AT THE END OF THE STRING
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 would surely 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 what _do_ you think of Miss Benedict being
_beautiful_! 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.
[Illustration: "They heard Cecily's light footsteps"]
Next day they jointly wrote a long letter,--telling all about
themselves, their homes, their schools, 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 do _that_. 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.
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 an embroidery 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! I _love_ to 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 she _was_ going 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.
"What _can_ be the matter?" queried Marcia. "Can it be possible that
Cecily feels she mustn't do this any more?"
"_I_ didn'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 since we 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 forbidden Cecily
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 there _is_ the
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 more depressed 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 trembling with 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?
A. BENEDICT.