The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Oh, yes. I’ve loved Sycamore Ridge for nearly fifteen years.”

“Have you lived here so long?” Genevieve was alert for information. It was fifteen years ago that the pardon had been granted.

But as Maida merely assented and then changed the subject, Miss Lane was far too canny to ask further questions.

With a promptness not entirely due to chance, the stenographer came downstairs dressed for dinner some several minutes before the appointed hour. Assuming her right as a guest, she wandered about the rooms.

The south door, by which they had entered, was evidently the main entrance, but the opposite, or north door, gave on to an even more beautiful view, and she stepped out on the wide veranda and gazed admiringly about. The low ridge nearby formed the western horizon, and the giant sycamore, its straight branches outlined against the fading sunset, was impressive and a little weird. She strolled on, and turned the corner the better to see the ridge. The veranda ran all round the house, and as she went on along the western side, she suddenly became aware of a silent figure leaning against a pillar at the southwest corner.

“It is so quiet it frightens me,” she said to Daniel Wheeler, as she neared him.

“Do you feel that way, too?” he asked, looking at her a little absently. “It is the lull before the storm.”

“Oh, that sunset doesn’t mean rain,” Genevieve exclaimed, smiling, “unless your Connecticut blue laws interpret weather signs differently from our Massachusetts prophets. We are in Connecticut, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” and Wheeler sighed unaccountably. “Yes, Miss Lane, we are. That sycamore is the finest tree in the state.”

“I can well believe it. I never saw such a grandfather of a tree! It’s all full of little balls.”

“Yes, buttonballs, they are called. But note its wonderful symmetry, its majestic appearance – ”

“And strength! It looks as if it would stand, there forever!”

“Do you think so?” and the unmistakable note of disappointment in the man’s tone caused Genevieve to look up in astonishment. “Well, perhaps it will,” he added quickly.

“Oh, no, of course it won’t really! No tree stands forever. But it will be here long after you and I are gone.”

“Are you an authority on trees?” Wheeler spoke without a smile.

“Hardly that; but I was brought up in the country, and I know something of them. Your daughter loves the country, too.”

“Oh, yes – we all do.”

The tone was courteous, but the whole air of the man was so melancholy, his cheerfulness so palpably assumed, that Genevieve felt sorry for him, as well as inordinately curious to know what was the matter.

But her sympathy was the stronger impulse, and with a desire to entertain him, she said, “Come for a few steps in the garden, Mr. Wheeler, won’t you? Come and show me that quaint little summer-house near the front door. It is the front door, isn’t it? It’s hard to tell.”

“Yes, the north door is the front door,” Wheeler said slowly, as if repeating a lesson. “The summer-house you mention is near the front door. But we won’t visit that now. Come this other way, and I’ll show you a Japanese tea-house, much more attractive.”

But Genevieve Lane was sometimes under the spell of the Imp of the Perverse.

“No, no,” she begged, smilingly, “let the Japanese contraption wait; please go to the little summer-house now. See, how it fairly twinkles in the last gleams of the setting sun! What is the flower that rambles all over it? Oh, do let’s go there now! Come, please!”

With no reason for her foolish insistence save a whim, Genevieve was amazed to see the look of fury that came over her host’s face.

“Appleby put you up to that!” he cried, in a voice of intense anger. “He told you to ask me to go to that place!”

“Why, Mr. Wheeler,” cried the girl, almost frightened, “Mr. Appleby did nothing of the sort! Why should he! I’m not asking anything wrong, am I? Why is it so dreadful to want to see an arbor instead of a tea-house? You must be crazy!”

When Miss Lane was excited, she was quite apt to lose her head, and speak in thoughtless fashion.

But Mr. Wheeler didn’t seem to notice her informality of speech. He only stared at her as if he couldn’t quite make her out, and then he suddenly seemed to lose interest in her or her wishes, and with a deep sigh, he turned away, and fell into the same brooding posture as when she had first approached him.

“Come to dinner, people,” called Maida’s pretty voice, as, with outstretched hands she came toward them. “Why, dads, what are you looking miserable about? What have you done to him, Miss Lane?”

“Maida, child, don’t speak like that! Miss Lane has been most kindly talking to me, of – of the beauties of Sycamore Ridge.”

“All right, then, and forgive me, Miss Lane. But you see, the sun rises and sets for me in one Daniel Wheeler, Esquire, and any shadow on his face makes me apprehensive of its cause.”

Only for an instant did Genevieve Lane’s sense of justice rise in revolt, then her common sense showed her the better way, and she smiled pleasantly and returned:

“I don’t blame you, Miss Wheeler. If I had a father, I should feel just the same way, I know. But don’t do any gory-lock-shaking my way. I assure you I didn’t really scold him. I only kicked because he wouldn’t humor my whim for visiting the summer-house with the blossoms trailing over it! Was that naughty of me?”

But though Genevieve listened for the answer, none came.

“Come on in to dinner, daddy, dear,” Maida repeated. “Come, Miss Lane, they’re waiting for us.”

Dinner was a delightful occasion.

Daniel Wheeler, at the head of his own table, was a charming host, and his melancholy entirely disappeared as the talk ran along on subjects grave or gay, but of no personal import.

Appleby, too, was entertaining, and the two men, with Mrs. Wheeler, carried on most of the conversation, the younger members of the party being by what seemed common consent left out of it.

Genevieve looked about the dining-room, with a pleased interest. She dearly loved beautiful appointments and was really imagining herself mistress of just such a house, and visioning herself at the head of such a table. The long room stretched from north to south, parallel with the hall, though not adjoining. The table was not in the centre, but toward the southern end, and Mr. Wheeler, at the end near the windows, had Keefe and Miss Lane on either side of him.

Appleby, as guest of honor, sat at Mrs. Wheeler’s right, and the whole effect was that of a formal dinner party, rather than a group of which two were merely office employés.

“It is one of the few remaining warm evenings,” said Mrs. Wheeler, as she rose from the table, “we will have our coffee on the veranda. Soon it will be too cool for that.”

“Which veranda?” asked Genevieve of Maida, as they went through the hall. “The north one, I hope.”

“Your hopes must be dashed,” laughed the other, “for it will be the south one. Come along.”

The two girls, followed by Keefe, took possession of a group of chairs near Mrs. Wheeler, while the two older men sat apart, and soon became engrossed in their own discussions.

Nor was it long before Samuel Appleby and his host withdrew to a room which opened on to that same south veranda, and which was, in fact, Mr. Wheeler’s den.

“Well, Sam,” Keefe heard the other say, as he drew down the blind, “we may as well have it out now. What are you here for?”

Outwardly placid, but almost consumed with curiosity, Curt Keefe changed his seat for one nearer the window of the den. He hoped to hear the discussion going on inside, but was doomed to disappointment, for though the murmuring of the voices was audible, the words were not distinct, and Keefe gathered only enough information to be sure that there was a heated argument in progress and that neither party to it was inclined to give in a single point.

Of course, he decided, the subject was the coming election campaign, but the details of desired bargaining he could not gather.

Moreover, often, just as he almost heard sentences of interest, the chatter of the girls or some remark of Mrs. Wheeler’s would drown the voices of the men in the room.

One time, indeed, he heard clearly: “When the Sycamore on the ridge goes into Massachusetts – ” but this was sheer nonsense, and he concluded he must have misunderstood.

Later, they all forgathered in the living-room and there was music and general conversation.

Genevieve Lane proved herself decidedly entertaining, and though Samuel Appleby looked a little amusedly at his stenographer, he smiled kindly at her as he noticed that she in no way overstepped the bounds of correct demeanor.

Genevieve was thinking of what Keefe had said to her: “If you do only what is absolutely correct and say what is only absolutely correct, you can do whatever you like.”

She had called it nonsense at the time, but she was beginning to see the truth of it. She was careful that her every word and act should be correct, and she was most decidedly doing as she liked. She made good with Mrs. Wheeler and Maida with no trouble at all; but she felt, vaguely, that Mr. Wheeler didn’t like her. This she set about to remedy.

Going to his side, as he chanced to sit for a moment alone, she smiled ingratiatingly and said:

“I wonder if you can imagine, sir, what it means to me to see the inside of a house like this?”

“Bless my soul, what do you mean?” asked Wheeler, puzzled at the girl’s manner.

“It’s like a glimpse of Fairyland,” she went on. “You see, I’m terribly ambitious – oh, fearfully so! And all my ambitions lead to just this sort of a home. Do you suppose I’ll ever achieve it, Mr. Wheeler?”

Now the girl had truly wonderful magnetic charm, and even staid old Dan Wheeler was not insensible to the note of longing in her voice, the simple, honest admission of her hopes.

“Of course you will, little one,” he returned, kindly. “I’ve heard that whatever one wants, one gets, provided the wish is strong enough.” He spoke directly to her, but his gaze wandered as if his thoughts were far away.

“Do you really believe that?” Genevieve’s big blue eyes begged an affirmation.

“I didn’t say I believed it – I said I have heard it.” He smiled sadly. “Not quite the same – so far as I’m concerned; but quite as assuring to you. Of course, my belief wouldn’t endorse the possibility.”

“It would for me,” declared Genevieve. “I’ve lots of confidence in other people’s opinions – ”

“Anybody’s?”

“Anybody whom I respect and believe in.”

“Appleby, for instance?”

“Oh, yes, indeed! I’d trust Mr. Appleby’s opinions on any subject. Let’s go over there and tell him so.”

Samuel Appleby was sitting at the other end, the north end of the long room. “No,” said Wheeler, “I’m too comfortable here to move – ask him to come here.”

Genevieve looked at him a little astonished. It was out of order, she thought, for a host to speak thus. She pressed the point, saying there was a picture at the other end of the room she wished to examine.

“Run along, then,” said Wheeler, coolly. “Here, Maida, show Miss Lane that etching and tell her the interesting details about it.”

The girls went away, and soon after Keefe drifted round to Wheeler’s side.

“You know young Sam Appleby?” he asked, casually.

“No,” Wheeler said, shortly but not sharply. “I daresay he’s a most estimable chap.”

“He’s all of that. He’s a true chip of the old block. Both good gubernatorial timber, as I’m sure you agree.”

“What makes you so sure, Mr. Keefe?”

Curt Keefe looked straight at him. “Well,” he laughed, “I’m quite ready to admit that the wish was father to the thought.”

“Why do you call that an admission?”

“Oh,” Keefe readily returned, “it is usually looked upon as a confession that one has no reason for a thought other than a wish.”

“And why is it your wish?”

“Because it is the wish of my employer,” said Keefe, seriously. “I know of no reason, Mr. Wheeler, why I shouldn’t say that I hope and trust you will use your influence to further the cause of young Appleby.”

“What makes you think I can do so?”

“While I am not entirely in Mr. Appleby’s confidence, he has told me that the campaign would be greatly aided by your willingness to help, and so I can’t help hoping you will exercise it.”

“Appleby has told you so much, has he? No more?”

“No more, I think, regarding yourself, sir. I know, naturally, the details of the campaign so far as it is yet mapped out.”

“And you know why I do not want to lend my aid?”

“I know you are not in accordance with the principles of the Appleby politics – ”

“That I am not! Nor shall I ever be. Nor shall I ever pretend to be – ”

“Pretend? Of course not. But could you not be persuaded?”

“By what means?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Wheeler,” and Keefe looked at him frankly. “I truly don’t know by what means. But I do know that Mr. Appleby is here to present to you an argument by which he hopes to persuade you to help young Sam along – and I earnestly desire to add any word of mine that may help influence your decision. That is why I want to tell you of the good traits of Sam Appleby, junior. It may be I can give you a clearer light on his character than his father could do – that is, I might present it as the opinion of a friend – ”

“And not exaggerate his virtues as a father might do? I see. Well, Mr. Keefe, I appreciate your attitude, but let me tell you this: whatever I do or don’t do regarding this coming campaign of young Appleby will be entirely irrespective of the character or personality of that young man. It will all depend on the senior Appleby’s arrangements with me, and my ability to change his views on some of the more important planks in his platform. If he directed you to speak to me as you have done, you may return that to him as my answer.”

“You, doubtless, said the same to him, sir?”

“Of course I did. I make no secret of my position in this matter. Samuel Appleby has a hold over me – I admit that – but it is not strong enough to make me forget my ideas of right and wrong to the public. No influence of a personal nature should weigh against any man’s duty to the state, and I will never agree to pretend to any dissimulation in order to bring about a happier life for myself.”

“But need you subscribe to the objectionable points to use your influence for young Sam?”

“Tacitly, of course. And I do not choose even to appear to agree to principles abhorrent to my sense of justice and honesty, thereby secretly gaining something for myself.”

“Meaning your full pardon?”

Wheeler turned a look of surprise on the speaker.

“I thought you said you hadn’t Appleby’s full confidence,” he said.

“Nor have I. I do know – as do many men – that you were pardoned with a condition, but the condition I do not know. It can’t be very galling.” And Keefe looked about on the pleasant surroundings.

“You think not? That’s because you don’t know the terms. And yet, galling though they are, hateful though it makes my life, and the lives of my wife and daughter, we would all rather bear it than to deviate one iota from the path of strict right.”

“I must admire you for that, as must any honorable man. But are there not degrees or shadings of right and wrong – ”

“Mr. Keefe, as an old man, I take the privilege of advising you for your own good. All through your life I beg you remember this: Anyone who admits degrees or shadings of right or wrong – is already wrong. Don’t be offended; you didn’t claim those things, you merely asked the question. But, remember what I said about it.”