The Mystery of the Sycamore. Wells Carolyn
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I didn’t think Wheeler would be quite such a hardshell – after all these years.”
“He’s just like concrete,” Keefe observed. “They all are. I didn’t know there were such conscientious people left in this wicked old world!”
“They’re not really in the world,” Appleby declared. “They’ve merely vegetated in that house of theirs, never going anywhere – ”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Appleby,” and Genevieve shook her head, “Boston isn’t the only burg on the planet! They often go to New York, and that’s going some!”
“Not really often – I asked Wheeler. He hasn’t been for five or six years, and though Maida goes occasionally, to visit friends, she soon runs back home to her father.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Keefe said, “they’re by no means mossbacks or hayseeds. They’re right there with the goods, when it comes to modern literature or up-to-date news – ”
“Oh, yes, they’re a highbrow bunch,” Appleby spoke impatiently; “but a recluse like that is no sort of a man! The truth is, I’m at the end of my patience! I’ve got to put this thing over with less palaver and circumlocution. I thought I’d give him a chance – just put the thing up to him squarely once – and, as he doesn’t see fit to meet me half-way, he’s got to be the loser, that’s all.”
“He seems to be the loser, as it is.” This from Keefe.
“But nothing to what’s coming to him! Why, the idea of my sparing him at all is ridiculous! If he doesn’t come down, he’s got to be wiped out! That’s what it amounts to!”
“Wiped out – how?”
“Figuratively and literally! Mentally, morally and physically! That’s how! I’ve stood all I can – I’ve waited long enough – too long – and now I’m going to play the game my own way! As I said, I played a trump card – I raised one pretty definite ruction just before we left. Now, that may do the business – and, it may not! If not, then desperate measures are necessary – and will be used!”
“Good gracious, Mr. Appleby!” Genevieve piped up from her fur collar which nearly muffled her little face. “You sound positively murderous!”
“Murder! Pooh, I’d kill Dan Wheeler in a minute, if that would help Sam! But I don’t want Wheeler dead – I want him alive – I want his help – his influence – yet, when he sits there looking like a stone wall, and about as easy to overthrow, I declare I could kill him! But I don’t intend to. It’s far more likely he’d kill me!”
“Why?” exclaimed Keefe. “Why should he? And – but you’re joking.”
“Not at all. Wheeler isn’t of the murderer type, or I’d be taking my life in my hands to go into his house! He hates me with all the strength of a hard, bigoted, but strictly just nature. He thinks I was unjust in the matter of his pardon, he thinks I was contemptible, and false to our old-time friendship; and he would be honestly and truly glad if I were dead. But – thank heaven – he’s no murderer!”
“Of course not!” cried Genevieve. “How you do talk! As if murder were an everyday performance! Why, people in our class don’t kill each other!”
The placid assumption of equality of class with her employer was so consistently Miss Lane’s usual attitude, that it caused no mental comment from either of her hearers. Her services were so valuable that any such little idiosyncrasy was tolerated.
“Of course we don’t – often,” agreed Appleby, “but I’d wager a good bit that if Dan Wheeler could bump me off without his conscience knowing it – off I’d go!”
“I don’t know about that,” said Genevieve, musingly – “but I do believe that girl would do it!”
“What?” cried Keefe. “Maida!”
“Yes; she’s a lamb for looks, but she’s got a lion’s heart – if anybody ever had one! Talk about a tigress protecting her cubs; it would be a milk-and-water performance beside Maida Wheeler shielding her father – or fighting for him – yes, or killing somebody for him!”
“Rubbish!” laughed Appleby. “Maida might be willing enough, in that lion heart of hers – but little girls don’t go around killing people.”
“I know it, and I don’t expect her to. But I only say she’s capable of it.”
“Goethe says – (Keefe spoke in his superior way) – ‘We are all capable of crime, even the best of us.’”
“I remember that phrase,” mused Appleby. “Is it Goethe’s? Well, I don’t say it’s literally true, for lots of people are too much of a jellyfish makeup to have such a capability. But I do believe there are lots of strong, forcible people, who are absolutely capable of crime – if the opportunity offers.”
“That’s it,” and Genevieve nodded her head wisely. “Opportunity is what counts. I’ve read detective stories, and they prove it. Be careful, Mr. Appleby, how you trust yourself alone with Mr. Wheeler.”
“That will do,” he reprimanded. “I can take care of myself, Miss Lane.”
Genevieve always knew when she had gone too far, and, instead of sulking, she tactfully changed the subject and entertained the others with her amusing chatter, at which she was a success.
At that very moment, Maida Wheeler, alone in her room, was sobbing wildly, yet using every precaution that she shouldn’t be heard.
Thrown across her bed, her face buried in the pillows, she fairly shook with the intensity of her grief.
But, as often happens, after she had brought her crying spell to a finish – and exhausted Nature insists on a finish – she rose and bathed her flushed face and sat down to think it out calmly.
Yet the more she thought the less calm she grew.
For the first time in her life she was face to face with a great question which she could not refer to her parents. Always she had confided in them, and matters that seemed great to her, even though trifling in themselves, were invariably settled and straightened out by her wise and loving father or mother.
But now, Samuel Appleby had told her a secret – a dreadful secret – that she must not only weigh and decide about, but must – at least, until she decided – keep from her parents.
“For,” Maida thought, “if I tell them, they’ll at once insist on knowing who the rightful heir is, they’ll give over the place to him – and what will become of us?”
Her conscience was as active as ever it was, her sense of right and wrong was in no way warped or blunted, but instinct told her that she must keep this matter entirely to herself until she had come to her own conclusion. Moreover, she realized, the conclusion must be her own – the decision must be arrived at by herself, and unaided.
Finally, accepting all this, she resolved to put the whole thing out of her mind for the moment. Her parents were so intimately acquainted with her every mood or shade of demeanor, they would see at once that something was troubling her mind, unless she used the utmost care to prevent it. Care, too, not to overdo her precaution. It would be quite as evident that she was concealing something, if she were unusually gay or carefree of manner.
So the poor child went downstairs, determined to forget utterly the news she had heard, until such time as she could be again by herself.
And she succeeded. Though haunted by a vague sense of being deceitful, she behaved so entirely as usual, that neither of her parents suspected her of pretense.
Moreover, the subject of Samuel Appleby’s visit was such a fruitful source of conversation that there was less chance of minor considerations.
“Never will I consent,” her father was reiterating, as Maida entered the room. “Why, Sara, I’d rather have the conditional pardon rescinded, rather pay full penalty of my conviction, than stand for the things young Sam’s campaign must stand for!”
A clenched fist