CHAPTER IX
FOR THE SAKE OF CECILY
"What _can_ it mean?" muttered Janet. "What does she want of us?"
"Why, it's perfectly plain," declared Marcia. "She has discovered thatwe have been trying to correspond with Cecily, and she's going to demandan explanation--probably warn us that we must stop it. Are you--afraidto go, Janet?"
"Not I! Why should I be? Miss Benedict can't do or say a thing to harm_us_! But I _am_ anxious for poor little Cecily. I just hate to think wemay 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, Isuppose."
"Well, we can only remember that we _meant_ to make her happy, and we_did_--for a while, at least," comforted Janet. "And what's more, I'mnot going to worry about it another bit to-night. Maybe it's somethingentirely different, anyway."
Marcia, however, could not bring herself to this cheerful view ofthings. All night long she tossed beside the sleeping Janet, wonderingand wondering about what the coming interview might mean, and blamingherself a thousand times for placing Cecily in the position of havingdeceived 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 intheir plans. "I didn't sleep very well, but a walk in the fresh air willdo me good, I know." And so Miss Minerva saw them go, without furtherprotest.
They both halted at the gate in the brick wall and looked into eachother's eyes. The hot morning sun beat down upon them as they stoodthere, and passers-by eyed them curiously. Each was perfectly certainthat 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 handsuddenly--and pulled the rusty bell-handle.
It seemed a long, long time before there was any response. But at lastthey heard the click of the opening front door and the sound offootsteps on the path. This was followed by the creaking of a keyturning in the lock of the gate. Janet gripped Marcia by the hand, andwith pounding hearts they stood together, while the gate slowly opened.In another instant, the veiled, black-gowned figure of Miss Benedictstood before them. She waited a moment, silent, appearing to look themover critically.
"Come in, if you please!" she said at last, very softly, and held thegate open for them. They entered obediently, and she shut the gate. Itwas not until they were inside the house, standing in the dim hall withthe front door closed behind them, that another word was spoken. ThenMiss Benedict faced them again, but she did not remove her bonnet orthrow back her veil.
"I have asked you to come here this morning," she began, "because Iunderstand that you have become acquainted with the child CecilyMarlowe."
Cold chills ran up and down their spines. It had come at last! "Yes,"faltered Janet, "we--we _have_ become acquainted with her." It was not abrilliant reply, but, for the life of her, she could think of nothingelse to say. They waited, shuddering, for what might be coming next.
"So she has told me," went on Miss Benedict. "I also understand thatlately you have been dropping notes to her into the garden--at night."
Janet noticed, even in the midst of her trepidation, how wonderfullysweet and soft and harmonious the voice was.
"Yes," replied Marcia, very low, "we have." The worst was out--now letthe 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 voicecontinued. "I am very much worried about her."
Janet and Marcia glanced into each other's eyes in astonishment. Cecilyill--and Miss Benedict actually _caring_ about it! Here were surprisesindeed!
"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious!" exclaimed Marcia, anxiously.
"I hope it is not--and I _think_ it is probably only the hot weatherand--and want of exercise." Miss Benedict hesitated a little over thelast. "She has been so--poorly, and has--has evidently been so anxiousto--to see you, that I thought I would--surprise her by asking you tocome and--visit her a while." It was plainly a struggle for MissBenedict to make this seem the natural, normal thing to do. "Willyou--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 thedark halls and up three pairs of stairs. At the door of a room on thefourth floor she paused, knocked, and then entered. They followed, dimlyperceiving a little form in the bed, for the shutters, of course, wereclosed. As they entered after Miss Benedict Cecily sprang to a sittingposture, 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," sheexplained hesitatingly to the bewildered child. "Perhaps it will makeyou--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, "what _does_ this all mean, anyway?"
"I never dreamed of such a thing as seeing you--here!" faltered theinvalid.
"What made her do it?" demanded Marcia. "We found a note from her tiedto 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. Myhead was so hot and ached so. And she was--oh! so good to me! I couldhardly believe it! She bathed my head, and sat by me, and put her coolhands on my forehead. It really seemed as if she--cared! And I felt soashamed to think I'd--disobeyed her that I just told her right out allabout it--how lonely I'd been, and how good you were to me, and how I'denjoyed 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 athing more about it. I didn't dream that she'd ever do such a thing as_send_ for you to come and see me!"
They marveled over it all a moment in silence. Then Marcia burst out:"Oh, Cecily, we've been _so_ worried about you! We couldn't think whyyou 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 alot, and every once in a while I'm awfully cold, and then I seem to beburning up--"
"Why, I believe you must have malaria!" interrupted Marcia. "That's whatAunt Minerva has sometimes. You ought to go out more, and have fresh airand--sunshine--" She stopped suddenly, remembering the conditions. "Butanyway, it isn't serious," she hurried on, after an embarrassed pause."And you ought to have some quinine. I wonder if Miss Benedict would letus get it for you. I'll ask her, later." Then they hurried on to tellher how they had continued to send down a note every night, hoping thatshe 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 andgifts, 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 Igave it to Miss Benedict."
"You _did_?" they both gasped.
"Oh, I _hope_ you don't mind!" exclaimed Cecily, hastily; "but--but Ifelt as if I wanted to _do_ something for her. She--I--I think I'mgetting to like her--more and more."
"What did she say?" asked Marcia. "Was she pleased? I can't imagine herwearing such a thing."
"She looked at it and then at me--very strangely for a minute. Then shesaid: 'Thank you, child. I--I never wear such things, but I'll keepit--for your sake!'"
"Isn't that queer!" exclaimed Janet. "You
thought she cared nothingabout you!"
"Yes," agreed Cecily; "but lately--I'm not so sure."
In the pause that followed, the girls glanced curiously about thedarkened room, trying to realize that they were actually inside themysterious house at last. It was a large, square room, furnished withheavy chairs and an old-fashioned bureau and bed. Every shutter wasfastened and the slats tightly closed. Only the dimmest daylightfiltered in. The effect was gloomy and depressing to the last degree.They wondered how Cecily had stood it so long.
"I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open theseshutters," cried Janet, suddenly]
"I'm going to ask Miss Benedict if we can't open these shutters," criedJanet, suddenly. "I should think you'd die of this gloom. It's reallybad for you, Cecily!"
"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Cecily, in consternation. "I asked her once, whenI first came, and she didn't like it at all! She said no, she preferredto have them shut, and I must not touch them."
"I don't care!" went on Janet, ruthlessly. "You weren't sick then. I'msure she'd let you now!" And, true to her word, she turned to MissBenedict, who entered at this moment, still bonneted and veiled.
"I believe Cecily has malaria, Miss Benedict," she began bravely, butwith inward trepidation.
"Oh, do you think so? Is it serious?" The melodious voice soundedstartled and concerned.
"I don't think it's so serious," Janet continued, "but she'd probablyget over it quicker if she had a lot of fresh air and sunshine. Couldn'tshe have the shutters open? It would do her lots of good."
Cecily and Marcia trembled at Janet's temerity and watched Miss Benedictwith bated breath. But instead of being annoyed, she only seemedsurprised 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 Cecilymay have it here, if she chooses." And following up her words, shepushed open one of the shutters. A broad shaft of sunlight streamed in,and, blinking from the previous gloom, Janet and Marcia threw openthe others.
Cecily gave a delighted cry, "Oh, how lovely it is to see the sunagain!" But Miss Benedict, with an abrupt exclamation, retreated hastilyfrom the room.
The girls stayed a few moments more, chatting. Then they wiselysuggested that perhaps they had better go, and not tire Cecily by toolong a call. Hearing Miss Benedict's footstep in the hall below, theytook their leave, promising to come again, as soon as it seemed best. Onthe landing of the stairway they found the black-veiled figureapparently waiting for them.
Now, during all the strange little interview, a curious impression hadbeen growing upon Janet, strengthened by every word Miss Benedict haduttered--an impression that here was no grim, forbidding jailor, such asthey had imagined the mistress of "Benedict's Folly" to be. Instead,they had encountered a gentle, almost winning, little person, worriedabout the illness of the child in her care and plainly anxious to doeverything suggested to make her more comfortable. Janet suddenlyresolved on a bold move.
"Cecily is so lonely," she began, turning to Miss Benedict. "Don't youthink it would do her lots of good to come in and visit us once in awhile? Marcia's aunt would be so glad to see her. As soon as she is alittle better, can't she--"
"No," interrupted Miss Benedict, her little figure suddenly stiffeningand a determined note creeping into her soft voice. "I am sorry. Cecilycannot make visits. It is out of the question!"
It was like striking a hidden rock in a smooth, beautiful sheet ofwater. And her words admitted of no argument. Janet and Marcia followedher meekly and in silence down to the front door. Here, in an uncertainpause, 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 entirelydifferent tone. "Come to-morrow and see her again--if your aunt willpermit it. Perhaps it would be well to explain to her--" and here hermanner became confused--"that--I--er--do not make calls or--or receivethem, but this is just--just for the sake of the child." It was plain tothe 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 hadunlocked it, Marcia turned to her impulsively.
"Thank you _so_ much for letting us come! We are very, very fond ofCecily. 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 abruptlyfrom 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 ifrepeating a lesson. "I do not know who she is--nor why she is here!"