SURPRISES ALL AROUND
"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 sure _we_ don't know!" exclaimed Marcia. "We only wonder about it.
The house seems to be all shut up."
"Why, it _is_!" 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 knowing _us_?" 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 only trying 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 only _let_ me, I could just love her, but she holds me off as if
she were somehow _afraid_ of 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, _is_ it an old lady?" inquired Cecily, in surprise.
"Why, of course! Didn't you know it?" exclaimed Marcia.
"I knew there was _some_ one in there--some invalid. For Miss Benedict
has always warned me to be very quiet in going by that door, 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 did _you_ know 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 by
which we can _hear_ from 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 she _would_ be 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 to
_you_ anyway. 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 I _ought_ to read them," she said; "but, oh! it would
keep me from being so very lonely. But I must be going back now. 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.