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 that
we have been trying to correspond with Cecily, and she's going to demand
an explanation--probably warn us that we must stop it. Are you--afraid
to 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 we
may 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, I
suppose."
"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'm
not going to worry about it another bit to-night. Maybe it's something
entirely different, anyway."
Marcia, however, could not bring herself to this cheerful view of
things. All night long she tossed beside the sleeping Janet, wondering
and wondering about what the coming interview might mean, and blaming
herself a thousand times for placing Cecily in the position of having
deceived 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 in
their plans. "I didn't sleep very well, but a walk in the fresh air will
do me good, I know." And so Miss Minerva saw them go, without further
protest.
They both halted at the gate in the brick wall and looked into each
other's eyes. The hot morning sun beat down upon them as they stood
there, and passers-by eyed them curiously. Each was perfectly certain
that 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 hand
suddenly--and pulled the rusty bell-handle.
It seemed a long, long time before there was any response. But at last
they heard the click of the opening front door and the sound of
footsteps on the path. This was followed by the creaking of a key
turning in the lock of the gate. Janet gripped Marcia by the hand, and
with pounding hearts they stood together, while the gate slowly opened.
In another instant, the veiled, black-gowned figure of Miss Benedict
stood before them. She waited a moment, silent, appearing to look them
over critically.
"Come in, if you please!" she said at last, very softly, and held the
gate open for them. They entered obediently, and she shut the gate. It
was not until they were inside the house, standing in the dim hall with
the front door closed behind them, that another word was spoken. Then
Miss Benedict faced them again, but she did not remove her bonnet or
throw back her veil.
"I have asked you to come here this morning," she began, "because I
understand that you have become acquainted with the child Cecily
Marlowe."
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 a
brilliant reply, but, for the life of her, she could think of nothing
else to say. They waited, shuddering, for what might be coming next.
"So she has told me," went on Miss Benedict. "I also understand that
lately you have been dropping notes to her into the garden--at night."
Janet noticed, even in the midst of her trepidation, how wonderfully
sweet and soft and harmonious the voice was.
"Yes," replied Marcia, very low, "we have." The worst was out--now let
the 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 voice
continued. "I am very much worried about her."
Janet and Marcia glanced into each other's eyes in astonishment. Cecily
ill--and Miss Benedict actually _caring_ about it! Here were surprises
indeed!
"Oh, I hope it's nothing serious!" exclaimed Marcia, anxiously.
"I hope it is not--and I _think_ it is probably only the hot weather
and--and want of exercise." Miss Benedict hesitated a little over the
last. "She has been so--poorly, and has--has evidently been so anxious
to--to see you, that I thought I would--surprise her by asking you to
come and--visit her a while." It was plainly a struggle for Miss
Benedict to make this seem the natural, normal thing to do. "Will
you--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 the
dark halls and up three pairs of stairs. At the door of a room on the
fourth floor she paused, knocked, and then entered. They followed, dimly
perceiving a little form in the bed, for the shutters, of course, were
closed. As they entered after Miss Benedict Cecily sprang to a sitting
posture, 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," she
explained hesitatingly to the bewildered child. "Perhaps it will make
you--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 the
invalid.
"What made her do it?" demanded Marcia. "We found a note from her tied
to 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. My
head was so hot and ached so. And she was--oh! so good to me! I could
hardly believe it! She bathed my head, and sat by me, and put her cool
hands on my forehead. It really seemed as if she--cared! And I felt so
ashamed to think I'd--disobeyed her that I just told her right out all
about it--how lonely I'd been, and how good you were to me, and how I'd
enjoyed 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 a
thing 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 why
you 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 a
lot, and every once in a while I'm awfully cold, and then I seem to be
burning up--"
"Why, I believe you must have malaria!" interrupted Marcia. "That's what
Aunt Minerva has sometimes. You ought to go out more, and have fresh air
and--sunshine--" She stopped suddenly, remembering the conditions. "But
anyway, it isn't serious," she hurried on, after an embarrassed pause.
"And you ought to have some quinine. I wonder if Miss Benedict would let
us get it for you. I'll ask her, later." Then they hurried on to tell
her how they had continued to send down a note every night, hoping that
she 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 and
gifts, 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 I
gave it to Miss Benedict."
"You _did_?" they both gasped.
"Oh, I _hope_ you don't mind!" exclaimed Cecily, hastily; "but--but I
felt as if I wanted to _do_ something for her. She--I--I think I'm
getting to like her--more and more."
"What did she say?" asked Marcia. "Was she pleased? I can't imagine her
wearing such a thing."
"She looked at it and then at me--very strangely for a minute. Then she
said: 'Thank you, child. I--I never wear such things, but I'll keep
it--for your sake!'"
"Isn't that queer!" exclaimed Janet. "You thought she cared nothing
about you!"
"Yes," agreed Cecily; "but lately--I'm not so sure."
In the pause that followed, the girls glanced curiously about the
darkened room, trying to realize that they were actually inside the
mysterious house at last. It was a large, square room, furnished with
heavy chairs and an old-fashioned bureau and bed. Every shutter was
fastened and the slats tightly closed. Only the dimmest daylight
filtered in. The effect was gloomy and depressing to the last degree.
They wondered how Cecily had stood it so long.
[Illustration: "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 turned to 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, blinking from 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 plainly anxious 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 you _so_ much 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!"