Maida broke down. It wasn’t for her sake she was pleading—nor for the sake of her lover. It was for the sake of her parents—that they might remain in comfort—and yet, comfort at the expense of honesty? Oh, the problem was too great—she hadn’t worked it out yet.
“I can’t think,” her father’s grave voice broke in on her tumultuous thoughts. “I can’t believe, Maida, that you would want my freedom at the cost of my seared conscience.”
“No, oh, no, father, I don’t—you know I don’t. But what is this dreadful thing you’d have to countenance if you linked up on the Appleby side? Are they pirates—or rascals?”
“Not from their own point of view,” and Dan Wheeler smiled. “They think we are! You can’t understand politics, child, but you must know that a man who is heart and soul in sympathy with the principles of his party can’t conscientiously cross over and work for the other side.”
“Yes, I know that, and I know that tells the whole story. But, father, think what there is at stake. Your freedom—and—ours!”
“I know that, Maida dear, and you can never know how my very soul is torn as I try to persuade myself that for those reasons it would be right for me to consent. Yet——”
He passed his hand wearily across his brow, and then folding his arms on the table he let his head sink down upon them.
Maida flew to his side. “Father, dearest,” she crooned over him, as she caressed his bowed head, “don’t think of it for a minute! You know I’d give up anything—I’d give up Jeff—if it means one speck of good for you.”
“I know it, dear child, but—run away, now, Maida, leave me to myself.”
Understanding, both Maida and her mother quietly left the room.
“I’m sorry, girlie dear, that you have to be involved in these scenes,” Mrs. Wheeler said fondly, as the two went to the sitting-room.
“Don’t talk that way, mother. I’m part of the family, and I’m old enough to have a share and a voice in all these matters. But just think what it would mean, if father had his pardon! Look at this room, and think, he has never been in it! Never has seen the pictures—the view from the window, the general coziness of it all.”
“I know, dear, but that’s an old story. Your father is accustomed to living only in his own rooms——”
“And not to be able to go to the other end of the dining-room or living-room, if he chooses! It’s outrageous!”
“Yes, Maida, I quite agree—but no more outrageous than it was last week—or last year.”
“Yes, it is! It grows more outrageous every minute! Mother, what did that old will say? That you must live in Massachusetts?”
“Yes—you know that, dear.”
“Of course I do. And if you lived elsewhere, what then?”
“I forfeit the inheritance.”
“And what would become of it?”
“In default of any other heirs, it would go to the State of Massachusetts.”
“And there are no other heirs?”
“What ails you, Maida? You know all this. No, there are no other heirs.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as we can be. Your father had every possible search made. There were advertisements kept in the papers for years, and able lawyers did all they could to find heirs if there were any. And, finding none, we were advised that there were none, and we could rest in undisturbed possession.”
“Suppose one should appear, what then?”
“Then, little girl, we’d give him the keys of the house, and walk out.”
“Where would we walk to?”
“I’ve no idea. In fact, I can’t imagine where we could walk to. But that, thank heaven, is not one of our troubles. Your father would indeed be desperately fixed if it were! You know, Maida, from a fine capable business man, he became a wreck, because of that unjust trial.”
“Fathernevercommitted the forgery?”
“Of course not, dear.”
“Who did?”
“We don’t know. It was cleverly done, and the crime was purposely fastened on your father, because he was about to be made the rival candidate of Mr. Appleby, for governor.”
“I know. And Mr. Appleby was at the bottom of it!”
“Your father doesn’t admit that——”
“He must have been.”
“Hush, Maida. These matters are not for you to judge. You know your father has done all he honestly could to be fully pardoned, or to discover the real criminal, and as he hasn’t succeeded, you must rest content with the knowledge that there was no stone left unturned.”
“But, mother, suppose Mr. Appleby has something more up his sleeve. Suppose he comes down on dad with some unexpected, some unforeseen blow that——”
“Maida, be quiet. Don’t make me sorry that we have let you into our confidence as far as we have. These are matters above your head. Should such a thing as you hint occur, your father can deal with it.”
“But I want to help——”
“And you can best do that by not trying to help! Your part is to divert your father, to love him and cheer him and entertain him. You know this, and you know for you to undertake to advise or suggest is not only ridiculous but disastrous.”
“All right, mother, I’ll be good. I don’t mean to be silly.”
“You are, when you assume ability you don’t possess.” Mrs. Wheeler’s loving smile robbed the words of any harsh effect. “Run along now, and see if dad won’t go for a walk with you; and don’t refer to anything unpleasant.”
Maida went, and found Wheeler quite ready for a stroll
“Which way?” he asked as they crossed the south veranda.
“Round the park, and bring up under the tree, and have tea there,” dictated Maida, her heart already lighter as she obeyed her mother’s dictum to avoid unpleasant subjects.
But as they walked on, and trivial talk seemed to pall, they naturally reverted to the discussion of their recent guests.
“Mr. Appleby is an old curmudgeon,” Maida declared; “Mr. Keefe is nice and well-behaved; but the little Lane girl is a scream! I never saw any one so funny. Now she was quite a grand lady, and then she was a common little piece! But underneath it all she showed a lot of good sense and I’m sure in her work she has real ability.”
“Appleby wouldn’t keep her if she didn’t have,” her father rejoined; “but why do you call him a curmudgeon? He’s very well-mannered.”
“Oh, yes, he is. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure just what a curmudgeon is. But—he’s it, anyway.”
“I gather you don’t especially admire my old friend.”
“Friend! If he’s a friend—give me enemies!”
“Fie, fie, Maida, what do you mean? Remember, he gave me my pardon.”
“Yes, a high old pardon! Say, dad, tell me again exactly how he worded that letter about the tree.”
“I’ve told you a dozen times! He didn’t mean anything anyhow. He only said, that when the big sycamore tree went into Massachusetts I could go.”
“What a crazy thing to say, wasn’t it?”
“It was because we had been talking about the play ofMacbeth. You remember, ’Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.”
“Oh, yes, and then it did come—by a trick.”
“Yes, the men came, carrying branches. We’d been talking about it, discussing some point, and then—it seemed clever, I suppose—to Appleby, and he wrote that about the sycamore.”
“Meaning—never?”
“Meaning never.”
“But Birnam Wood did go.”
“Only by a trick, and that would not work in this case. Why, are you thinking of carrying a branch of sycamore into Massachusetts?”
Maida returned his smile as she answered: “I’d manage to carry the whole tree in, if it would do any good! But, I s’pose, old Puritan Father, you’re too conscientious to take advantage of a trick?”
“Can’t say, till I know the details of the game. But I doubt Appleby’s being unable to see through your trick, and then—where are you?”
“That wouldn’t matter. Trick or no trick, if the big sycamore went into Massachusetts, you could go. But I don’t see any good plan for getting it in. And, too, Sycamore Ridge wouldn’t be Sycamore Ridge without it. Don’t you love the old tree, dad?”
“Of course, as I love every stick and stone about the place. It has been a real haven to me in my perturbed life.”
“Suppose you had to leave it, daddy?”
“I think I’d die, dear. Unless, that is, we could go back home.”
“Isn’t this home?”
“It’s the dearest spot on earth—outside my native state.”
“There, there, dad, don’t let’s talk about it. We’re here for keeps——”
“Heaven send we are, dearest! I couldn’t face the loss of this place. What made you think of such a thing?”
“Oh, I’m thinking of all sorts of things to-day. But, father, while we’re talking of moving—couldn’t you—oh, couldn’t you, bring yourself, somehow, to do what Mr. Appleby wants you to do? I don’t know much about it—but father, darling, if youonly could!”
“Maida, my little girl, don’t think I haven’t tried. Don’t think I don’t realize what it means to you and Jeff. I know—oh, Idoknow how it would simplify matters if I should go over to the Appleby side—and push Sam’s campaign—as I could do it. I know that it would mean my full pardon, my return to my old home, my reunion with old scenes and associations. And more than that, it would mean the happiness of my only child—my daughter—and her chosen husband. And yet, Maida, as God is my judge, I am honest in my assertion that Ican’tso betray my honor and spend my remaining years a living lie. I can’t do it, Maida—Ican’t.”
And the calm, sorrowful countenance he turned to the girl was more positive and final than any further protestation could have been.
Although the portions of the house and grounds that were used by Wheeler included the most attractive spots, yet there were many forbidden places that were a real temptation to him.
An especial one was the flower-covered arbor that had so charmed Genevieve and another was the broad and beautiful north veranda. To be sure, the south piazza was equally attractive, but it was galling to be compelled to avoid any part of his own domain. However, the passing years had made the conditions a matter of habit and it was only occasionally that Wheeler’s annoyance was poignant.
In fact, he and his wife bore the cross better than did Maida. She had never become reconciled to the unjust and arbitrary dictum of the conditional pardon. She lived in a constant fear lest her father should some day inadvertently and unintentionally step on the forbidden ground, and it should be reported. Indeed, knowing her father’s quixotic honesty, she was by no means sure he wouldn’t report it himself.
It had never occurred—probably never would occur, and yet, she often imagined some sudden emergency, such as a fire, or burglars, that might cause his impulsive invasion of the other side of the house.
In her anxiety she had spoken of this to Samuel Appleby when he was there. But he gave her no satisfaction. He merely replied: “A condition is a condition.”
Curtis Keefe had tried to help her cause, by saying: “Surely a case of danger would prove an exception to the rule,” but Appleby had only shaken his head in denial.
Though care had been taken to have the larger part of the house on the Massachusetts side of the line, yet the rooms most used by the family were in Connecticut. Here was Mr. Wheeler’s den, and this had come to be the most used room in the whole house. Mrs. Wheeler’s sitting-room, which her husband never had entered, was also attractive, but both mother and daughter invaded the den, whenever leisure hours were to be enjoyed.
The den contained a large south bay window, which was Maida’s favorite spot. It had a broad, comfortable window-seat, and here she spent much of her time, curled up among the cushions, reading. There were long curtains, which, half-drawn, hid her from view, and often she was there for hours, without her father’s knowing it.
His own work was engrossing. Cut off from his established law business in Massachusetts, he had at first felt unable to start it anew in different surroundings. Then, owing to his wife’s large fortune, it was decided that he should give up all business for a time. And as the time went on, and there was no real necessity for an added income, Wheeler had indulged in his hobby of book collecting, and had amassed a library of unique charm as well as goodly intrinsic value.
Moreover, it kept him interested and occupied, and prevented his becoming morose or melancholy over his restricted life.
So, many long days he worked away at his books, and Maida, hidden in the window-seat, watched him lovingly in the intervals of her reading.
Sitting there, the morning after Samuel Appleby’s departure, she read not at all, although a book lay open on her lap. She was trying to decide a big matter, trying to solve a vexed question.
Maida’s was a straightforward nature. She never deceived herself. If she did anything against her better judgment, even against her conscience, it was with open eyes and understanding mind. She used no sophistry, no pretence, and if she acted mistakenly she was always satisfied to abide by the consequences.
And now, she set about her problem, systematically and methodically, determined to decide upon her course, and then strictly follow it.
She glanced at her father, absorbed in his book catalogues and indexes, and a great wave of love and devotion filled her heart. Surely no sacrifice was too great that would bring peace or pleasure to that martyred spirit.
That he was a martyr, Maida was as sure as she was that she was alive. She knew him too well to believe for an instant that he had committed a criminal act; it was an impossibility for one of his character. But that she could do nothing about. The question had been raised and settled when she was too young to know anything about it, and now, her simple duty was to do anything she might to ease his burden and to help him to forget.
“And,” she said to herself, “first of all, he must stay in this home. He positivelymust—and that’s all there is about that. Now, if he knows—if he has the least hint that there is another heir, he’ll get out at once—or at least, he’ll move heaven and earth to find the heir, and then we’ll have to move. And where to? That’s an unanswerable question. Anyway, I’ve only one sure conviction. I’ve got to keep from him all knowledge or suspicion of that other heir!
“Maybe it isn’t true—maybe Mr. Appleby made it up—but I don’t think so. At any rate, I have to proceed as if it were true, and do my best. And, first of all, I’ve got to hush up my own conscience. I’ve too much of my father’s nature to want to live here if it rightfully belongs to somebody else. I feel like a thief already. But I’m going to bear that—I’m going to live under that horrid conviction that I’m living a lie—for father’s sake.”
Maida was in earnest. By nature and by training her conscience was acutely sensitive to the finest shades of right and wrong. She actually longed to announce the possibility of another heir and let justice decide the case. But her filial devotion was, in this thing, greater even than her conscience. Her mother, too, she knew, would be crushed by the revelation of the secret, but would insist on thorough investigation, and, if need be, on renunciation of the dear home.
Her mental struggle went on. At times it seemed as if she couldn’t live beneath the weight of such a secret. Then, she knew she must do it. What was her own peace of mind compared with her father’s? What was her own freedom of conscience compared with his tranquillity?
She thought of telling Jeffrey Allen. But, she argued, he would feel as the others would—indeed, as she herself did—that the matter must be dragged out into the open and settled one way or the other.
No; she must bear the brunt of the thing alone. She must never tell any one.
Then, the next point was, would Mr. Appleby tell? He hadn’t said so, but she felt sure he would. Well, she must do all she could to prevent that. He was to return in a day or two. By that time she must work out some plan, must think up some way, to persuade him not to tell. What the argument would be, she had no idea, but she was determined to try her uttermost.
There was one way—but Maida blushed even at the thought.
Sam Appleby—young Sam—wanted to marry her—had wanted to for a year or more. Many times she had refused him, and many times he had returned for another attempt at persuasion. To consent to this would enable her to control the senior Appleby’s revelations.
It would indeed be a last resort—she wouldn’t even think of it yet; surely there was some other way!
The poor, tortured child was roused from her desperate plannings by a cheery voice, calling:
“Maida—Maida! Here’s me!”
“Jeffrey!” she cried, springing from the window-seat, and out to greet him.
“Dear!” he said, as he took her in his arms. “Dear, dearer, dearest!Whatis troubling you?”
“Trouble? Nothing! How can I be troubled when you’re here?”
“But you are! You can’t fool me, you know! Never mind, you can tell me later. I’ve got three whole days—how’s that?”
“Splendid! How did it happen?”
“Old Bennett went off for a week’s rest—doctor’s orders—and he said, if I did up my chores, nice and proper, I could take a little vacation myself. Oh, you peach! You’re twice as beautifuller as ever!”
A whirlwind embrace followed this speech and left Maida, breathless and laughing, while her father smiled benignly upon the pair.
It was some hours later that, as they sat under the big sycamore, Jeffrey Allen begged Maida to tell him her troubles.
“For I know you’re pretty well broken up over something,” he declared.
“How do you know?” she smiled at him.
“Why, my girl, I know every shadow that crosses your dear heart.”
“Do I wear my heart on my sleeve, then?”
“You don’t have to, for me to see it. I recognize the signs from your face, your manner, your voice—your whole being is trembling with some fear or some deeply-rooted grief. So tell me all about it.”
And Maida told. Not the last horrible threat that Samuel Appleby had told her alone, but the state of things as Appleby had presented it to Daniel Wheeler himself.
“And so you see, Jeff, it’s a deadlock. Father won’t vote for young Sam—I don’t mean only vote, but throw all his influence—and that means a lot—on Sam’s side. And if he doesn’t, Mr. Appleby won’t get him pardoned—you know we hoped he would this year——”
“Yes, dear; it would mean so much to us.”
“Yes, and to dad and mother, too. Well, there’s no hope of that, unless father throws himself heart and soul into the Appleby campaign.”
“And he won’t do that?”
“Of course not. He couldn’t, Jeff. He’d have to subscribe to what he doesn’t believe in—practically subscribe to a lie. And you know father——”
“Yes, and you, too—and myself! None of us would want him to do that, Maida!”
“Doesn’t necessityeverjustify a fraud, Jeff?” The question was put so wistfully that the young man smiled.
“Nixy! and you know that even better than I do, dear. Why, Maida, what I love you most for—yes, even more than your dear, sweet, beauty of face, is the marvellous beauty of your nature, your character. Your flawless soul attracted me first of all—even as I saw it shining through your clear, honest eyes.”
“Oh, Jeffrey,” and Maida’s clear eyes filled with tears, “I’m not honest, I’m not true blue!”
“Then nobody on this green earth is! Don’t say such things, dear. I know what you mean, that youthinkyou want your father to sacrifice his principles, in part, at least, to gain his full pardon thereby. See how I read your thoughts! But, you don’t really think that; you only think you think it. If the thing came to a focus, you’d be the first one to forbid the slightest deviation from the line of strictest truth and honor!”
“Oh, Jeff, do you think I would?”
“Of course I think so—I know it! You are a strange make-up, Maida. On an impulse, I can imagine you doing something wrong—even something pretty awful—but with even a little time for thought youcouldn’tdo a wrong.”
“What!” Maida was truly surprised; “I could jump into any sort of wickedness?”
“I didn’t quite put it that way,” Jeff laughed, “but—well, you know it’s my theory, that given opportunity, anybody can yield to temptation.”
“Nonsense! It’s a poor sort of honor that gives out at a critical moment!”
“Not at all. Most people can resist anything—except temptation! Given a strong enough temptation and a perfect opportunity, and your staunchest, most conscientious spirit is going to succumb.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t have to—and maybe it isn’t always true. But it often is. Howsomever, it has no bearing on the present case. Your father is not going to lose his head—and though you might do so”—he smiled at her—“I can’t see you getting a chance! You’re not in on the deal, in any way, are you?”
“No; except that Mr. Appleby asked me to use all my influence with father.”
“Which you’ve done?”
“Yes; but it made not the slightest impression.”
“Of course not. I say, Maid, young Sam isn’t coming down here, is he?”
“Not that I know of,” but Maida couldn’t help her rising color, for she knew what Allen was thinking.
“Just let him try it, that’s all! Just let him show his rubicund countenance in these parts—if he wants trouble!”
“Does anybody everwanttrouble?” Maida smiled a little.
“Why, of course they do! Sometimes they want it so much that they borrow it!”
“I’m not doing that! I’ve had it offered to me—in full measure, heaped up, pressed down, and running over.”
“Poor little girl. Don’t take it so hard, dearest. I’ll have a talk with your father, and we’ll see how matters really stand. I doubt it’s as bad as you fear—and anyway, if no good results come our way, things are no worse than they have been for years. Your father has lived fairly contented and happy. Let things drift, and in another year or two, after the election is a thing of the past, we can pick up the pardon question again. By that time you and I will be—where will we be, Maida?”
“I don’t know, Jeff——”
“Well, we’ll be together, anyway. You’ll be my wife, and if we can’t live in Boston—we can live out of Boston! And that’s all there is about that!”
“You’ll have to come here to live. There’s enough for us all.”
“Settle down here and sponge on your mother! I see it! But, never you mind, lady fair, something will happen to smooth out our path. Perhaps this old tree will take it into its head to go over into Massachusetts, and so blaze a trail for your father—and you.”
“Oh, very likely. But I’ve renewed my vow—Jeff; unless father can go into the state,Inever will!”
“All right, sweetheart. Renew your vow whenever its time limit expires. I’m going to fix things so no vows will be needed—except our marriage vows. Will you take them, dear?”
“When the time comes, yes.” But Maida did not smile, and Jeff, watching her closely, concluded there was yet some point on which she had not enlightened him. However, he asked no further question, but bided his time.
“Guess I’ll chop down the old tree while I’m here, and ship it into Massachusetts as firewood,” he suggested.
“Fine idea,” Maida acquiesced, “but you’d only have your trouble for your pains. You see, the stipulation was, ‘without the intervention of human hands.’”
“All right, we’ll chop it down by machinery, then.”
“I wish the tree promise meant anything, but it doesn’t. It was only made as a proof positive how impossible was any chance of pardon.”
“But now a chance of pardon has come.”
“Yes, but a chance that cannot be taken. You’ll be here, Jeff, when they come back. Then you can talk with Mr. Appleby, and maybe, as man to man, you can convince him——”
“Convince nothing! Don’t you suppose I’ve tried every argument I know of, with that old dunderhead? I’ve spent hours with him discussing your father’s case. I’ve talked myself deaf, dumb and blind, with no scrap of success. But, I don’t mind telling you, Maida, that I might have moved the old duffer to leniency if it hadn’t been for—you.”
“Me?”
“Yes; you know well enough young Sam’s attitude toward you. And old Appleby as good as said if I’d give up my claim on your favor, and give sonny Sam a chance, there’d be hope for your father.”
“H’m. Indeed! You don’t say so! And you replied?”
“I didn’t reply much of anything. For if I’d said what I wanted to say, he would have been quite justified in thinking that I was no fit mate for a Christian girl! Let’s don’t talk about it.”
That night Maida went to her room, leaving Allen to have a long serious talk with her father.
She hoped much from the confab, for Jeff Allen was a man of ideas, and of good, sound judgment. He could see straight, and could advise sensibly and well. And Maida hoped, too, that something would happen or some way be devised that the secret told her by Appleby might be of no moment. Perhaps there was no heir, save in the old man’s imagination. Or perhaps it was only someone who would inherit a portion of the property, leaving enough for their own support and comfort.
At any rate, she went to bed comforted and cheered by the knowledge that Jeff was there, and that if there was anything to be done he would do it.
She had vague misgivings because she had not told him what Appleby had threatened. But, she argued, if she decided to suppress that bit of news, she must not breathe it to anybody—not even Jeff.
So, encouraged at the outlook, and exhausted by her day of worriment, she slept soundly till well into the night.
Then she was awakened by a strange sound. It gave her, at first, a strange impression of being on an ocean steamer. She couldn’t think why, for her half-awake senses responded only to the vague sense of familiarity with such a sound.
But wide awake in a moment, she heard more of it, and realized that it was a bugle to which she listened—the clear, though not loud, notes of a bugle. Amazed, she jumped from her bed, and looked out of a window in the direction of the sound.
She saw nothing, and heard the last faint notes die away, as she listened.
There was no further sound, and she returned to bed, and after a time fell asleep again.
She pondered over the occurrence while dressing next morning, wondering what it meant.
Downstairs she found only Jeffrey in the dining-room.
“Hear anything funny in the night, Maida?” he asked her.
“Yes; a bugle,” she returned. “Did you hear it?”
“Of course I did. Who plays the thing around here?”
“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 doyouknow?”
“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.
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 knowwhatto 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.”