VIA WIRELESS
It was a week after the events of the last chapter. The girls had gone
regularly every day to visit Cecily. It was Marcia who had finally
mustered up courage to ask Miss Benedict if Cecily could not go into the
garden and enjoy there some outdoor air and sunshine. Miss Benedict had
hesitated at first, but at last she conceded that Cecily and the girls
might sit in the garden if they would go out of the house by a small
side door and remain on that side of the house.
They found that this door was on the opposite side of the house from
Cecily's room: consequently, they had never seen it. And they soon
discovered one reason, at least, why Miss Benedict wished them to remain
exclusively on that side. It was screened both back and front by thick
bushes and trees. And at the side, above the garden wall, rose the high
blank side of a building, unrelieved by a single window. Here they were
as absolutely screened from public view as if they were within the
house. Here also was an old rustic bench and table, and they spent
several happy mornings in the secluded spot, sewing, reading, and
chatting.
Cecily seemed fairly to open out before their eyes, like a flower-bud
expanding in warm, sunny atmosphere. Only at times now did she show any
trace of the frightened repression of their earlier acquaintance. They
seldom talked abut the mystery surrounding her, because they had
discovered that any allusion to it only made her uneasy, unhappy, and
rather silent. Moreover, further discussion of it was rather useless, as
they seemed to have reached a point in its solution beyond which
progress was hopeless.
So they talked gaily about themselves and their own affairs, sometimes
of their former home in Northam, the pleasant New England village.
Occasionally Cecily would reciprocate by allowing them glimpses of her
life in the obscure little English town from which she had come. Only
rarely did she allude to the circumstances of her present home, and
though the girls secretly ached to know more about it, they were too
tactful to ask any questions.
One query, whose answer they could not guess was this: who was the other
mysterious old lady, kept so closely a prisoner in her room by Miss
Benedict? And why was she so kept? Marcia and Janet were never tired of
discussing this question between themselves. That it was a relative,
they could not doubt. And they recalled one or two remarks Miss Benedict
had dropped, particularly when she had said: "We--that is--I have some
means."
The "we" must certainly have referred to herself and the other one. But
could that "other one" be mother, sister, aunt, or cousin? And why was
there so much secrecy about her? Cecily had only said that Miss Benedict
referred to her as "the lady in there who is not very well." But why
conceal so carefully just an ordinary invalid?
"You never can tell, though," remarked Janet, decisively, one night when
they had been discussing the matter with Aunt Minerva. "Were you ever
more stunned, Marcia, than at the reason she gave for having all the
shutters closed? I think it was the most pitiful thing I ever heard, I
could just have sat and _cried_ about it. And it was so different from
all the awful things we'd imagined. Perhaps there is just as good a
reason for this other mystery."
"But what puzzles me," broke in Aunt Minerva, impatiently, "is why that
woman, if she's so wealthy, doesn't go to a good oculist and have some
treatment for her eyes. They can do such wonders nowadays. Why on earth
does she endure it? I never heard of anything so silly!"
"I suppose it's for the same reason that she wouldn't have a doctor when
she hurt her ankle," said Marcia. "She evidently doesn't want a stranger
in the house, even for such important things as those."
One day Cecily asked Marcia why she never brought in her violin since
the occasion of the first visit, and requested that she bring it with
her next day and give them a concert.
So on the following day Marcia came armed with her violin case and also
an interesting new book from the library that she thought Cecily would
enjoy.
"Let's read the book first," Cecily elected. So, sitting in the secluded
corner of the garden, the three spent a happy morning, reading aloud,
turn about, while the others worked at their embroidery. At last, when
all were tired, Cecily begged Marcia to play, and she laid her book
aside and took up the violin.
"What shall I play?" she asked. "Something lively?"
"No," said Cecily. "Play something soft and sweet and dreamy. I feel
just in that mood to-day. It's too hot for lively things."
Marcia played the Liszt "Liebestraum," and a lovely setting of the old
Scotch song "Loch Lomond," and after that the "Melody in F." And then,
at Cecily's entreating glance, she drifted, as usual, into the
"Traeumerei."
"Do you know," said Cecily, when she had ended, "I believe I must have
heard that thing when I was a baby. It's the only reason I can think of
that it seems so--so familiar. And yet--unless I'd heard it a great,
great many times then, I don't think it would have made such an
impression on me. And where could I have heard it? Play it again,
Marcia, please."
Marcia obligingly began, but she had gone no farther than the first few
measures when the door opened and Miss Benedict appeared. She seemed
very much agitated, and her bonnet and veil, donned in an evident hurry,
were slightly awry.
"I beg you," she began, turning to Marcia, "not to play any more.
I--er--it is--is not because it is not beautiful, but it is--is slightly
disturbing to--some one inside."
"Why, of course I won't, Miss Benedict," said Marcia, dropping her bow.
"I wouldn't have done such a thing if I'd dreamed it would disturb any
one."
"It isn't--it isn't that _I_ don't love it," stammered Miss Benedict,
"for I do. But it seems to be very upsetting to--" She hesitated, just
a fraction of a moment, and then seemed to take a sudden resolution.
"--to my sister!" she ended flutteringly, as though the simple admission
carried something damaging with it. It required strong self-control for
the three girls not to exchange glances.
"Oh, I hope I haven't done her any harm!" cried Marcia, contritely.
"No--she--it has just made her a little nervous. She will be all right
soon, I trust. But I noticed that it had the same effect--before," went
on Miss Benedict. "I fear I shall have to ask you not--not to play again
in her hearing. And I am very sorry, both for Cecily--and myself." And
she retreated into the house again, closing the door softly.
On the way back to luncheon that noon the girls excitedly discussed the
newest turn of affairs and the newest revelation made by their strange
neighbor. And so absorbed were they in this fresh interest and so
anxious to impart it to Aunt Minerva that they scarcely noticed she was
laboring under a suppressed excitement quite as great as their own.
Indeed, she paid but scant attention to their recital; and when they had
finished, her only comment was:
"Very odd--very odd indeed. But you never can guess about the news _I_
have!"
"No, no! Of course I can't guess. Tell us--quick!" cried Marcia,
impatiently. "It's something wonderful, I know!"
Miss Minerva made no reply, but suddenly laid a wireless telegram before
them. Marcia snatched it up and read aloud:
"_Change of sailing-plans. Will be home in two days._
"EDWIN BRETT."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" she cried. "Father's coming! A whole two months before
we expected him! _Now_ we'll hear something about the bracelet--and who
knows what will happen after that!"