We will leave Mabel and her friends on the Island of Kaahlanai (the isle of the sun ) and we will return to the home of Mr. Miller.
After Mabel’s departure, the wedding of Lucy Maynard, which was soon to take place, was hastened by Harry Howard being sent by his firm to Europe. Not wishing to go without his bride, the preparations for the wedding were hurried, and six weeks after Mabel had sailed for Australia Harry and Lucy were married. Their wedding was a grand affair, Mrs. Maynard’s ambition being satisfied in the matter of display and expense, as her brother, Mr. Miller made liberal provision for Lucy in every respect. After the wedding the bride and groom left for New York on their way to Europe, and Mrs. Maynard was perfectly happy as a wedding trip to Europe was the acme of refinement and could only be indulged in by a select few.
As the weeks dragged themselves wearily into months and still no tidings came of the Western Shore, or her ill-fated crew or passengers, Mr. Miller gave up his loved daughter as lost. He no longer took an interest in his business but would sit with folded hands thinking of Mabel for hours at a time. Mrs. Maynard tried in every way to have her brother throw off his grief. One day she said to him, “Why don’t you try to arouse yourself from this melancholy, James, and take some interest in the life around you? You can’t bring Mabel back by this ceaseless mourning.”
Mr. Miller’s face was pitiful as he looked up and reiterated, “Interest in life. What interest have I in life, now that she, my darling child, is gone? What have I worked for all these years, but for her sake? What did I care for money, but that she might enjoy it? No, there is nothing left for me to live for. Oh, why, why did I ever let her leave me? Now in my old age she is gone, gone.” He dropped his head in his hands and his whole frame shook with emotion.
Mrs. Maynard’s face darkened. She had no patience with such grief which after months could show no signs of abatement. Her nature could not comprehend it. Mr. Miller’s constant brooding over his trouble soon told upon his health, and rapidly developed a disease that had been lurking in his system for years. So quickly did his health fail that about ten months after Mabel left home, he was no longer able to leave his bed. Day by day he grew worse until six weeks later, when he was laid to rest in Lone Mountain cemetery, and Mabel was now an orphan.
The day after the funeral Mr. Faxon, Mr. Miller’s lawyer, read the will to Mrs. Maynard.
“Why, Mr. Faxon, he could not have been in his right mind when he made such a will,” exclaimed Mrs. Maynard.
“I think he was, my dear Mrs. Maynard. Why do you doubt it?”
“Would any man in his right senses make such an absurd will as that?”
“Why, Mrs. Maynard, I do not see anything absurd in it. He has left you well cared for.”
“Well cared for? What do you mean Mr. Faxon? Has he done right by his only sister to simply give me the income of his estate? Don’t you see I can’t sell or dispose of a single thing? Do you think that is just?” she asked.
“Well, you surely would not wish to dispose of this home would you?”
“Well, no, of course not, but I don’t like to feel myself bound so strictly.”
“Then I am sure your income from the estate will be a handsome one.”
“Yes I know, as an income, but it is not pleasant to feel that I cannot sell anything if I wish to, just because my brother happened to have a crazy idea in his brain that his drowned daughter would come from the dead some day and need it. I declare, I lose all patience when I think of it.” She paced angrily up and down the room as she said this; in her heart was no feeling of sorrow for the loss of her brother, but rather one of baffled ambition at having all his wealth kept from her immediate possession.
“I do not know, Mrs. Maynard, but what if I had a daughter disappear as mysteriously as Mabel has, I should feel as Mr. Miller did.”
“Oh, nonsense! As I said before, it is an absurd idea that after all these months she should ever come back. And even if he had felt so, why couldn’t he have contented himself with putting the time at five years, instead of twenty, that the estate is to be held for her? I shall not want money then as I do now. Why, Mr. Faxon, do you realize that I shall be an old woman at the end of twenty years?”
“Not an old woman,” replied Mr. Faxon, for he was something of a diplomat and would not make so damaging an admission to any woman, much less to one of Mrs. Maynard’s disposition, as that such a thing were possible as for a lady to grow old. “Not an old women surely, Mrs. Maynard, but simply twenty years older, but you see it is then to go to Lucy and her children if she should have any. You, of course, will have your allowance.”
She made a quick dart, with her hand, toward the will which lay on the table between them. Mr. Faxon, however, saw her intention and coolly placed his hand over the papers, then, gathering them slowly up asked: “Did you wish to see that clause, Mrs. Maynard?”
“No, I remember now you did read such a condition, but it is unjust to rob me of what should rightfully be mine, just for a whim, and then, after waiting all those years, to see it slip through my fingers.”
She could no longer control her rage, but broke forth in a torrent of angry words, in the midst of which Mr. Faxon reached for his hat and bowed himself out.