people know?” asked Keefe. “The neighbors, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes; but, as I say, it makes little confusion. The trouble comes, asMiss Lane suggested, when Wheeler wants to go to Boston or anywhere inMassachusetts.”

  “Yet that is a small thing, compared with his freedom,” observed Keefe;“I think he got off easy.”

  “But with Wheeler it isn’t so much the deprivation as the stigma. Helongs for a full pardon, and would do most anything to have it, but herefuses to stand for Sam’s election, even with that for a bribe.”

  “You can’t pardon him now that you aren’t governor, can you, Mr.Appleby?” asked Genevieve.

  “I can arrange to have it done. In fact, the present governor is readyand even anxious to pardon him, but I hold the key to that situation,myself. You two needn’t know all the details, but now you know theprincipal points, and I expect you to utilize them.”

  “I’m willing enough,” and Genevieve rocked back and forth thoughtfully,“and I may think of a way—but, for the moment, I don’t.”

  “Get chummy with Maida,” suggested Appleby.

  “Let me do that,” Keefe interrupted. “Without undue conceit, I believe Ican influence the young lady, and I think Miss Lane, now that she knowsthe truth, can jolly up Mr. Wheeler to good effect.”

  “But, good gracious! What do you want to do?” and Genevieve giggled. “SayI entice the old gentleman over the line—then his pardon is canceled andhe’s a criminal—then you agree to ignore the lapse if he meets yourwishes—is that the idea?”

  Appleby smiled. “A little crude, Miss Lane. And beside, you couldn’t gethim over the line. He’s too accustomed to his limitations to be caughtnapping, and not even your charms could decoy him over intentionally.”

  “Think so? Probably you’re right. Well, suppose I try to work throughMaida. If I could persuade Mr. Wheeler that she suffers from the stigmaof her father’s incomplete pardon——”

  “Yes, that’s it. This thing can’t be accomplished by brutal threats, itmust be done by subtle suggestion and convincing hints.”

  “That’s my idea,” agreed Keefe. “If I can talk straight goods to MissWheeler and make her see how much better it would be for her father inhis latter years to be freed from all touch of the past disgrace, shemight coax him to listen to you.”

  “That’s right. Now, you know what you’re here for; just do what youcan—but don’t make a mess of things. I’d rather you did nothing than todo some fool thing!”

  “Trust us!” Genevieve encouraged him, as she rose. “Me and Curt may notput over a big deal, but we won’t do anything silly.”

  The two men smiled as the girl, with a pleasant good-night, went away toher own room.

  “She’s true blue,” said Keefe.

  “Yes, she is,” Appleby nodded. “All her frivolity is on the surface, likeher powder and paint. At heart, that child has only my interests. I quiteappreciate it.”

  “I hope you think the same of me, Mr. Appleby.”

  “I do, Keefe. More, I trust you with my most confidential matters. I’llown I want this business here to come out in my favor. I can’t pushWheeler too hard—so I ask your help. But, as I hinted, I’ve one rod yetin pickle. If necessary, I’ll use it, but I’d rather not.”

  “Of course I hope you won’t have to, but, I’ll admit I don’t see muchchance of succeeding with the present outlook.”

  “To-morrow morning will tell. If we can’t work the thing through by noon,say—I’ll spring my last trap. Good-night, Keefe.”

  “Good-night, Mr. Appleby.”

  Without apparent coercion the morning hours brought about a cozy sessionon the south veranda with Miss Lane and Daniel Wheeler in attendance,while at the same time, Keefe and Maida wandered over the beautiful parkof the estate.

  Keefe had gently guided the conversation into confidential channels, andwhen he ventured to sympathize with the girl in regard to her father’sdeprivation he was surprised at her ready acceptance of it.

  “Oh, you know, don’t you, Mr. Keefe!” she exclaimed. “But you don’t knowall it means to me. You see”—she blushed but went steadily on—“you see,I’m engaged to—to a man I adore. And——”

  “Don’t tell me if y
ou’d rather not,” he murmured.

  “No, it’s a relief to tell—and, somehow—you seem so wise and strong——”

  “Go on then—please.”

  The kind voice helped her and Maida resumed: “Well, Jeff—Mr. Allen, livesin Boston, and so——”

  “So it would be very awkward if your father couldn’t go there.”

  “Not only that—but I’ve made a vow never to step foot into Massachusettsuntil my father can do so, too. Nothing would induce me to break thatvow!”

  “Not even your lover?” said Keefe, astonished.

  “No; my father is more to me than any lover.”

  “Then you don’t truly love Mr. Allen.”

  “Oh, yes, I do—I do! But father is my idol. I don’t believe any girl everadored her father as I do. All my life I’ve had only the one object—tomake him forget—as far as possible, his trouble. Now, if I were to marryand leave him—why, I simply couldn’t do it!”

  “Can’t Mr. Allen live in Connecticut?”

  “No; his business interests are all in Boston, and he can’t betransplanted. Oh, if father could only do what Mr. Appleby wants him to,then we could all be happy.”

  “Can’t you persuade him?”

  “I’ve tried my best. Mother has tried, too. But, you see, it’s a matterof principle, and when principle is involved, we are all in the sameboat. Mother and I would scorn any wrongdoing quite as much as fatherdoes.”

  “And you’ll give up your life happiness for a principle?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t every decent person? I couldn’t liveat all, if I were knowingly doing wrong.”

  “But your——” Keefe stopped abruptly.

  “I know what you were going to say,” Maida spoke sadly; “you were goingto say my father did wrong. _I_ don’t believe he did.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I know in my own heart. I know he is incapable of the crime he wascharged with. I’m sure he is shielding some one else, or else some onedid it of whom he has no knowledge. But my father commit a crime? Never!”

  “Do you care to tell me the details?”

  “I don’t know why I shouldn’t. It was long ago, you know, and dad wasaccused of forgery. It was proved on him—or the jury thought it was—andhe was convicted——”

  “And sentenced?”

  “Yes; to a long prison term. But Governor Appleby pardoned him with thatmean old proviso, that he never should step into Massachusetts!”

  “Was your mother then the heir to the Massachusetts property?”

  “No; but Mr. Appleby knew she would be. So, when she did inherit, and hadto live in Massachusetts to hold the estate, Mr. Appleby thought he haddad where he wanted him.”

  “Were they foes?”

  “Politically, yes. Because dad did all he could to keep Mr. Appleby frombeing governor.”

  “But didn’t succeed?”

  “No; but almost. So, then, Mr. Appleby did this pardon trick to get evenwith father, and I think it turned out more serious than he anticipated.For mother took up the feud, and she got lawyers and all that andarranged to have the house built on the line between the states!”

  “Was the estate she inherited on both sides of the line?”

  “Oh, no; but it was near the southern border of Massachusetts, and shebought enough adjoining land to make the arrangement possible.”

  “Then the house isn’t on the ground she inherited?”

  “Not quite, but the lawyers decided it so that she really complies withthe terms of the will, so it’s all right.”

  “Was your mother the only heir?”

  “So far as we can find out. I believe there was another branch of thefamily, but we haven’t been able to trace it, so as the years go by, wefeel more and more confident there’s no other heir. Of course, should oneturn up, his claim would be recognized.”

  Further talk quickly convinced Keefe that there was no hope of persuadingMaida Wheeler to influence or advise her father in any direction otherthan his idea of right. No amount of urging or arguing would make Wheelersee his duty other than he now saw it, or make Maida endeavor to changehis views. With a sigh over his failure, Keefe deftly turned the talk inother channels, and then they strolled back to the house.

  As was to be expected, Genevieve had made no progress with her part ofthe plan. Her talk with Mr. Wheeler had availed nothing. He was courteousand kind; he was amused at her gay, merry little ways; he politelyanswered her questions, both serious and flippant, but absolutely nothingcame of it all.

  Samuel Appleby had a short but straightforward conversation with Mrs.Wheeler.

  “Now, Sara,” he said, “remember I’m your old friend as well as yourrelative.”

  “I don’t call you a relative,” she returned, calmly.

  “A family connection, then; I don’t care what you call it. And I’m goingto speak right out, for I know better than to try sophistries. If you canget Dan to play my game regarding my son’s campaign, I’ll see that Dangets full pardon, and at once. Then Maida can marry young Allen and youcan all go to Boston to live.”

  “Sam Appleby, I’d rather never see Boston again, never have Dan see it,than to have him agree to endorse principles that he does not believe!And Dan feels the same way about it.”

  “But don’t you consider your daughter? Will you condemn Maida to abroken-hearted life——?”

  “Maida must decide for herself. I think Jeffrey Allen will yet persuadeher to leave her father. She is devoted to Dan, but she is deeply in lovewith Jeff and it’s only natural she should go with him. Any other girlwould do so without a second thought. Maida is unusual, but I doubt ifshe can hold out much longer against her lover’s pleading.”

  “I think she will. Maida has your own unbreakable will.”

  “So be it, then. The child must choose for herself. But it doesn’t alterthe stand Dan and I have taken.”

  “Nothing can alter that?”

  “Nothing, Samuel Appleby.”

  “That remains to be seen. Have I your permission to talk to Maida,alone?”

  “Certainly. Why not? If you can persuade her to marry Jeff, I’ll be onlytoo glad. If you find her determined to stand by her father, then thecase remains as it is at present.”

  And so, as Maida returned from her walk with Keefe, she was asked to gofor another stroll with Samuel Appleby.

  She assented, though with no show of pleasure at the prospect.

  But as they started off, she said: “I’m glad to have a talk with you, Mr.Appleby. I want to appeal to your better nature.”

  “Good! That’s just what I want—to appeal to yours. Suppose you word yourappeal first.”

  “Mine is simple to understand. It is only that having had your way andhaving spoiled my father’s life for fifteen years, I ask you, in the nameof humanity and justice, to arrange matters so that his latter years oflife shall be free from the curse you put upon him.”

  “I didn’t put it upon him—he brought it on himself.”

  “He never committed that crime—and you know it!”

  “What do you mean by that?” Appleby gave her a startled glance.

  Had Maida seen this glance, she might have been enlightened. But her eyeswere cast down, and she went on: “I don’t know it surely, but I ampositive in my own heart father never did it. However, that’s pasthistory. All I ask now is his full pardon—which, I know, you can bringabout if you want to.”

  “And I will, willingly and gladly, if your father will grant my request.”

  “To put your son in as governor with the same political views thatprevented my father from voting for you! You know he can’t do that!”

  “And yet you expect me to favor him!”

  “But don’t you see the difference? Your pardon will mean everything tofather——”

  “And to you!”

  “Yes, but that’s a secondary consideration. I’d ask this for father justthe same, if it meant disaster for me!”

&nbs
p; “I believe you would!” and Appleby gazed admiringly at the sweet,forceful face, and the earnest eyes.

  “Of course I should! As I say, it means life’s happiness to him.”

  “And his consent means just as much to me.”

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s just it. Even though father doesn’t definitelyhelp you in your son’s election, he will do nothing to hinder. And that’smuch the same.”

  “It’s far from being the same. His positive and definite help is a verydifferent matter from his negative lack of interference. It’s the help Iwant. And I do want it! Do you suppose I’d come here and urge it—beg forit—if I didn’t think it absolutely necessary?”

  “No; I suppose not. But I know he never will grant it, so you may as wellgive up hope.”

  “You know that, do you, Maida?” Appleby’s voice was almost wistful.

  “I most certainly do,” and the girl nodded her head positively.

  “Then listen to me. I have one argument yet unused. I’m going to use itnow. And with you.”

  Maida looked up in alarm. Appleby’s face was stern, his tone betokened afinal, even desperate decision.

  “Oh, not with me,” she cried; “I—I’m only a girl—I don’t know about thesethings—let’s go where father is.”

  “No; you are the one. In your hands must rest your father’s fate—yourfather’s future. Sit here, beneath the old sycamore—you know about thetree?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Never mind that now; I’ve only a few moments, but that’s time enough.You know, Maida, how your mother holds this estate?”

  “Yes—she must live in Massachusetts. Well, we do. The lawyers said——”

  “That isn’t the point; this is it. There is another heir.”

  “We’ve always thought it possible.” Maida spoke coolly, though a dullfear clutched her heart.

  “It’s more than a possibility, it’s a fact. I know it—and I know theheir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Never mind for the moment. Suffice it to say that he doesn’t know ithimself—that no one knows it but me. Now, you and I know. No one elsedoes. Do you understand?”

  His keen gaze at her made her understand.

  “I——” she faltered.

  “You do understand,” he asserted. “You sense my proposition before I makeit. And you have it right—you’re a smart girl, Maida. Yes, I suggest thatyou and I keep our secret, and that in return for my silence you persuadeyour father to meet my wishes. Then, he shall be fully pardoned, and allwill be well.”

  “You criminal! You dishonest and dishonorable man!” she cried, her eyesblazing, her cheeks reddening with her righteous indignation.

  “There, there, my girl, have a care. You haven’t thought it all out yet.Doubtless you’re going to say that neither your father nor mother want toremain here, if my statement is true.”

  “Of course I say that! They won’t want to stay a minute! Who is the heir?Tell me!”

  “And have you thought what it will mean to them to leave this place? Haveyou realized that your father has no business interests nor can he findany at his age? Do you remember that your mother has no funds outside theestate she inherited? Do you want to plunge them into penury, intopauperism, in their declining years?”

  “Yes—if honesty requires it——” but the sweet voice trembled at thethought.

  “Honesty is a good thing—a fine policy—but you are a devoted daughter,and I remind you that to tell this thing I have told you, meansdisaster—ruin for you and your parents. Young Allen can’t supportthem—they are unaccustomed to deprivation—and,” he lowered his voice,“this heir I speak of has no knowledge of the truth. He misses nothing,since he hopes for nothing.”

  Maida looked at him helplessly.

  “I must think,” she said, brokenly. “Oh, you are cruel, to put thisresponsibility on me.”

  “You know why I do it. I am not disinterested.”