"I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open these shutters," cried Janet, suddenly
"I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open these shutters," cried Janet, suddenly. "I should think you'd die of this gloom. It's really bad for you, Cecily!"
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Cecily, in consternation. "I asked her once, when I first came, and she didn't like it at all! She said no, she preferred to have them shut, and I must not touch them."
"I don't care!" went on Janet, ruthlessly. "You weren't sick then. I'm sure she'd let you now!" And, true to her word, she turnedto Miss Benedict, who entered at this moment, still bonneted and veiled.
"I believe Cecily has malaria, Miss Benedict," she began bravely, but with inward trepidation.
"Oh, do you think so? Is it serious?" The melodious voice sounded startled and concerned.
"I don't think it's so serious," Janet continued, "but she'd probably get over it quicker if she had a lot of fresh air and sunshine. Couldn't she have the shutters open? It would do her lots of good."
Cecily and Marcia trembled at Janet's temerity and watched Miss Benedict with bated breath. But instead of being annoyed, she only seemed surprised and relieved.
"Why, do you think so?" she queried. "Then—surely they may be opened. I—I do not like the—the glare of so much daylight myself, but Cecily may have it here, if she chooses." And following up her words, she pushed open one of the shutters. A broad shaft of sunlight streamed in, and, blinkingfrom the previous gloom, Janet and Marcia threw open the others.
Cecily gave a delighted cry, "Oh, how lovely it is to see the sun again!" But Miss Benedict, with an abrupt exclamation, retreated hastily from the room.
The girls stayed a few moments more, chatting. Then they wisely suggested that perhaps they had better go, and not tire Cecily by too long a call. Hearing Miss Benedict's footstep in the hall below, they took their leave, promising to come again, as soon as it seemed best. On the landing of the stairway they found the black-veiled figure apparently waiting for them.
Now, during all the strange little interview, a curious impression had been growing upon Janet, strengthened by every word Miss Benedict had uttered—an impression that here was no grim, forbidding jailor, such as they had imagined the mistress of "Benedict's Folly" to be. Instead, they had encountered a gentle, almost winning, little person, worried about the illness of the child in her care and plainlyanxious to do everything suggested to make her more comfortable. Janet suddenly resolved on a bold move.
"Cecily is so lonely," she began, turning to Miss Benedict. "Don't you think it would do her lots of good to come in and visit us once in a while? Marcia's aunt would be so glad to see her. As soon as she is a little better, can't she—"
"No," interrupted Miss Benedict, her little figure suddenly stiffening and a determined note creeping into her soft voice. "I am sorry. Cecily cannot make visits. It is out of the question!"
It was like striking a hidden rock in a smooth, beautiful sheet of water. And her words admitted of no argument. Janet and Marcia followed her meekly and in silence down to the front door. Here, in an uncertain pause, Marcia made one further suggestion.
"May we bring Cecily some quinine?" she ventured. "If she has malaria, she ought to have that. We have lots of it at home."
"It would be very kind of you," replied Miss Benedict, in an entirely different tone. "Come to-morrow and see her again—if your aunt will permit it. Perhaps it would be well to explain to her—" and here her manner became confused—"that—I—er—do not make calls or—or receive them, but this is just—just for the sake of the child." It was plain to the girls that this admission was wrung from her only by a great effort. She opened the front door and followed them to the gate. When she had unlocked it, Marcia turned to her impulsively.
"Thank yousomuch for letting us come! We are very, very fond of Cecily. She is such a dear, and we've been terribly worried about her. As a relative, I'm afraid you have been still more anxious."
The black figure started. "She is no relative of mine!" came abruptly from behind the veil.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, I should say—friend," stuttered Marcia, embarrassed, "or—or the daughter of a friend, perhaps."
"She is not," Miss Benedict contradicted, in a strange, flat tone, as if repeating a lesson. "I do not know who she is—nor why she is here!"
Aunt Minerva took off her silver-rimmed spectacles, wiped them excitedly, and put them on again.
"And she said she didn't know who the child was or why she was there? Well—I—never!" she exclaimed, adjusting them all awry.
Marcia had decided to tell her aunt all about it. And Janet had agreed with her that since Miss Benedict had spoken as she did, there could be no further occasion for secrecy. So that night they gave her an entire history of the affair, and found her a willing listener, interested and sympathetic beyond their wildest expectations.
"Why, Aunty, I didn't suppose you'd care much about it!" exclaimed Marcia, in surprise."And here you are, nearly as excited over it as we've been."
"Why, who would not be?" said Miss Minerva. "It's precisely like a mystery in a book. I wasn't interested in the old place at first, because I was too busy and it seemed as if the people living there were such slack housekeepers. I haven't any sympathy withthat. But what could she mean by that last remark? Not know who the child is—or why she's there! It's absurd! I can't believe it!"
"Well, that's what shesaid!" asserted Marcia, again. "And if any one ever heard of a bigger mystery, I'd like to know about it!"
Miss Minerva took up her mending again. "Then I don't see why she keeps the girl," she commented.
"She keeps her,Ithink, because she's getting sort of fond of her," reasoned Janet. "You can easily see that. Cecily said she was very good to her the night she was so ill. And then, too, it must have been a hard pull for her to go so far as to send forusto come in just because it might please Cecily."
"We must see that the child has the quinine, and it wouldn't hurt her to have a glass or two of currant jelly. Don't forget them when you go in to-morrow," Miss Minerva reminded them. "I'd like to have her here and nurse her myself and feed her up a bit. And that's another strange thing—why should that woman" (Miss Minerva invariably alluded to Miss Benedict as "that woman") "allow you to go in and visit the child, yet forbid her to visit you?"
"Don't ask us why," laughed Marcia. "We're as much in the dark as any one else. WhatIwant to know is why did Miss Benedict allow Cecily to open her shutters to-day when she refused her a while ago. And why doesn't she open them over all the rest of the house?"
"Well, whatIwant to know," added Janet, "is why Cecily's mother should have sent her over here to the Benedicts' at all, when nobody knew her or claimed her. Whatever made her think of such a thing?"
"There are several explanations that mightsuit such a case," mused Miss Minerva. "Mrs. Marlowe might have been a married sister, or some more distant relative, who—"
"Then wouldn't Miss Benedict know about it—or at leastsuspectsome such connection?" interrupted Marcia.
"That's true," acknowledged her aunt. "Theremustbe some other explanation.Whata puzzle!"
"What's more," added Janet, "I remember that Cecily told us this: when she first came, Miss Benedict questioned her all about herself—where she came from, and all that. And after Cecily had told her she never said a word, but just walked away, shaking her head."
Miss Minerva's mind suddenly took a new turn. "Didn't you say the child sent you a couple of gifts—little trinkets—not long ago? I'd like to see them."
"We've never worn them," said Marcia. "It just seemed as if we couldn't—she ought not to have given them away. And yet—I know just how she felt—she wanted to dosomething! I'll get them." She brought the box and laid it in her aunt's lap.
Miss Minerva examined the coral pendant first. "The dear little thing!" she murmured. "She must think a lot of you to have parted with this!" Then she laid it down and took up the bracelet. "Gracious!" she exclaimed immediately, letting it fall and then picking it up again. "Am I going crazy, or are my eyes deceiving me?" She turned it over and over.
"What's the matter?" cried both girls at once.
"Matter?" cried Miss Minerva. "Why, just this: that bracelet is exactly like one I've had put away for years!" The girls stared at her incredulously. "I'll get it this minute and prove it!" And she hurried out of the room.
While she was gone they examined the bracelet more closely than they had yet done. It consisted of two thin rims of silver, joined by silver filigree-work, a quarter of an inch wide. Here and there, at intervals in thefiligree, and forming part of the pattern, were several strange characters, looking, as Marcia declared, like those on the receipt from a Chinese laundry. The workmanship was unusually delicate and beautiful.
In five minutes Miss Minerva was back, flushed and disheveled, from a hunt through several bureau-drawers and boxes.
"I couldn't find it at first," she panted. "In Northam I used to be able to lay my hand on anything I wanted, at an instant's notice, but in this apartment!" She heaved a resigned sigh and laid something beside the bracelet on the table.
It was the exact duplicate—in every last detail! Even the complicated characters were identical! The three stared at the trinkets in an expressive silence. Not for a moment could it be doubted that these two bracelets were once a pair. They were so unusual that it was impossible there could be others like them. This astonishing fact was patent to them all.
"Aunt Minerva, wheredidyou get yours?" breathed Marcia, at last.
"Why, that's easily explained," answered Miss Brett. "Your father brought it to me about ten or twelve years ago, after one of his voyages. He said that a Chinese sailor in Hong-Kong had offered to sell it to him for a small sum, and seeing it was a rather unique little trinket, he bought it and brought it home to me. I never wear such things, however. Jewelry never did appeal to me, and bracelets, particularly, always seemed a nuisance. So I put it away intending to give it to you some day, Marcia. And after a while I actually forgot all about it—till to-night!"
Janet sat up very straight. "There's just one thing I'd give my head to know—this minute!Wheredid Cecily getherbracelet?"
"Well, that you can easily find out—but I'm afraid you'll have to wait till to-morrow morning!" laughed Marcia.
"There's something very strange about this," marveled Miss Minerva, turning the two trinkets over and over. "Actually, Ican hardly tell now which is mine and which hers, except that mine is a little more tarnished from having been laid away. Your father said, when he gave me mine, that he'd never seen anything like it in any of those foreign jewelry-shops and that was why he'd been specially attracted to it."
"Aunty," said Marcia, suddenly, "where do you suppose that sailor got it?"
"Your father said," replied Miss Minerva, "that he'd probably stolen it, or somebody else had. It may have passed through dozens of hands after it was taken from the original owner. You never can tell about such things in the East, and it's useless to inquire."
Again they all stared hard at the two silver trinkets, lying side by side on the table.
"And these two bracelets once belonged to the same person," murmured Marcia, at last; "perhaps to some one connected with Cecily. And to think they should have drifted halfway around the world to find themselves side by side again in busy, practical New York!"
Next morning Marcia and Janet sallied forth to make their promised visit to Cecily. They were armed with a box of quinine pills, two glasses of currant jelly, a new magazine, Marcia's violin in its case, and, last, but not least, the two filigree bracelets. And they were literally bursting with news and excitement.
Miss Benedict opened the gate for them as before, and to their inquiries replied that Cecily seemed a little better. If she noticed the suppressed excitement in their manner, she did not comment upon it, but only led the way to Cecily's room without further words. She was bonneted and veiled as usual. At the door she left them, saying she would not go in.
"Cecily, Cecily!" cried Marcia, immediately; "we have news—such strange news for you!"Cecily was at once all eagerness and animation.
"Oh, tell me, quickly!" she exclaimed, sitting up in the bed. "I feel so much better. I'm going to get up to-day. But how can you have any news—about me?"
"Cecily," said Janet, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "have you been thinking, all this time, that Miss Benedict knew everything about you, and why you came here, and all that?"
"Why, of course!" cried Cecily, opening her eyes wide. "She has never explained it to me, and she's so—queerthat I never liked to ask her. But I always thought sheknew!"
"Well, she doesn't—not a thing, apparently," replied Janet, and then repeated to her all the strange conversation at the gate on the day before.
When she had finished, Cecily sat as if stunned—quiet and rigid and staring out of the window. So much had it appeared to affect her that Janet was suddenly sorry she had said a word about it.
"Then—what does it all mean?" murmuredCecily, at last. "I'm here where I've no right to be. Nobody knows me—or wants me. How did it all happen? Don't I belong toanybody?" She looked so bewildered, so frightened, so unhappy, that Janet and Marcia both put their arms about her.
"It's all right, Cecily; it'ssureto be all right—in the end.Wewould love you and want you if nobody else did. And I'm sure Miss Benedict must care for you too. She really acts so. But the question is, how did you ever come to be sent here at all? Didn't your mother ever say anything to you about this place or any of the people over here?"
"No," said Cecily, in a hushed voice. It was evident from her manner that her grief over the loss of her mother was very keen, and she had only once voluntarily referred to it or to anything connected with it.
"My mother never, never mentioned the name of Benedict to me,—I never heard of it before."
"But couldn't Miss Benedict possibly have been some connection—some distant connectionthat she never thought of or mentioned?" persisted Marcia.
"No—my mother's people were all English," declared Cecily, "and they were all dead. We had no relatives living."
"Well, your father, then?" supplemented Janet. "What about him?"
"I never knew him to remember him. Mother said he died when I was a baby a year or two old. He hadn't any relatives, either."
"Well, here's something else we have to tell you, and it's the strangest thing yet," began Janet. "Can you tell us where you got that bracelet, Cecily,—the one you were so lovely as to send to us?"
"Why, I always had it," answered Cecily. "Even when I was a tiny little girl and it was much too big for me, it seemed to be mine. Mother kept it in a box, but she let me play with it once in a while. Then when I was older and it fitted me better, she let me wear it. Ithinkshe said my father gave it to me. I don't remember very clearly. I don't believe I ever thought much about it, although Irealized it was rather unusual. But why do you ask?"
"Did she ever say it had a mate—that there was a pair of them?" questioned Marcia.
"Oh, no! I'm sure she never said anything about another."
"What do you think of this, then?" Marcia drew the two bracelets out of her bag, and laid them side by side on the bed.
"Why, how very, veryqueer!" cried Cecily, incredulously. "Wheredidyou get the other?"
Marcia outlined its history. "You see, there isn't a shadow of doubt that there was once a pair of them," she ended, "and that they both belonged to the same person. Nowwhocould that person be?"
"It must have been some one connected with you, Cecily," added Janet. "Everything points that way. Well, one thing is certain: if we could find out the truth about these two bracelets, I believe we'd find out about Cecily, too—why she is here and the whole mystery!"
All three were very silent for a moment, considering.
"I know one thing," ventured Marcia, at length. "Cecily, you mustnotgive this bracelet away. It was dear and sweet of you to think of it in the first place—and we'll keep the little coral pendant for both of us if you like. But the bracelet is something that may mean a great deal to you yet, and you ought to have it. Don't you agree with me, Janet?"
"I certainly do," added Janet, heartily; "and what's more, I've thought of something else. When Captain Brett comes home next time, hemaybe able to tell us something more about the other bracelet. When do you expect him, Marcia?"
"Not for two or three months," replied Marcia, ruefully. "I'd give anything if it could only be sooner. It seems as if wenevercould wait that long!"
"Well, let's not think of it just now," comforted Janet. "I don't suppose we can find out anything till hedoescome, so there's no use fretting. How would you like to hear some music, Cecily? Marcia's brought her violin."
"In the sudden light of the open door she stood revealed"
"How good of you!" cried Cecily, an almost pathetic eagerness in her voice. "It will be wonderful to hear it near by!"
So Marcia opened the case and took out the instrument, tuned it, tucked it lovingly under her chin, and slipped into a rollicking Hungarian dance by Brahms, while her little audience listened spellbound.
"Oh, something else, please!" sighed Cecily, blissfully, when it was ended. And Marcia, changing the theme, gave them the lullaby from "Jocelyn," and after that Beethoven's Minuet in G.
"Justonemore," begged Cecily; "that is—if you're not too tired. The one I—I like so much!"
"I know—the 'Träumerei,'" nodded Marcia, and once more laid her bow across the strings.
When the last note had died away, they were all suddenly startled by a strange sound just outside the door—a sound that was partly a sob and partly a half-stifled exclamation.
Before she quite realized what she was doing,Janet, who happened to be sitting near the door, sprang up and threw it open.
In the hall outside stood Miss Benedict, her hands clasped tensely in front of her. But, strangest of all, her veil was thrown back from her face, and in the sudden light of the open door she stood revealed! In an instant they realized that Cecily had not exaggerated the beauty of her singularly lovely face. She plainly had been listening, captivated, to the music within the room, and something about it must have stirred her strangely.
All this they noticed in the fraction of a moment, for, as she saw them, she pulled down her veil with a hasty movement, murmuring something about having heard music and coming to see what it was.
But she did not pull it down quickly enough to hide one fact from the gaze of the two girls—that her beautiful gray eyes were brimming with tears!
It was Miss Minerva who decided that Miss Benedict must be told about the coincidence of the two bracelets.
"Certainly, she ought to know!" she declared positively. "There must besomereason why that child has been sent to her, and she ought to be told all the facts concerning her. Who knows but whatshemay have some explanation of this bracelet mystery! You tell her the very next time you go in. And don't forget to take a jar of that quince marmalade, besides." Aunt Minerva had determined on keeping Cecily well supplied with toothsome dainties, which commodities, she keenly suspected, were scarce in the big house. In fact, the girls had told her that the marketing for that establishment, so far as they had seen,seemed to consist mainly of milk and eggs, rice and prunes!
So a day or two after, when they visited Cecily again, they planned to have an interview with her guardian. Marcia was shy about broaching the subject, so the task was left to Janet, who, being anxious to settle the matter immediately, began it as soon as the gate was opened.
"Miss Benedict," she said, "there is something quite strange about Cecily that we should like to tell you. Could you spare a few moments to hear about it?"
"Why—er—of course!" replied the little black-veiled lady, in a rather startled voice. "Will you—er—that is, I will come to her room in a little while—if you will kindly close the shutters—first!" And she directed them to proceed upstairs, without this time accompanying them.
Cecily was overjoyed at their appearance. She was sitting by the window, fully dressed, the sunshine streaming in on her, transforming her curls into a radiant halo. A definitechange had come over her during the last few days, caused, no doubt, by the enjoyment of light and sunshine and companionship. She was losing some of her former wan, wistful, frightened aspect, and assuming more of the confiding, sunny characteristics that were natural to her. At the moment the girls entered she was reading a magazine brought by them on their previous visit.
After the first greetings and chat they reported their conversation with Miss Benedict.
"She's coming up soon," ended Marcia, "and we must get the shutters closed. But what on earthfor? Whycan'tshe be like ordinary people and enjoy the air and sunshine like the rest of us? Doyouknow, Cecily?"
"No, I can't imagine. It has all seemed very strange to me ever since I came. But you know how odd Miss Benedict is. I can't abide asking her any questions, and she never explains anything. The whole house is darkened like this all the time, and since she let me open my shutters, she's never once been in this room in the daytime. She never goes outwithout that heavy veil, not even into the garden. I don't understand it!"
"Do you know," suggested Marcia, half under her breath, "one would almost think she had done something wrong and was ashamed of showing her face in the daylight. I've heard of such things. And that would explain some other queer things about this place, too, like—"
"Hush!" warned Janet. "I hear her coming."
In another moment Miss Benedict had opened the door. And in the very dim light (Marcia had been closing the shutters as they talked) they saw an unusual sight. Miss Benedict had come to them without her bonnet and veil!
The change in her appearance was surprising. Her wonderful white hair was piled on top of her head in a heavy coronet braid. Her complexion was singularly soft and youthful, and her lovely gray eyes, even in the dim light, easily seemed her most attractive feature. It was a curious contrast made by the removalof the ugly bonnet and veil. In them she appeared a little, insignificant, unattractive personality. Without them, though short and slight of figure, she possessed a look and manner almost regal.
She did not refer to the omission of her usual headgear, but took a seat and quietly asked them what they had to tell her.
Janet undertook to explain, and began by telling how Cecily had sent the little gift to them, via the string, and ended by explaining about Aunt Minerva's duplicate. Miss Benedict listened to it all without comment. When Janet had finished and held out the two bracelets for her to examine, she merely took them and laid them in her lap, scarcely glancing at them. They waited, breathless, for her response.
"No," she said, "I know nothing about these bracelets. It is, of course, very singular—a surprising coincidence that your aunt should have one of them. But I know nothing about them, any more than I know about Cecily herself." It was the first time she had everreferred to the matter before Cecily, and it was evident that it was not easy for her to do so.
"I might as well speak plainly to you all about this, since the matter has come up. I did not know little Cecily; I had never heard of her, nor anything about her before she came here. I cannot imagine why she was sent. I have no relatives whose child she could have been, nor any friend who could have given her into my care."
"Then why," interrupted Janet, "if you will pardon me for asking, Miss Benedict,—why did you take her in the day she came?"
Miss Benedict's manner instantly became a trifle confused and embarrassed. "It is—er—a little difficult to explain, I confess," she stammered. "The truth is—I—er—it is commonly reported that we—that is—I have some means. I have frequently, in the past years, received very strange letters from people utterly unknown to me,—begging letters, letters proposing to invest my money for me,—oh! I cannot begin to tell you all the strange things these letters propose. I understand itis a not unusual experience—with well-to-do people. I have even received letters proposing that I adopt the writer's children and eventually settle my money on them!"
Here Janet and Marcia could not repress a giggle, and Miss Benedict smiled slightly in sympathy.
"Itdoessound absurd," she admitted; "but it is quite true, and has often been most annoying. So, when the letter arrived announcing Cecily's coming, for which there was given no particular explanation, I thought it simply another case of a similar kind. And I resolved to dismiss both the child and her attendant as soon as they appeared.
"But when the day came, strangely enough, I changed my mind. It was Cecily herself led me to do so. I felt as soon as I looked at her that, whoever had sent her here and for whatever purpose, the child herself was innocent of any fraud or imposture. She believed that I would receive her, that Iknewit was all right. There was somethingtrustingabout her eyes, her look, her whole manner. I cannot explainit. And that was not all—there was another reason.
"I suddenly realized how very lonely I was, how desirable it would be to have with me a young companion—like Cecily. I know that the life I lead is—is different—and peculiar. It is owing to unusual circumstances that I cannot explain to you. But I have become so accustomed to this life that of late years I scarcely realized itwasso—different. But when I saw Cecily—I felt suddenly—its loneliness."
With the laying aside of her veil, Miss Benedict seemed also to have laid aside some of the reticence in which she had shrouded herself. And her three hearers, listening spellbound, realized how utterly charming she could be—if sheallowedherself to be so.
"A great desire seized me," she went on, "to take her in and keep her with me a while. If, later, some one came to claim her, well and good. I would let her go. Or if no one came and I found I had been mistaken,—that she was not companionable,—I could make someother provision for her. Meantime, I would yield to this new desire and enjoy her presence—here. In addition to that, the lady in whose company she had traveled was not in position to keep Cecily longer with her, and the child would be left without protection. So I took her in. And so I have kept her ever since, because I am daily becoming more—attached to her."
It was a great admission for this reticent little lady, and they all realized it. So deeply were they impressed that none of them could make any response. Presently Miss Benedict continued:
"After Cecily had told me her story I determined to write to the village of Cranby, England, and find out what I could about her mother, Mrs. Marlowe. I knew no one to whom I could address the inquiries, but sent them on chance to the vicar of the parish church. In due time I received a reply. It stated that Mrs. Marlowe was not a native of that town, but came there to live about twelve years ago, with her three-year-old daughter.Nothing was known about her personal affairs except that her husband and all her people were dead, and that she had come there from a distant part of England because the climate of her former home did not agree with her little daughter. She never talked much about herself, and lived in a very retired, quiet way. She left no property or effects of any value. Why she should have sent her child to me was as much a mystery as ever. About Cecily's father the vicar knew nothing. That is all the information I have."
Miss Benedict stopped abruptly. Cecily opened her lips to say something, then closed them again without having spoken. Marcia fidgeted uneasily in her chair. Miss Benedict looked down at her lap. An embarrassed silence seemed to have fallen on them all. Only Janet, knitting her brows over the puzzle, was unaware of it.
"But, Miss Benedict," she began, "we all think that these bracelets may have something to do with Cecily's affairs—might explain a good deal of the mystery, if we could onlypuzzle them out. Have you noticed what strange signs there are on them? We think they must be something in Chinese. Let me give you a little more light and then you can see them better." And Janet, deeply immersed in the subject and still unconscious of her blunder, was about to go and open a shutter, when Miss Benedict quickly raised her hand.
"Please—er—pleasedo not!" she exclaimed hurriedly.
"Oh! I beg your pardon—I forgot!" cried Janet, in confusion, and the silence at once became more embarrassed than ever. So much so, in fact, that Miss Benedict evidently felt impelled to explain her conduct. And she made the first revelation concerning her singular mode of life.
"I am—er—my eyes are not able to stand it. For years I have suffered with some obscure trouble in them. I cansee, but I cannot stand any bright light. It hurts them beyond endurance. At home I must have the rooms darkened in this way. And when I go out,even my heavy veil is not sufficient. Behind it I must also wear smoked spectacles."
She said no more, but she did not need to. A little inarticulate murmur of sympathy rose from her listeners. And in the twilight of the room Marcia glanced quickly and guiltily into Janet's contrite face.
It was a week after the events of the last chapter. The girls had gone regularly every day to visit Cecily. It was Marcia who had finally mustered up courage to ask Miss Benedict if Cecily could not go into the garden and enjoy there some outdoor air and sunshine. Miss Benedict had hesitated at first, but at last she conceded that Cecily and the girls might sit in the garden if they would go out of the house by a small side door and remain on that side of the house.
They found that this door was on the opposite side of the house from Cecily's room: consequently, they had never seen it. And they soon discovered one reason, at least, why Miss Benedict wished them to remain exclusively on that side. It was screened both back and front by thick bushes and trees. And atthe side, above the garden wall, rose the high blank side of a building, unrelieved by a single window. Here they were as absolutely screened from public view as if they were within the house. Here also was an old rustic bench and table, and they spent several happy mornings in the secluded spot, sewing, reading, and chatting.
Cecily seemed fairly to open out before their eyes, like a flower-bud expanding in warm, sunny atmosphere. Only at times now did she show any trace of the frightened repression of their earlier acquaintance. They seldom talked abut the mystery surrounding her, because they had discovered that any allusion to it only made her uneasy, unhappy, and rather silent. Moreover, further discussion of it was rather useless, as they seemed to have reached a point in its solution beyond which progress was hopeless.
So they talked gaily about themselves and their own affairs, sometimes of their former home in Northam, the pleasant New England village. Occasionally Cecily would reciprocateby allowing them glimpses of her life in the obscure little English town from which she had come. Only rarely did she allude to the circumstances of her present home, and though the girls secretly ached to know more about it, they were too tactful to ask any questions.
One query, whose answer they could not guess was this: who was the other mysterious old lady, kept so closely a prisoner in her room by Miss Benedict? And why was she so kept? Marcia and Janet were never tired of discussing this question between themselves. That it was a relative, they could not doubt. And they recalled one or two remarks Miss Benedict had dropped, particularly when she had said: "We—that is—I have some means."
The "we" must certainly have referred to herself and the other one. But could that "other one" be mother, sister, aunt, or cousin? And why was there so much secrecy about her? Cecily had only said that Miss Benedict referred to her as "the lady in there who is not very well." But why conceal so carefully just an ordinary invalid?
"You never can tell, though," remarked Janet, decisively, one night when they had been discussing the matter with Aunt Minerva. "Were you ever more stunned, Marcia, than at the reason she gave for having all the shutters closed? I think it was the most pitiful thing I ever heard, I could just have sat andcriedabout it. And it was so different from all the awful things we'd imagined. Perhaps there is just as good a reason for this other mystery."
"But what puzzles me," broke in Aunt Minerva, impatiently, "is why that woman, if she's so wealthy, doesn't go to a good oculist and have some treatment for her eyes. They can do such wonders nowadays. Why on earth does she endure it? I never heard of anything so silly!"
"I suppose it's for the same reason that she wouldn't have a doctor when she hurt her ankle," said Marcia. "She evidently doesn't want a stranger in the house, even for such important things as those."
One day Cecily asked Marcia why she never brought in her violin since the occasion of thefirst visit, and requested that she bring it with her next day and give them a concert.
So on the following day Marcia came armed with her violin case and also an interesting new book from the library that she thought Cecily would enjoy.
"Let's read the book first," Cecily elected. So, sitting in the secluded corner of the garden, the three spent a happy morning, reading aloud, turn about, while the others worked at their embroidery. At last, when all were tired, Cecily begged Marcia to play, and she laid her book aside and took up the violin.
"What shall I play?" she asked. "Something lively?"
"No," said Cecily. "Play something soft and sweet and dreamy. I feel just in that mood to-day. It's too hot for lively things."
Marcia played the Liszt "Liebestraum," and a lovely setting of the old Scotch song "Loch Lomond," and after that the "Melody in F." And then, at Cecily's entreating glance, she drifted, as usual, into the "Träumerei."
"Do you know," said Cecily, when she hadended, "I believe I must have heard that thing when I was a baby. It's the only reason I can think of that it seems so—so familiar. And yet—unless I'd heard it a great, great many times then, I don't think it would have made such an impression on me. And where could I have heard it? Play it again, Marcia, please."
Marcia obligingly began, but she had gone no farther than the first few measures when the door opened and Miss Benedict appeared. She seemed very much agitated, and her bonnet and veil, donned in an evident hurry, were slightly awry.
"I beg you," she began, turning to Marcia, "not to play any more. I—er—it is—is not because it is not beautiful, but it is—is slightly disturbing to—some one inside."
"Why, of course I won't, Miss Benedict," said Marcia, dropping her bow. "I wouldn't have done such a thing if I'd dreamed it would disturb any one."
"It isn't—it isn't thatIdon't love it," stammered Miss Benedict, "for I do. But itseems to be very upsetting to—" She hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, and then seemed to take a sudden resolution.
"—to my sister!" she ended flutteringly, as though the simple admission carried something damaging with it. It required strong self-control for the three girls not to exchange glances.
"Oh, I hope I haven't done her any harm!" cried Marcia, contritely.
"No—she—it has just made her a little nervous. She will be all right soon, I trust. But I noticed that it had the same effect—before," went on Miss Benedict. "I fear I shall have to ask you not—not to play again in her hearing. And I am very sorry, both for Cecily—and myself." And she retreated into the house again, closing the door softly.
On the way back to luncheon that noon the girls excitedly discussed the newest turn of affairs and the newest revelation made by their strange neighbor. And so absorbed were they in this fresh interest and so anxious to impart it to Aunt Minerva that they scarcely noticedshe was laboring under a suppressed excitement quite as great as their own. Indeed, she paid but scant attention to their recital; and when they had finished, her only comment was:
"Very odd—very odd indeed. But you never can guess about the newsIhave!"
"No, no! Of course I can't guess. Tell us—quick!" cried Marcia, impatiently. "It's something wonderful, I know!"
Miss Minerva made no reply, but suddenly laid a wireless telegram before them. Marcia snatched it up and read aloud:
"Change of sailing-plans. Will be home in two days.
"Edwin Brett."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" she cried. "Father's coming! A whole two months before we expected him!Nowwe'll hear something about the bracelet—and who knows what will happen after that!"
In the joy of seeing her father after months of absence Marcia almost forgot the mystery of Benedict's Folly. Almost—but not quite!
Captain Brett had been at home twenty-four hours, and had had time to give an account of all the intervening weeks, before the subject was broached. Then the next morning, with a great air of mystery, the two girls and Aunt Minerva made him sit down and listen to the entire story. At its conclusion they produced the two filigree bracelets for his inspection.
"H'm!" he exclaimed, and, whistling softly under his breath, examined them with minute care. And then, being a man of few words, he only remarked: "So you think these were once a pair?"
"Why, of course!" cried Marcia. "Don't you?"
"It looks remarkably like it," he conceded.
"Do tell us how you happened to get yours!" she begged.
"There's nothing much to tell," replied Captain Brett. "Happened to be in Hong-Kong one day, and a ragged-looking Chinese sailor thrust this under my nose and whined that he'd let me have it for two Mexican dollars. They're always trying to get rid of things like this when they want some spare cash. One never knows where they pick them up. I didn't want the trinket particularly, but I saw that it was a unique little piece and worth probably much more. So I bought it, tucked it away in my trunk, and forgot it till I arrived home, when I gave it to you, Minerva. That's all I know about it."
"How long ago was that?" asked Janet.
"Must have been at least twelve years ago. I'm not sure of the exact year."
"But what do these things mean?" questionedMiss Minerva, pointing to the strange characters in the silver-work.
"They're Chinese characters, certainly, but I don't know what they mean. You see them on lots of their jewelry and gimcracks—generally mean 'good luck,' or 'happiness,' or some such motto. Can't say whether these mean anything of that kind or not."
"But tell me, Father, don't you honestly believe that if we could get these translated—find out what they mean—it might give ussomeclue to the puzzle?" Marcia appealed to him.
"It might—or it might not," he answered skeptically. "So many of these characters might be meaningless, as far as any personal application was concerned."
"Well, anyway,couldwe get them translated, just for our own satisfaction?" demanded Marcia.
"Nothing simpler!" smiled Captain Brett. "My boatswain is a Chinese—very learned man—reads his Confucius in off hours! He'd be sure to help you with it."
"Oh, goody! And when can we have it done?" cried Marcia, aglow with anticipation.
"Well, you're all coming down to visit the ship to-morrow. Bring the bracelets along, and I'll see that Lee Ching is on hand to give you his assistance. But—I warn you—don'tcount too much on what you may discover from it! I don't want you to have a bad disappointment."
In spite of which warning, notwithstanding, the girls slept little that night, so excited were they over the prospect, and, when they did sleep, dreamed impossible dreams—mainly of quite unintelligible translations of cryptic Chinese characters.
The visit to Captain Brett's ship,The Empress of Oran, would have been an event, apart from any other interest involved in the expedition. Marcia and Janet had never in their lives been on board of an ocean steamer. Even the approach to it was fascinating,—the long, covered wharves with their strange, spicy odors, the bustle and activity of loading and unloading,the narrow gangways, the dark waist of the vessel, and the immaculate white paint of the decks.
They examined every inch of the huge steamer, from the stoking-room to the donkey-engines on the forecastle deck, and spent half an hour in the cozy, tiny cabin that was the captain's own, marveling at the compactness and handiness of every detail.
When they all went up to the after-deck for luncheon, which was served under an awning, Marcia and Janet could scarcely eat for watching the deft, silent, sphinxlike Chinese cook who waited on them. They tasted strange dishes that day, some of which, like curry and rice, were scarcely acceptable to their unaccustomed palates.
"Now," said the captain, in the middle of the meal, "if we were only out on the China Sea or bowling along over the Pacific, this would be just right. You'd have more of an appetite in that salt air than you do hemmed in by these noisy docks!"
But it was not the docks that had stolenaway the appetites of Marcia and Janet. They were boiling with impatience to see the boatswain, that student of Confucius, who could, perhaps, throw some new light on their mystery. Ambrosia and nectar for luncheon would scarcely have appealed to them under the circumstances!
At last, however, the meal was ended with the curious little Chinese nuts whose meat is almost like a raisin. Then, when the table was cleared and the captain had lit his cigar, he spoke the word that caused their hearts to jump and their eyes to brighten:
"Now I suppose you want to see Lee Ching!" He beckoned to a sailor and sent him to find the boatswain.
Lee Ching arrived with promptitude, saluted his captain, and stood gravely at attention. He was not a young man, and he had a decidedly Oriental, mask-like face. It seemed strange that he should be dressed in the conventional boatswain's uniform, with peaked cap and the whistle of his office. One could imagine him better in some brilliant-hued,wide-sleeved Chinese garment, with a long pig-tail down his back.
"Lee Ching," said the captain, "these young ladies are very much interested in these two bracelets that have come into their possession. The characters on them, you see, are in your language. We wonder if you will be so kind as to translate them for us?"