Cecily Marlowe passed them by without a look
They had started forward, each with a friendly smile, expecting their new companion to meet them in similar fashion. To theiramazement, Cecily Marlowe, after the first sudden look into their faces, dropped her eyes, and passed them by without a glance, precisely as if they were utter strangers to her.
Both girls gasped, stared at her departing figure till she turned the corner, and then into each other's faces.
"The ungrateful little thing!" Marcia presently exploded. "If that wasn't the 'cut direct,' I've never seen it before!"
"An unmistakable way of telling us to mind our own business!" even Janet had to admit. "How humiliating! And yet—"
"Yet—what?" demanded Marcia, indignantly. "You're surely not going to try to excuse such inexcusable conduct asthat! I see very plainly what's happened. She's thought it over and decided that we were meddlesome and just trying topushan acquaintance with her, and she thinks she's a little too exclusive for that kind of thing, and the simple remedy was to 'cut us dead'!" Marcia was quite out of breath when she finished this summing up.
"Itdoeslook like it," Janet admitted. "But somehow, even yet, I can't feel that shewantedto do it—of her own accord, I mean."
But Marcia couldn't see it in that light. They discussed the question hotly, still standing on the front stoop of the apartment. So long, in fact, did they argue it back and forth, turning and twisting the sorry little occurrence, viewing it in every possible light, that before they realized it, Cecily was returning, her errands accomplished. How she had managed to find her way and cross the streets in safety, they could only conjecture.
To reach her own gate, she had to pass directly by where they were standing, and they saw her approaching down the block.
"Here she comes," muttered Marcia. "Now, let's stand right here and watch her as she goes by. She can'thelpbut see us. We'll give her one more chance to do the proper thing."
And so they waited, breathless, expectant, while the girl came rapidly on, her eyes cast down, watching the pavement. But evenwhen she was quite in front of them, she did not once look up, and without comment their gaze followed her retreating figure to the gate.
As she fitted the big key and swung the gate open, they were just about to turn to each other in angry impatience when something else happened.
Cecily Marlowe turned her head and looked back at them for one long, tense moment. It was such a wistful, imploring look, a gaze so full of appeal for forgiveness, so plainly in contrast with her recent conduct, that their hearts melted at once.
Simultaneously they waved their hands and smiled at her, and she smiled back in return, the most adorable little smile in the world, full of trust and confidence and utter friendliness.
Then she hurried in and closed the gate, leaving her two new friends outside more bewildered than ever.
The next day was spent by the two girls in an expedition to one of the near-by ocean beaches with Aunt Minerva. Under ordinary circumstances it was a treat that would have delighted their hearts. But, as matters stood, they only chafed with impatience to be back at their bedroom window, watching the house next door. The date for the trip, however, had been set some time before, and Aunt Minerva would have thought it very strange if they had begged off, for such flimsy reason as they could have offered.
The day after found them again on watch, though what they expected to see they couldn't have told. It was plain that, in spite of appearances, Cecily Marlowe's friendly feeling toward them was undiminished. The charming backward smile had indicatedthatunmistakably.But how to make it fit in with her refusal to signal and her forbidding conduct they could not understand, and the mystery kept them in a constant ferment of surmise.
But even as they sat discussing it next morning, their fancy-work lying unheeded in their laps, they looked out suddenly with a simultaneous gasp of astonishment and delight. There was a tiny white handkerchief attached to the shutter in the upper window and fluttering in the breeze!
"It's the signal—our signal!" cried Marcia. "Now what shall we do?—show that we've seen it by waving something? Here's my red silk scarf."
"No," decided Janet. "Perhaps she'd rather not have us do anything that might attract attention. Let's go right down to the street, as we said we would, and see if she's there."
They lost not a moment's time in reaching their front steps. But there was no sign of Cecily till they had come abreast of the Benedictgate. This they discovered ajar, and two blue eyes peeping out of a narrow crack. As they came in sight, there was a smothered exclamation, "Oh! I'm so glad!" The gate opened wider, and Cecily stood before them.
"You aresogood!" she began at once, in a low voice, stretching out both hands to them. "I was afraid you—you wouldn't come. I left the signal there almost all day yesterday—"
"We were away!" cried Marcia, promptly. "I'msosorry. We went—"
"Oh, then—oh, it's all right!" breathed Cecily, in relief. "I was sure you were angry at—at the way—I acted."
It was on the tip of Marcia's tongue to demand why shehadacted so, but she refrained. And Cecily hurried on:
"I—I just had to signal for you. I—we are in great trouble—and I don't know what to do."
"Oh, whatisit?" cried both girls together.
"Miss—Miss Benedict is very ill," she continued hesitatingly. "She—she fell and hurther ankle the other day, and—it's been getting worse ever since. She's in bed—suffering great pain both yesterday and to-day. It's terribly swelled—"
"But why doesn't she send for a doctor?" interrupted Janet, hastily. "Sheoughtto have one if it's as bad as that."
"I asked her that, too, yesterday, and she only said: 'No, no! I cannot, must not have a doctor, child!' And when I asked what I could do for her, she answered, 'I don't know, I'm sure!' So there she lies—just suffering. And—and I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I signaled to you. You are my only friends—in all this city!"
There was something infinitely pathetic about the way she brought out this last statement. It touched the hearts of both her listeners, and because of it they inwardly forgave her, once and for all, for any action of hers that had offended them. And they had the good sense not to comment on the strangeness of Miss Benedict's behavior.
"Well, if she won't have a doctor, we mustthink what else there is to be done," began Janet, practically.
"I wish you'd let me bring Aunt Minerva in to see her," said Marcia. "She hurt her ankle just like that, two years ago, and she'd know exactly what—"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, starting forward. "Miss Benedict would not want that—does not want to see any one. Please—pleasedo not evenmentionto your aunt anything about her—or me! Miss Benedict would not wish it."
The request was certainly very peculiar, but the girls were able to conceal their surprise, great as it was. "Very well," said Marcia, soothingly. "If you'd rather have it that way, we certainly won't speak of it. But I've just had another idea. I remember Aunt Minerva had a certain kind of salve that she used for her ankle, and she kept it tightly bandaged on. It did her lots of good—cured her, in fact. Now I believe I could get that salve at a drug-store here—"
"Oh,couldyou?" exclaimed Cecily, in immense relief. "Let us go at once."
"But you needn't trouble to go," said Marcia. "We won't be ten minutes and will come right back with it."
"I prefer to go," replied Cecily Marlowe, with such an air of quiet finality that neither dared to question it. All three started out, after Cecily had locked the gate, and proceeded to the nearest drug-store. Here Marcia made the purchase, and paid for it from the change in her own hand-bag. But when they were outside the store Cecily turned to her gravely:
"I have a little English money of my own, but I did not like to offer it in the shop. If you will—will tell me how much the salve cost—in shillings—I will give it to you." And she held out several English shillings to Marcia.
"Oh, you needn't do that! I'm glad to be able to think of something to do for Miss Benedict. It's such a little matter—"
"Please!" reiterated Cecily. "I wish to tell her I bought it myself."
"Why?" cried Marcia, and then the next moment wished she could recall a question that seemed to border on the personal.
"Because I—I dare not tell her I have—have been talking to you!" hesitated Cecily, in an unusual burst of candor. And after that revelation they all walked back to the gate in an uneasy silence.
When they stood again in front of the blank barrier to the mysterious house, Cecily turned to Marcia.
"I love your music," she said. "I always listen to it whenever you play. I knew you had been playing—just for me—these last few days, and I wanted to look out of my window and—and wave to you, but—I must not. I am always there when you play—listening. I wanted you to know it."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Marcia, delightedly. "Ihopedit would please you. I'll play more than ever now. I'll do all my practising there, too."
"Cecily," said Janet, abruptly, venturing on personal ground for the first time, "you are very lonely there, in that big house, with no other young folks, aren't you?"
"Yes," answered Cecily, speaking very low,and glancing in an uncertain way at the gate.
"Well, why don't you ask—er—Miss Benedict, if you couldn't run in and visit us once in a while, or go out for a walk with us sometimes? Surely she wouldn't object to that."
"Oh, no, no!" cried Cecily, hastily. "I'd—oh,howI'd love to, but—but—it wouldn't do,—it wouldn't be allowed! No, I must not." There was nothing more to be said.
"At least, then," added Marcia, "you'll let us know if you need anything else—you'll signal to us?"
"Yes," said Cecily, "I'll do that." She got out the key, and unlocked the gate. Then she faced them with a sudden, passionate sob.
"You are so wonderfully good to me! I love you—both! You're all I have to—care for!"
Then the gate was shut, and they heard her footsteps fleeing up the pathway.
That night the two girls held a council of war.
"It's perfectly plain to me," said Marcia, "that that poor little thing is right under Miss Benedict's thumb. I think the way she's treated is scandalous—not allowed to go out, or speak to, or associate with, any one! And scared out of her wits all the time, evidently. What on earth is she there for, anyhow?"
Janet scorned to reply to the old, unanswerable question. Instead she remarked:
"She's breaking her heart about it, too. I can see that. And, Marcia, wasn't it strange—what she said just at the last—that she loved us, and that we were all she had to care for! Wherecanall her relatives and family be? Miss Benedict certainly can't be a relative, for Cecily calls her 'Miss.' To think of that lovelylittle thing without a soul to care for her—except ourselves. Why, Marcia, it's—it's amazing! But the main question now is what are we going to do about it? Wemusthelp her somehow!"
"I know whatI'mgoing to do about it," replied Marcia, decisively. "I'm going to tell Aunt Minerva about it, and see if she can't—"
"Wait a minute," Janet reminded her. "You forget that Cecily fairly begged us not to mention anything about her to any one."
"That's so," said Marcia, looking blank. "Whatarewe going to do then?"
"There's only one thing I can think of," answered Janet, slowly. "Miss Benedict may forbid Cecily to meet or speak tous, but she can't forbid us meeting and speaking to Cecily, can she? So why can't we just watch for Cecily to come out, and then go and join her? She can't stop us—she can't help herself; and between you and me, I think she'll be only too delighted!"
"Good enough!" laughed Marcia. "But what an ogre that Miss Benedict must be!I'm horribly disappointed about her. After I heard her speak that time I was sure she must be lovely. It doesn't seem possible that any one with such a wonderful, sympathetic voice could be so—so downright hateful to a dear little thing like Cecily."
"I must say it seems just horrid!" cried Janet, vehemently.
That night, after darkness had fallen, the two girls, settling themselves without a light at their open window, heard, as Marcia had once before described, the sound of running feet in the garden beyond the wall. This time there was no doubt in their minds about it. It was certainly Cecily, taking a little exercise, probably on the deserted path.
"I wonder why sheruns," marveled Marcia. "Ishouldn't feel like running around there all by myself."
"I think I can understand, though," added Janet. "She's cooped up all day in that dreary old place, and probably has to keep awfully quiet. I'd go crazy if I were shut in like that. I'd feel like—like jumping hurdleswhen I got out of doors. And she's a country girl, too, remember. Get your violin, Marcia, and play something. I know it will comfort her to know we're near by and thinking of her."
So Marcia brought her violin, and out into the darkness of the night floated the dreamy, tender melody of the "Träumerei." The romance of the situation appealed to her, and she played it as she never had before.
At the first notes the running footsteps ceased, and there was silence in the garden. When the music ended, they thought they could distinguish a soft little sound, half sigh, half sob, from the velvet blackness below; but they could not be sure. And a little later came the click of a closing door.
Marcia put down her violin. "The lonely, lonely little thing!" she exclaimed, half under her breath.
For two days thereafter they maintained a constant, but fruitless, vigil over "Benedict's Folly." Cecily did not appear, either at herwindow or on a marketing expedition. Neither was there any sound of her footsteps in the garden at night.
The girls began to worry. Could it be that Miss Benedict had discovered the truth about the remedy for her sprained ankle and had, perhaps, shut Cecily up in close confinement, or even sent her away altogether? They were by this time at a loss as to just what to think of that mysterious lady.
On the third afternoon, however, to their intense relief, they saw Cecily emerge from the house and walk toward the gate, with the market-basket on her arm. It took them just about a minute and a half to reach the street.
Cecily came abreast of their own door-step in due time, her eyes cast down as usual; but they were waiting in the vestibule, and she did not see them.
She was well in advance, but still in sight, when they came down the steps and strolled in the same direction. It was not till they had turned the corner that they raced after her, and at last, breathless, caught up with her.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a little start; "I—I did not expect to see you to-day. I—you mustn't come with me!" In spite of her words, however, it was evident that she was really delighted by their unexpected appearance.
"Look here, Cecily," began Marcia, "why can't we join you when you go to market or are doing your errands?"
"Oh, that would be lovely!" answered Cecily—"only Miss Benedict usually asks me when I come in whether I have met or spoken to any one, and—I can't tell what isn't true!"
Here was a poser! The girls looked crestfallen.
"No—you can't, of course," hesitated Janet.
"And besides that," went on Cecily, "this is the last time I shall go, anyhow, because she's very much better now,—the salve helped her ankle very much,—and she says she's going out herself after this. I don't expect to get out again."
There was a moment of horrified silence afterthis blow. Then Janet, no longer able to endure the bewilderment, burst out:
"Cecily dear, please forgive us if we seem to be prying into your affairs. It's only because we think so much of you. But whoisMiss Benedict, and what is she to you?"
"I don't know!" said Cecily slowly.
"Youdon't know!" they gasped in chorus.
"No, I really don't. It must seem very strange to you, and it does to me. Miss Benedict is a perfect stranger to me, and no relation, so far as I know. I never saw or heard of her before I came here."
"But whyareyou here then?" demanded Marcia.
"I—don't know. It's all a mystery to me. But I'm so lonely I've cried myself to sleep many a night."
"Won't you tell us all about it?" begged Marcia. "We're your friends, Cecily,—you say the only ones you have,—and we don't ask just out of curiosity, but because we're interested in you, and—and love you."
"Well, I will then," agreed the girl, as theywalked along. "I'll just tell you how it all happened. Ever since I can remember anything, I've lived in Cranby, a little village in England. Mother and I lived there together. We never went anywhere, not even up to London, because she was never very strong. Father was dead; he died when I was a tiny baby, she told me. We just had a happy, quiet life together, we two.
"Well, about the beginning of this year, Mother was suddenly taken very, very ill. I don't know what was the matter, but I hardly had time to call in a neighbor and then bring the doctor." Cecily paused and choked down a rising sob.
"She—she just slipped away before we knew it," she went on, very low. Marcia pressed her hand in wordless sympathy. Presently Cecily continued:
"Afterward, the neighbor, Mrs. Waddington, told me that while I was fetching the doctor Mother had begged her to see that, if she didn't recover, I should be taken over to New York, and left with a family named Benedict,and she had Mrs. Waddington write down the address. But just then Mother grew so much worse that she couldn't explain why I was to be taken there, or what they were to me or I to them. After it was all over we searched everywhere, hoping to find some papers or letters or something that would tell, but we found nothing. So Mrs. Waddington kept me with her for two or three months. Then a friend of hers, a Mrs. Bidwell, was going to the States, and it was arranged that I should go in her care. About two weeks before we sailed Mrs. Bidwell wrote to the Benedict family, saying she was bringing me to New York.
"So we sailed from Liverpool, and the very day we landed, Mrs. Bidwell brought me here. We rang the old bell at the gate, and then waited and waited. I thought no one would ever come. But at last the gate opened, and Miss Benedict stood there in her hat and veil.
"She acted very strangely from the first. Mrs. Bidwell told her all about me, and she never said a single word, but only shook herhead several times. I thought she was certainly going to refuse to take me in, her manner was so odd. After she had stood thinking a long time she suddenly said to me, 'Come, then!' and to Mrs. Bidwell, 'I thank you!' And she led me inside, followed by the driver with my box, and shut the gate." Cecily stopped short, as if that were the end of the story.
"Oh, but—go on!" stammered Marcia, quivering with impatience.
"But I must do my marketing now," said Cecily. "Here we are at the shop. I'll tell you the rest when we come out."
"How long have you been in New York?" began Janet, when at last they emerged from the little shop.
"About two months," said Cecily. "And I've lived in that place all this time, and have not known why. Miss Benedict has never explained. She acts toward me as if I were a lodger, or—or some one she allowed to stay there for reasons of her own, but didn't particularly want to have about. She's kind to me, but never—friendly. Sometimes she looks at me in the strangest way—I can't imagine what she's thinking about. But why does she live like this?" and she turned inquiring eyes on the girls.
"I'm surewedon't know!" exclaimed Marcia. "We only wonder about it. The house seems to be all shut up."
"Why, itis!" Cecily enlightened them. "And it makes it so dark and gloomy! There is lovely furniture in the drawing-room, but it is all covered over with some brown stuff—even the pictures. And most of the other rooms are not used at all—nothing on the ground floor. I eat down in the basement, and my bedroom is on the top floor—where I looked out that time. I have never been in any of the other bedrooms except Miss Benedict's, when her ankle was bad."
"But what do you do with yourself all day?" asked Janet.
"I keep my room in order, and help Miss Benedict whenever she lets me. Of course, she prepares all the food herself, but in such a pretty, dainty way. But there are a good many hours when the time hangs so heavy on my hands. Sometimes she lets me dust the rooms on the ground floor. She keeps everything very, very neat, even if it is all covered up and never used. The rest of the time I sit in my room and read the few books I brought with me, and tell myself long stories,or listen to your music. I dare not now even peep through the shutters. Once I opened them, when you were playing, but Miss Benedict came in just then and forbade me to do it again."
"Doesn't she ever let you go out and take a walk or get a little exercise?" questioned Marcia.
"No, the only times I have gone out have been just lately, when her ankle has been so bad. At night, after it is dark, she lets me run about the garden a bit, but never in the daytime."
"But how did she find out about your knowingus?" broke in Janet.
"Why, of course I told her—that first time after you were so good to me—all about meeting you, and how lovely you were to me. I thought she'd be so glad I'd found such nice friends. But she looked so queer—almost frightened, and she said: 'You must not speak to them again. It was kind of them to help you, but you must not encourage them in any way. Remember, child!' And I was onlytrying to obey her when I passed you without looking up the second time I went out."
"Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly, "what does Miss Benedict look like, anyhow? Do you ever see her without that veil? Isn't she very old and plain?"
"Why, no," answered Cecily, simply. "She's very beautiful."
"What!" they gasped in chorus.
"Yes, I was surprised too, that day I came. After the driver had brought my box into the hall (she wouldn't let him take it any farther), and she had shut the door behind him and we were left alone, she seemed to—to hesitate, but at last she raised her hands and took off her bonnet and veil. I don't know what I expected, but I was surprised to see such a lovely face. Her hair is gray, almost white, and so soft and wavy. And yet she has rosy cheeks, and white teeth, and the most beautiful big gray eyes. And her voice is very sweet, too. Do you know, I believe if she'd onlyletme, I could just love her, but she holds me off as ifshe were somehowafraidof me. It's all very strange."
The girls were completely nonplussed by this latest bit of information, and found it hard to couple Cecily's attractive picture with the little black-robed and veiled figure that they knew as Miss Benedict. The voice alone tallied, and Marcia recounted how she had once met Miss Benedict in the little grocery-shop. Suddenly, however, she was struck by a new thought, and demanded:
"But how about the other one?"
Cecily opened her eyes wide. "Other one?" she queried. "Oh, you mean the other person in the house?"
"Why, yes," said Marcia. "The other old lady who sits in the room on the second floor."
"Oh,isit an old lady?" inquired Cecily, in surprise.
"Why, of course! Didn't you know it?" exclaimed Marcia.
"I knew there wassomeone in there—some invalid. For Miss Benedict has always warned me to be very quiet in going by thatdoor, because some one was ill in there. But she never told me who it was, nor anything more about her. She always waits on her herself. Even when her ankle was hurting her so, she would drag herself out of bed many times a day to go into that room. But tell me, how didyouknow there was an old lady in there?"
Then Marcia recounted what she had seen on the night the wind tore open the shutter. "How strange this all is," she ended, "that Miss Benedict should never tell you who this person is! Why do you suppose she is keeping it a secret?"
As this was a problem none of them could solve, they could only conjecture vainly about it as they walked along. But by this time they had approached within a block of the house itself, and before they turned the corner once more they all unconsciously halted.
"Cecily," said Marcia, suddenly inspired with a bright idea. "I have the grandest scheme! If Miss Benedict is going to do the marketing after this, perhaps we won't see you again for some time. But I've a plan bywhich we canhearfrom each other as often as we like. You take a walk in the garden every night, don't you?"
"No, not always," answered Cecily. "Miss Benedict allows me to, but often I don't care to. It's so dark and—and lonesome."
"Well, after this, be sure to go out every night. Our window, you know, is directly over the garden wall, only three stories up. I'm going to have a long string with a weight attached to it, and fasten it in the window. Every night, after dark, we'll write a note to you, fasten it to the string, and drop it down into the garden among the bushes. You can find it in the dark by feeling for the string, and if you have one written to us, you can fasten it on, and we'll pull it up. Isn't that a dandy idea?"
Cecily's eyes sparkled for a moment, but suddenly her face clouded. "Oh, it—it would be glorious!" she murmured. "Only—I must not. Even if Miss Benedict doesn't know about it, I know she would forbid it if she did. So—it would be wrong for me to do it!"
"Oh, Cecily! why should you care?" cried Marcia, impatiently, "And why should she object to three girls sending little notes to one another? It would be cruel to forbid that. It isn't really wrong, you know."
"But she isn't cruel to me," Cecily interrupted. "You mustn't think that. She—well, somehow, I feel shewouldbe nice to me, only something is holding her back. She isn't a bit cruel. I sometimes feel as if I could care for her in spite of everything. So I don't want to go against her wishes."
"Well, then," began Janet, "here's a way out of it. We will write toyouanyway. Miss Benedict can't forbid us to do that, and you needn't answer at all—needn't even read them, if you don't want to. But we'll write, nevertheless, and you can't prevent it!"
When Cecily smiled, her face lit up as if touched by a shaft of sunlight. And she smiled now.
"I don't believe Ioughtto read them," she said; "but, oh! it would keep me from being so very lonely. But I must be going backnow. I've been longer than usual. Good-by!"
Cecily was still smiling as she turned away, while Janet and Marcia stood looking after her, waving farewell to her as she rounded the corner.
It was past midnight, that night, before the two girls could settle themselves for a wink of sleep. So bewildering had been Cecily's revelations about herself and Miss Benedict and the conditions in the mysterious house, that they found inexhaustible food for discussion and conjecture.
The most interesting question, of course, was the absorbing mystery of how Cecily came to be there at all.
"Why should her mother have sent her there?" demanded Marcia, for the twentieth time.
"Perhaps she was a relative," ventured Janet.
"That's perfect nonsense," argued Marcia, "for then Miss Benedict would surely have acted quite differently. If she had been the most distant connection, Miss Benedict wouldsurely have told her. No, I should say she might be the child of a friend that Miss Benedict never cared particularly about, and yet she doesn't quite like to send her away. Isn't it a puzzle? But whatdoyou think of Miss Benedict beingbeautiful! I can't imagine it!"
"And then, too, think of Cecily's not knowing there was another old lady in the house!" added Janet.
"What a darling Cecily is!" exclaimed Marcia, irrelevantly. "If Miss Benedict knew how sweet and loyal and obedient Cecily is, she'd be a little less strict with her, I'm sure. I suppose she doesn't want her to gossip about what goes on in that queer house. And, by the way, we must get our string in working order to-morrow. Let's send her other things beside notes, too—things she'd enjoy."
And until they fell asleep they planned the campaign for lightening the lonely hours of the girl next door.
"They heard Cecily's light footsteps"
Next day they jointly wrote a long letter,—telling all about themselves, their homes, theirschools, their studies, and any other items they thought might interest her,—fastened it to the end of the string, and dropped it into the dark garden after nightfall. Later they heard Cecily's light footsteps in the gloom below, and when they pulled up the string just before they went to bed, the note was gone.
"Well, she's evidently decided that it would be all right for her to take it," said Janet; "and I'm relieved, even if she doesn't answer. I can see why she mightn't think it right to dothat. And now we must plan to send her something besides, every once in a while. I should think she'd just die of lonesomeness in that old place, and with hardly a thing to do, either!"
That night they sent her down a little box of fudge that they had made in the afternoon, and the next night a book that had captivated them both. And when they pulled up the string the evening after, there was the book again, and in it a tiny note, which ran:
Dear Girls: You are too, too good to me. I ought not to be writing this. It is wrong, I fear,but I just cannot sleep until I have thanked you for the sweets, and this beautiful book. I read it all, to-day. You are making me very happy. I love you both.
Dear Girls: You are too, too good to me. I ought not to be writing this. It is wrong, I fear,but I just cannot sleep until I have thanked you for the sweets, and this beautiful book. I read it all, to-day. You are making me very happy. I love you both.
Cecily.
Meantime, they had seen Miss Benedict go in and out once or twice, limping slightly, and had watched her veiled figure with absorbed interest.
"Who could possibly imagine her as beautiful!" they marveled. And truly, it was an effort of imagination to connect beauty with the queer, oddly arrayed little figure.
Also, at various times during each day, Marcia made a point of giving a little violin concert at her window, and, at Janet's suggestion, had chosen the liveliest and most cheerful music in her repertoire for sad little Cecily's entertainment.
The two girls likewise exhausted every possibility in the line of small gifts and tiny trifles to amuse and entertain their young neighbor. But there was no further communication from her till one night after they had sent down anembroidery ring and silks, the latest pattern of a dainty boudoir-cap, and elaborate instructions how to embroider it. Next night there was a note on the end of the string when they drew it up. It read:
How dear of you to send me this! Iloveto embroider, and had brought no materials with me. And now I want to ask you a question. Do you mind what I do with it after it is finished? Is it my very own? What can I ever do to repay you for all your kindness!
How dear of you to send me this! Iloveto embroider, and had brought no materials with me. And now I want to ask you a question. Do you mind what I do with it after it is finished? Is it my very own? What can I ever do to repay you for all your kindness!
In their answer they assured her that she could make any use of the boudoir-cap that pleased her. And then they spent much time wondering what use shewasgoing to make of it.
Two nights later, when they pulled up the string, they found, to their surprise, a small parcel attached to the end. It contained a little box in which lay, wrapped in jeweler's cotton, a tiny coral pendant in an old-fashioned gold setting, and a silver bracelet of thin filigree-work. The pendant was labeled, "For Marcia, with Cecily's love," and the bracelet, "For Janet, with love from Cecily."
The two girls gazed at the pathetic little gifts and sudden tears came into their eyes.
"Oh, Jan!" half sobbed Marcia; "we oughtn't to keep them! They're probably the only trinkets she has."
But Janet was wiser. "We must keep them," she decided. "Cecily doesn't want all the giving to be on one side, and she has probably been longing to do something for us. I suppose these are the only things she had that would be suitable. Much as I hate to have her deprive herself of them, I know she'd be terribly hurt if we sent them back. To-morrow we must write her the best letter of thanks we can."
So the days went by for two or three weeks. The girls caught, in all this time, not so much as one glimpse of Cecily, but they managed, thanks to their "line of communication," to keep constantly in touch with her. Meantime, the summer weather waxed hotter and hotter, and the city fairly steamed under the July sun. Their own time was taken up by many diversions: trips to the parks, beaches, and zoo;excursions out of town with Aunt Minerva; shopping, and quiet sewing or reading in their pleasant living-room. Every time they went out of their home on a pleasure-jaunt, they felt guilty, to think of the lonely little prisoner cooped up in the dreary house next door, and both declared they would gladly give up their places to her, had such a thing been possible.
Then, one night, something unusual occurred. They had sent down the usual note, and also a little work-basket of Indian-woven sweet-grass, the souvenir of a recent trip to the seaside. To their astonishment, when they drew up the string, both note and basket were still attached. This was the first time such a thing had happened.
"Whatcanbe the matter?" queried Marcia. "Can it be possible that Cecily feels she mustn't do this any more?"
"Ididn't hear any footsteps down there to-night, did you?" said Janet.
"No, come to think of it, I didn't. She must have stayed indoors for the first time sincewe began this. But what do you suppose is the reason?"
Janet suddenly clutched her friend. "Marcia, can it be possible that Miss Benedict has discovered what we've been doing, and won't let her come out any more?"
"I believe that's it!" Marcia's voice was sharp with consternation. "Wouldn't it be dreadful, if it's so?" They sat gloomily thinking it over.
"Well, what are we going to do about it?" demanded Marcia.
"Wait till to-morrow night and try again," counseled Janet. "It's just possible Cecily had a headache or felt sick from this abominable heat and couldn't come down. Let's see what happens to-morrow."
The next night they tied the basket and another note to the string and dropped it down hopefully. But they drew it up untouched, precisely the same as before.
"It's just one of two things," decided Marcia. "Either Cecily is ill or Miss Benedict has found out about our little plan and forbiddenCecily to go on with it. What are we to do? Keep on sending notes, or stop it? Suppose Miss Benedict herself should find one sometime."
"I don't care!" cried Janet, decisively. "If Cecily is ill, she'll get better pretty soon and come out some night, and there'll be nothing for her. She'd be dreadfully disappointed. I don't care if thereisthe possibility that Miss Benedict knows all about it. I'm going to keep right on writing and take the chance!"
For a whole week they followed their usual program, nightly sending down a fresh note that they always later drew up, unclaimed. And as the days passed they became more and more alarmed. Something had certainly happened to Cecily. Of that they were sure, and their misgivings grew more keen with the passing time.
"Can it be that she isn't there any more?" conjectured Marcia, suddenly, one day. "Perhaps Miss Benedict has sent her away!"
This was a new and startling possibility. The more they contemplated it, the moredepressed they grew. If that were the case, then, they might never see Cecily again, and the delightful and curious friendship would be ended forever.
Their usual good spirits were quite subdued, and even their hearty appetites suffered somewhat, which worried Aunt Minerva not a little, though she attributed it to the heat. Finally, one night, precisely one week after the first unclaimed communication, they sent down the usual letter, begging Cecily, if possible, to let them know what was the matter. It seemed to both, during the interval they left it there, that they heard light, almost stealthy footsteps in the garden below. But neither felt certain about it. An hour later they drew up the string. Their own note was still attached to it at the bottom, but just above it they saw fastened a little scrap of paper, no bigger than a quarter of an ordinary note-sheet. Both girls started with delight.
"Quick!" cried Marcia. "Cecily has answered at last! Oh, I'm so glad!"
Janet unfastened it, her fingers tremblingwith excitement, and spread it out on the table.
It was not in Cecily's handwriting, and contained but a few words. Both girls read it at a glance, and then stared into each other's eyes, half terror-stricken, half amazed. For this is what it said:
Will you please come to the gate to-morrow morning at half-past nine?
Will you please come to the gate to-morrow morning at half-past nine?
A. Benedict.
"Whatcanit mean?" muttered Janet. "What does she want of us?"
"Why, it's perfectly plain," declared Marcia. "She has discovered that we have been trying to correspond with Cecily, and she's going to demand an explanation—probably warn us that we must stop it. Are you—afraid to go, Janet?"
"Not I! Why should I be? Miss Benedict can't do or say a thing to harmus! But Iamanxious for poor little Cecily. I just hate to think we may have brought trouble on her."
"Oh, I wish now we'd never suggested such a thing!" moaned Marcia. "We've just succeeded in making that poor little thing miserable, I suppose."
"Well, we can only remember that wemeantto make her happy, and wedid—for a while, at least," comforted Janet. "And what's more, I'm not going to worry about it another bit to-night. Maybe it's something entirely different, anyway."
Marcia, however, could not bring herself to this cheerful view of things. All night long she tossed beside the sleeping Janet, wondering and wondering about what the coming interview might mean, and blaming herself a thousand times for placing Cecily in the position of having deceived her guardian. When morning came she was pale and heavy-eyed, which alarmed her aunt not a little.
"You ought not go out this morning, Marcia," remarked Miss Minerva, anxiously. "The sun is very hot, and you look as if you had a headache."
"Oh, no, I haven't, Aunty!" cried Marcia, eagerly, fearful of a hitch in their plans. "I didn't sleep very well, but a walk in the fresh air will do me good, I know." And so Miss Minerva saw them go, without further protest.
They both halted at the gate in the brick wall and looked into each other's eyes. The hot morning sun beat down upon them as they stood there, and passers-by eyed them curiously. Each was perfectly certain that the thumping of her heart could be heard. And still they stood, hesitating.
"You're afraid!" accused Janet.
"I'm—not!" protested Marcia. "And I'll prove it!" She raised her hand suddenly—and pulled the rusty bell-handle.
It seemed a long, long time before there was any response. But at last they heard the click of the opening front door and the sound of footsteps on the path. This was followed by the creaking of a key turning in the lock of the gate. Janet gripped Marcia by the hand, and with pounding hearts they stood together, while the gate slowly opened. In another instant, the veiled, black-gowned figure of Miss Benedict stood before them. She waited a moment, silent, appearing to look them over critically.
"Come in, if you please!" she said at last,very softly, and held the gate open for them. They entered obediently, and she shut the gate. It was not until they were inside the house, standing in the dim hall with the front door closed behind them, that another word was spoken. Then Miss Benedict faced them again, but she did not remove her bonnet or throw back her veil.
"I have asked you to come here this morning," she began, "because I understand that you have become acquainted with the child Cecily Marlowe."
Cold chills ran up and down their spines. It had come at last! "Yes," faltered Janet, "we—wehavebecome acquainted with her." It was not a brilliant reply, but, for the life of her, she could think of nothing else to say. They waited, shuddering, for what might be coming next.
"So she has told me," went on Miss Benedict. "I also understand that lately you have been dropping notes to her into the garden—at night."
Janet noticed, even in the midst of hertrepidation, how wonderfully sweet and soft and harmonious the voice was.
"Yes," replied Marcia, very low, "we have." The worst was out—now let the blow fall! They braced themselves to receive it.
"Cecily is ill!" said Miss Benedict, abruptly.
They each uttered a startled little "Oh!"
"She has not been at all well for over a week," the lovely voice continued. "I am very much worried about her."
Janet and Marcia glanced into each other's eyes in astonishment. Cecily ill—and Miss Benedict actuallycaringabout it! Here were surprises indeed!
"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious!" exclaimed Marcia, anxiously.
"I hope it is not—and Ithinkit is probably only the hot weather and—and want of exercise." Miss Benedict hesitated a little over the last. "She has been so—poorly, and has—has evidently been so anxious to—to see you, that I thought I would—surprise her by asking you to come and—visit her a while." Itwas plainly a struggle for Miss Benedict to make this seem the natural, normal thing to do. "Will you—come up to her room?"
The girls were almost too stunned at the turn events had taken to reply. "Why—we'd be glad to," faltered Marcia, at last.
"Then, if you will follow me—" Miss Benedict led the way, through the dark halls and up three pairs of stairs. At the door of a room on the fourth floor she paused, knocked, and then entered. They followed, dimly perceiving a little form in the bed, for the shutters, of course, were closed. As they entered after Miss Benedict Cecily sprang to a sitting posture, with a cry of mingled wonder, consternation, and joy. She, too, glanced uncertainly at Miss Benedict.
"I have asked your friends to come and—and see you for a while," she explained hesitatingly to the bewildered child. "Perhaps it will make you—feel better." Then she turned abruptly and went out of the room, closing the door after her.
For a moment they stared at one another.
"Cecily!" cried Janet, at length, "whatdoesthis all mean, anyway?"
"I never dreamed of such a thing as seeing you—here!" faltered the invalid.
"What made her do it?" demanded Marcia. "We found a note from her tied to our string. How did she know about it?"
Cecily seemed to shrink back at this piece of news. "I told her, myself," she said. "I was very sick one night—I think I had a fever. My head was so hot and ached so. And she was—oh! so good to me! I could hardly believe it! She bathed my head, and sat by me, and put her cool hands on my forehead. It really seemed as if she—cared! And I felt so ashamed to think I'd—disobeyed her that I just told her right out all about it—how lonely I'd been, and how good you were to me, and how I'd enjoyed hearing from you."
"And what did she say?" breathed Marcia, in an awe-struck whisper.
"Not a word except, 'Never mind now, little girl!' And she never said a thing moreabout it. I didn't dream that she'd ever do such a thing assendfor you to come and see me!"
They marveled over it all a moment in silence. Then Marcia burst out: "Oh, Cecily, we've beensoworried about you! We couldn't think why you didn't even take the letters any more. Have you been very ill?"
"Why, I don't know—I just feel horrid most of the time. My head aches a lot, and every once in a while I'm awfully cold, and then I seem to be burning up—"
"Why, I believe you must have malaria!" interrupted Marcia. "That's what Aunt Minerva has sometimes. You ought to go out more, and have fresh air and—sunshine—" She stopped suddenly, remembering the conditions. "But anyway, it isn't serious," she hurried on, after an embarrassed pause. "And you ought to have some quinine. I wonder if Miss Benedict would let us get it for you. I'll ask her, later." Then they hurried on to tell her how they had continued tosend down a note every night, hoping that she would get it, and how they had feared that she might have gone away.
And Cecily, in return, told them how she had enjoyed the notes and gifts, but how guilty she had always felt about receiving them, especially when she had answered them.
"And I finished embroidering the boudoir-cap," she ended, "and—and I gave it to Miss Benedict."
"Youdid?" they both gasped.
"Oh, Ihopeyou don't mind!" exclaimed Cecily, hastily; "but—but I felt as if I wanted todosomething for her. She—I—I think I'm getting to like her—more and more."
"What did she say?" asked Marcia. "Was she pleased? I can't imagine her wearing such a thing."
"She looked at it and then at me—very strangely for a minute. Then she said: 'Thank you, child. I—I never wear such things, but I'll keep it—for your sake!'"
"Isn't that queer!" exclaimed Janet. "You thought she cared nothing about you!"
"Yes," agreed Cecily; "but lately—I'm not so sure."
In the pause that followed, the girls glanced curiously about the darkened room, trying to realize that they were actually inside the mysterious house at last. It was a large, square room, furnished with heavy chairs and an old-fashioned bureau and bed. Every shutter was fastened and the slats tightly closed. Only the dimmest daylight filtered in. The effect was gloomy and depressing to the last degree. They wondered how Cecily had stood it so long.