MISS BENEDICT SPEAKS
It was Miss Minerva who decided that Miss Benedict must be told about
the coincidence of the two bracelets.
"Certainly, she ought to know!" she declared positively. "There must be
_some_ reason why that child has been sent to her, and she ought to be
told all the facts concerning her. Who knows but what _she_ may have
some explanation of this bracelet mystery! You tell her the very next
time you go in. And don't forget to take a jar of that quince marmalade,
besides." Aunt Minerva had determined on keeping Cecily well supplied
with toothsome dainties, which commodities, she keenly suspected, were
scarce in the big house. In fact, the girls had told her that the
marketing for that establishment, so far as they had seen, seemed to
consist mainly of milk and eggs, rice and prunes!
So a day or two after, when they visited Cecily again, they planned to
have an interview with her guardian. Marcia was shy about broaching the
subject, so the task was left to Janet, who, being anxious to settle the
matter immediately, began it as soon as the gate was opened.
"Miss Benedict," she said, "there is something quite strange about
Cecily that we should like to tell you. Could you spare a few moments to
hear about it?"
"Why--er--of course!" replied the little black-veiled lady, in a rather
startled voice. "Will you--er--that is, I will come to her room in a
little while--if you will kindly close the shutters--first!" And she
directed them to proceed upstairs, without this time accompanying them.
Cecily was overjoyed at their appearance. She was sitting by the window,
fully dressed, the sunshine streaming in on her, transforming her curls
into a radiant halo. A definite change had come over her during the
last few days, caused, no doubt, by the enjoyment of light and sunshine
and companionship. She was losing some of her former wan, wistful,
frightened aspect, and assuming more of the confiding, sunny
characteristics that were natural to her. At the moment the girls
entered she was reading a magazine brought by them on their previous
visit.
After the first greetings and chat they reported their conversation with
Miss Benedict.
"She's coming up soon," ended Marcia, "and we must get the shutters
closed. But what on earth _for_? Why _can't_ she be like ordinary people
and enjoy the air and sunshine like the rest of us? Do _you_ know,
Cecily?"
"No, I can't imagine. It has all seemed very strange to me ever since I
came. But you know how odd Miss Benedict is. I can't abide asking her
any questions, and she never explains anything. The whole house is
darkened like this all the time, and since she let me open my shutters,
she's never once been in this room in the daytime. She never goes out
without that heavy veil, not even into the garden. I don't understand
it!"
"Do you know," suggested Marcia, half under her breath, "one would
almost think she had done something wrong and was ashamed of showing her
face in the daylight. I've heard of such things. And that would explain
some other queer things about this place, too, like--"
"Hush!" warned Janet. "I hear her coming."
In another moment Miss Benedict had opened the door. And in the very dim
light (Marcia had been closing the shutters as they talked) they saw an
unusual sight. Miss Benedict had come to them without her bonnet and
veil!
The change in her appearance was surprising. Her wonderful white hair
was piled on top of her head in a heavy coronet braid. Her complexion
was singularly soft and youthful, and her lovely gray eyes, even in the
dim light, easily seemed her most attractive feature. It was a curious
contrast made by the removal of the ugly bonnet and veil. In them she
appeared a little, insignificant, unattractive personality. Without
them, though short and slight of figure, she possessed a look and manner
almost regal.
She did not refer to the omission of her usual headgear, but took a seat
and quietly asked them what they had to tell her.
Janet undertook to explain, and began by telling how Cecily had sent the
little gift to them, via the string, and ended by explaining about Aunt
Minerva's duplicate. Miss Benedict listened to it all without comment.
When Janet had finished and held out the two bracelets for her to
examine, she merely took them and laid them in her lap, scarcely
glancing at them. They waited, breathless, for her response.
"No," she said, "I know nothing about these bracelets. It is, of course,
very singular--a surprising coincidence that your aunt should have one
of them. But I know nothing about them, any more than I know about
Cecily herself." It was the first time she had ever referred to the
matter before Cecily, and it was evident that it was not easy for her to
do so.
"I might as well speak plainly to you all about this, since the matter
has come up. I did not know little Cecily; I had never heard of her, nor
anything about her before she came here. I cannot imagine why she was
sent. I have no relatives whose child she could have been, nor any
friend who could have given her into my care."
"Then why," interrupted Janet, "if you will pardon me for asking, Miss
Benedict,--why did you take her in the day she came?"
Miss Benedict's manner instantly became a trifle confused and
embarrassed. "It is--er--a little difficult to explain, I confess," she
stammered. "The truth is--I--er--it is commonly reported that we--that
is--I have some means. I have frequently, in the past years, received
very strange letters from people utterly unknown to me,--begging
letters, letters proposing to invest my money for me,--oh! I cannot
begin to tell you all the strange things these letters propose. I
understand it is a not unusual experience--with well-to-do people. I
have even received letters proposing that I adopt the writer's children
and eventually settle my money on them!"
Here Janet and Marcia could not repress a giggle, and Miss Benedict
smiled slightly in sympathy.
"It _does_ sound absurd," she admitted; "but it is quite true, and has
often been most annoying. So, when the letter arrived announcing
Cecily's coming, for which there was given no particular explanation, I
thought it simply another case of a similar kind. And I resolved to
dismiss both the child and her attendant as soon as they appeared.
"But when the day came, strangely enough, I changed my mind. It was
Cecily herself led me to do so. I felt as soon as I looked at her that,
whoever had sent her here and for whatever purpose, the child herself
was innocent of any fraud or imposture. She believed that I would
receive her, that I _knew_ it was all right. There was something
_trusting_ about her eyes, her look, her whole manner. I cannot explain
it. And that was not all--there was another reason.
"I suddenly realized how very lonely I was, how desirable it would be to
have with me a young companion--like Cecily. I know that the life I lead
is--is different--and peculiar. It is owing to unusual circumstances
that I cannot explain to you. But I have become so accustomed to this
life that of late years I scarcely realized it _was_ so--different. But
when I saw Cecily--I felt suddenly--its loneliness."
With the laying aside of her veil, Miss Benedict seemed also to have
laid aside some of the reticence in which she had shrouded herself. And
her three hearers, listening spellbound, realized how utterly charming
she could be--if she _allowed_ herself to be so.
"A great desire seized me," she went on, "to take her in and keep her
with me a while. If, later, some one came to claim her, well and good. I
would let her go. Or if no one came and I found I had been
mistaken,--that she was not companionable,--I could make some other
provision for her. Meantime, I would yield to this new desire and enjoy
her presence--here. In addition to that, the lady in whose company she
had traveled was not in position to keep Cecily longer with her, and the
child would be left without protection. So I took her in. And so I have
kept her ever since, because I am daily becoming more--attached to her."
It was a great admission for this reticent little lady, and they all
realized it. So deeply were they impressed that none of them could make
any response. Presently Miss Benedict continued:
"After Cecily had told me her story I determined to write to the village
of Cranby, England, and find out what I could about her mother, Mrs.
Marlowe. I knew no one to whom I could address the inquiries, but sent
them on chance to the vicar of the parish church. In due time I received
a reply. It stated that Mrs. Marlowe was not a native of that town, but
came there to live about twelve years ago, with her three-year-old
daughter. Nothing was known about her personal affairs except that her
husband and all her people were dead, and that she had come there from a
distant part of England because the climate of her former home did not
agree with her little daughter. She never talked much about herself, and
lived in a very retired, quiet way. She left no property or effects of
any value. Why she should have sent her child to me was as much a
mystery as ever. About Cecily's father the vicar knew nothing. That is
all the information I have."
Miss Benedict stopped abruptly. Cecily opened her lips to say something,
then closed them again without having spoken. Marcia fidgeted uneasily
in her chair. Miss Benedict looked down at her lap. An embarrassed
silence seemed to have fallen on them all. Only Janet, knitting her
brows over the puzzle, was unaware of it.
"But, Miss Benedict," she began, "we all think that these bracelets may
have something to do with Cecily's affairs--might explain a good deal of
the mystery, if we could only puzzle them out. Have you noticed what
strange signs there are on them? We think they must be something in
Chinese. Let me give you a little more light and then you can see them
better." And Janet, deeply immersed in the subject and still unconscious
of her blunder, was about to go and open a shutter, when Miss Benedict
quickly raised her hand.
"Please--er--_please_ do not!" she exclaimed hurriedly.
"Oh! I beg your pardon--I forgot!" cried Janet, in confusion, and the
silence at once became more embarrassed than ever. So much so, in fact,
that Miss Benedict evidently felt impelled to explain her conduct. And
she made the first revelation concerning her singular mode of life.
"I am--er--my eyes are not able to stand it. For years I have suffered
with some obscure trouble in them. I can _see_, but I cannot stand any
bright light. It hurts them beyond endurance. At home I must have the
rooms darkened in this way. And when I go out, even my heavy veil is
not sufficient. Behind it I must also wear smoked spectacles."
She said no more, but she did not need to. A little inarticulate murmur
of sympathy rose from her listeners. And in the twilight of the room
Marcia glanced quickly and guiltily into Janet's contrite face.