THE HANDKERCHIEF IN THE WINDOW
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 indicated _that_ unmistakably. 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 Benedict gate.
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 are _so_ good!" 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'm _so_ sorry. 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 she _had_ acted 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, what _is_ it?" cried both girls together.
"Miss--Miss Benedict is very ill," she continued hesitatingly. "She--she
fell and hurt her 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.
"She _ought_ to 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 must think 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--_please_ do not even
_mention_ to 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, _could_ you?" 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. "I _hoped_ it 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, _how_ I'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.