AUNT MINERVA TAKES COMMAND
For an entire week thereafter Aunt Minerva went her own mysterious way,
calm and unruffled herself, but keeping the rest of her family on
tenter-hooks of excitement.
She wrote mysterious letters which she would allow no one but herself to
mail, and received mysterious replies, the contents of which she kept a
dark secret. They watched her with the feeling that they were quite
outside the game now, and that she had the keys of the situation
entirely in her own hands. Which was indeed the truth!
At last one day, after receiving a particularly bulky communication, she
deigned to speak.
"Can you carry a message for me to Miss Benedict?" she inquired of
Marcia and Janet.
"Yes!" they replied eagerly, but humbly.
"Ask her if she could possibly grant an interview in her own house to
the four of us here--and one other. It's very important."
"Oh, Aunt Minerva, you _know_ she never receives _any_ strangers in the
house!" expostulated Marcia.
"I know that, of course. And you told me the reason, which I quite
appreciate. But there's bound to come a time, even in her peculiar
experience, when it's expedient to break a rule like that. The time has
come now, and you can tell her that I'm sure she'll be very sorry if she
does not grant this request. The matter intimately concerns her, or I
would not dream of intruding on her."
"Well, you may as well tell _us_ what you've been concocting, Minerva,"
interrupted Captain Brett. "You've kept us in the dark about long
enough, haven't you? And if I'm to go in there with the procession, I'd
like to know a thing or two about where I'm at, instead of sitting
around like a dummy! And who is this 'other one' you allude to, anyway?"
Miss Minerva laughed at his impatience. "You may well ask, Edwin! I
think you must have been about as blind as a bat not to see right along
what struck _me_ the very first minute after you told me what the
jig-saw things on that bracelet meant! As soon as I heard the word
'Amoy' the idea jumped right into my mind. About two months ago I heard
a most wonderful address by a Dr. Atwater, a medical missionary from
China, whose headquarters are at the hospital in _Amoy_. And you can
easily see that I thought of him at once, when--"
"By Jove!" thundered the captain, striking his knee with his fist, "what
a jolly goose I've been not to have thought of the _missions_ there at
once!"
"I should say you were!" commented Miss Minerva, caustically. "You and
the major together!"
"Well, you see I've never come in contact with them much--" began the
captain, apologetically.
"Never mind that now," went on Miss Minerva. "I thought of Dr. Atwater
right away. He's been there many years, and knows something about most
every one in the region, I guess. Anyhow, I decided that I'd get his
address (he's in this country on a year's furlough) and write to him
about this queer case. And I did. And he has answered me--"
"And were you right?" they all interrupted.
"I was _so_ right," she announced triumphantly, "that I've asked him to
come and tell this story (which he has only outlined in his letter) in
full to Miss Benedict. And I want you all to be there to hear it. And
what's more, I'm not going to tell you another word about it till you
hear it from him, so it's no use to tease for hints! Go right in and ask
Miss Benedict when she can arrange for this interview--the sooner, the
better!"
* * * * *
It was not an easy matter to persuade Miss Benedict to grant Aunt
Minerva's request. She was shy and timid about receiving strangers, and
her affection of the eyes, as well as her curious manner of living, made
it hard for her to do so. She had to acknowledge that it would be even
harder to see them elsewhere. Nor could she believe that the affair
really concerned _her_, except very indirectly--through Cecily, perhaps.
It was for Cecily's sake alone that she at last gave a reluctant
consent, assigning the following Wednesday afternoon as the appointed
time. And the intervening two days was spent by them all in a restless
fever of expectation--all, at least, except Aunt Minerva!
* * * * *
On Wednesday afternoon, Dr. Atwater arrived at the apartment and was
taken in charge at once by Miss Minerva, who guarded him like a dragon
lest a hint of the important secret should slip out before the appointed
time. He was a tall, angular man with a gray, Vandyke beard, and his
face was grave in repose. But he talked brightly and interestingly and
had the jolliest laugh in the world. The girls thought him very unlike
their preconceived notions of a missionary. He and the captain
fraternized at once, exchanging tales of the Far East to which Janet
and Marcia listened in absorbed wonder.
But at last Aunt Minerva was ready, and the "procession" (as the captain
insisted on calling it) filed into the street and proceeded to the gate
of "Benedict's Folly." So unusual was the sight of the little crowd
waiting to be admitted, where no admittance had been granted in so many
years, that every passer-by stared at them open-mouthed.
Miss Benedict opened the gate, bonneted and veiled as usual, and Marcia
made the introductions as best she could, to which Miss Benedict's
replies were murmured so low that no one could hear them. Then she led
the way to the house and into the darkened parlor, where they all sat
down, with a sensation of heavy constraint. After that, Cecily came in
and was presented to Dr. Atwater. He started slightly when he saw her,
and looked into her face long and scrutinizingly in the dim light.
When Miss Benedict had removed her bonnet and veil Aunt Minerva broke
the silence:
"Miss Benedict, I have brought Dr. Atwater here because I have
discovered that he has something to tell you--something that will be of
intense interest to you. I know this may seem incredible, but I can only
beg that you will do us the favor to listen."
Miss Benedict inclined her head without speaking, and Aunt Minerva
continued:
"You have heard, I believe, about the curious incident of the bracelets,
but I do not know whether you have heard about the translation of the
strange characters on them."
Miss Benedict murmured that she had not, and Miss Minerva explained it
as briefly as she could. Then she went on:
"Dr. Atwater, here, is a medical missionary from Amoy, and I have found
that he not only knew the owner of the bracelets, but has some personal
recollections about them that we think will concern you. Will you listen
to Dr. Atwater, if you please?"
Miss Benedict again bowed in assent, and Dr. Atwater began in an easy,
conversational tone:
"Miss Brett has remarked correctly that I knew the owner of the
bracelets, and all about the characters on them, and a good deal of the
story connected with them. By sheer chance, or rather, perhaps, I ought
to say by very good reasoning, she has hit on about the only person
living now who does know anything about them! Here's the story:
"A good many years ago in Amoy--I was quite a _young_ doctor then--I was
thrown in with a clever young fellow who had recently landed there,
having come on a sailing-ship from America. He seemed rather at loose
ends, so to speak,--didn't know the language, didn't have any money,
didn't know what to do with himself, didn't have any occupation, and
spent most of his time wandering aimlessly about the town.
"He was a fine, upstanding, straightforward chap (he said his name was
Archibald Ferris), but he evidently had something on his mind, for he
was gloomy and depressed. It began to worry me for fear he'd drift into
trouble if he kept on that way. So I tried to get him interested in my
own work, and invited him to go around with me on some of my long tours.
We didn't have any hospital then, and I had to go about from town to
town doing my medical work as I went. He came with me very gladly, and
was of a good deal of assistance, and we grew to be firm friends. But I
realized there was something he was pining for, and after a long while
he confessed to me what it was.
"He wanted a _violin_! He adored music, played well, but had lost or
parted from his instrument in some way. (He didn't explain that, just
then.) Well, a missionary's salary isn't munificent, so I couldn't very
well grant his wish out of my own pocket, much as I wanted to. The best
I could do was to get him a position in a Chinese tea-exporting house in
Amoy, where he could earn the money himself. It was better for him to be
regularly occupied, anyway.
"After a few months he had saved a sufficient sum, and sent off to
Shanghai for his coveted treasure--he couldn't wait to get it over from
America! After it came he was actually happy--for a while. He _was_ a
marvelous musician for his age, I'll admit, and he could hold us
spellbound an entire evening at a time with his bow. The natives adored
him, and gave him the name 'Chok-gak e lang' or 'maker of melodies.'
"Well, he had the musical temperament, and after his violin came he
couldn't stay long in the tea-house, but got to going about with me
again on my tours--always with his precious violin. He was really of the
greatest assistance, because his music was almost as good as an
anaesthetic in many instances--could calm the most excitable fever-case I
ever came across.
"It was on one of these tours that he met young Miss Cecily Marlowe at
the English mission in Sio-khe--"
At this point every one gave a little start of surprise and looked
toward Cecily, who alone sat gazing, wide-eyed and absorbed, at Dr.
Atwater.
"She was a wonderfully beautiful girl," he continued, "with a color
like English roses in her cheeks. The Chinese called her
'Flower-maiden,' or 'Hor-lu.' She had but recently come to the mission
from her home in England. Well, it was a case of love at first sight on
both sides! And before many more months Ferris announced to me that he
was going back into the position at the tea-house and there earn enough
money to be able to marry her. But he also told me that Miss Marlowe,
while very much in love with him, was still very devoted to her work
there and very earnest about the cause for which she had left her home
and come so far to serve. She insisted that, if they married, she must
still be allowed to continue in the missionary work. To this he was
perfectly willing to assent.
"So they were married in the English mission at Amoy, and on the
wedding-day he gave her this pair of bracelets which he had had made
after his own design. They were not an expensive gift, but he was poor,
in worldly goods, and it was the best he could afford. After the
honeymoon they built a little home on the island of Ko-longsu, right
near the city of Amoy. He went on with his work in the tea-house, and
she with her teaching in the mission-school on the island.
"It seemed an ideal arrangement, and they were ideally happy for a
number of years. He never advanced very far in the tea-house, for he
loved his music too well and he had no head for business. But he made
enough to keep them comfortably, and more they did not want.
"Then about 1898, I think, came a change. To their great joy a little
daughter was born to them. She was a beautiful baby, and for over a year
there was no happier home in all China. But one day, when the baby was
about a year and a half old, Ferris came to me and told me he was in
trouble and wanted my advice.
"He began by telling me that the baby seemed to be drooping and that he
himself was not feeling quite up to the mark. I looked them both over
and found he was right. The climate was too much for them. It is for
many foreigners sooner or later. I told him they ought to go home for a
year or so and recuperate. He said he couldn't--didn't have any home to
go to, in fact. Had long ago quarreled violently with his people, and
would never go back to them. Moreover, he had his wife and baby to
consider. He couldn't afford to give up and lose his position. If he
did, what were they to do?
"I suggested that they go to his wife's people in England. He said there
was difficulty in that direction, too. She had only a married brother
and his wife, and they had not approved of her giving up all her
prospects to come to China as a missionary. They heard from them only at
long intervals, though recently, to be sure, they had offered to take
care of the little girl if the time came that she needed change of air.
"Ferris told me that he and his wife naturally could not bear to
consider such a thing, but on the other hand, the baby's welfare must be
their first consideration. What should I advise them to do?
"I considered the matter carefully, and at last told him he'd better
accept the offer to care for the baby for a year or so. She, at least,
would be provided for, and he and his wife could then take their chances
without imperiling her future. To follow this advice nearly broke their
hearts, but the next missionaries who went back to England on furlough
took the baby with them, and gave her into the care of the brother and
his wife. It is needless to say that Cecily Ferris is the same whom we
know as Cecily Marlowe. I would recognize her anywhere, for she is the
image of her mother." And he looked toward the girl sitting in the dim
light, held by the wonder of his story. The silence that ensued was
broken first by her.
"Tell me, if you please," she half whispered, "did my father ever--ever
play to me on his violin? Do you know what he played?"
"Why, I'm sure he did," smiled Dr. Atwater. "I used to stop at his house
early in the evening sometimes, and I generally found him fiddling away
by the side of your cradle. Mostly it was an air he called 'Traeumerei,'
or something like that. I'm not very good at remembering musical
names."
"I knew it!--I _knew_ I'd heard it somewhere, over and over again, when
I was little!" she cried. "And yet I never could remember anything else
about it!"
"He used to say it was his favorite," remarked Dr. Atwater.
Suddenly Miss Benedict spoke, for the first time during the recital.
There was a tremble of suppressed excitement in her voice.
"Is that all the story?"
"Oh, no!" resumed Dr. Atwater. "There's not much more to tell, but I'm
sorry to say, the rest is not very cheerful. After the baby's departure
Ferris's health failed perceptibly. He finally gave up his position, but
Mrs. Ferris kept on with her work and nursed him as well. But the strain
of all this began to tell on her, and at last, in 1900, I advised her to
take a holiday, and go north to Tientsin with her husband to recuperate.
We missionaries raised enough among ourselves to finance this little
vacation for them. Before he went, however, Ferris had a long talk with
me one day, and confided to me a few things about himself and his past.
To begin with, he said that Archibald Ferris was not his right name. He
had assumed it at a certain period of his life because he had broken
away from his family, and did not deem it best that what remained of
that family should ever know he existed. They probably thought him
dead--in fact he was sure that they did. And his return to existence, so
far as they were concerned, would simply complicate family affairs. Only
his wife knew who these relatives were. He had recently, however, sent
word to his wife's brother that should anything ever happen by which
Cecily would be left alone, she should be sent to America and placed in
the care of this family, whose name he had given them under the seal of
secrecy, if the brother and his wife were unable or unwilling to provide
for her. He also sent one of the bracelets to England to be given to his
little daughter, requesting that she be always allowed to keep it. The
mother always wore the other one.
"He was very much depressed that day, and told me, besides, that his
career had been wrecked in the beginning--that he had dreamed of being a
great violinist, but had been thwarted in strange ways. However, he
declared that his life in China had been happy beyond words, except for
the unhappy present. Then he bade me good-by, as he was starting for
Tientsin the next day."
Dr. Atwater stopped abruptly and swallowed hard, as if what he had to
tell next came with an effort. He went on presently. "It was at the time
of the Boxer uprising. Ferris and his wife had almost reached Tientsin
when the trouble broke out there, and--they were never seen alive
again!" He stopped, and there was a tense silence in the room.
At last he continued: "I have always blamed myself for having been the
unwitting cause of their death. I had advised them to go to Tientsin,
though of course I could not foresee the dark days that were about to
come. I wish with all my soul that I had not done so, that I had,
perhaps, sent them somewhere else, but it is irrevocable now. There is
no use dwelling on the past.
"Doubtless that is how the other bracelet came to be cast loose on the
Oriental world. Probably it was stolen at the time, and passed from hand
to hand till it came into the possession of Captain Brett. It is a
strange coincidence that brought it back at last to its mate!
"It became my sad duty to notify Mr. Marlowe of the tragedy. In his
reply--a frank, manly letter--he expressed his regret that a difference
of opinion had ever interrupted the cordiality of his relations with his
sister and her husband, and said that, as he and his wife already loved
little Cecily devotedly, they would adopt her as their own. They were
reluctant to have her childhood shadowed by her parents' sorrowful
story, and so believed it best that she should never know that she was
not indeed their daughter, Cecily Marlowe.
"Well, that is the story of the man who called himself Archibald
Ferris," said Dr. Atwater. He looked about him inquiringly and added: "I
hope that my telling it has given all the enlightenment that was
expected?"
During his long recital every one had sat with eyes fastened upon him,
and no one of his audience had a thought for the other. Now that it was
over they each drew a long breath and settled back in their chairs. And
then, for the first time, they noticed the curious conduct of Miss
Benedict.
She was sitting far forward in her chair, her big gray eyes almost
starting from her head, her hands clutching the arms of the chair till
the blue veins stood out. On her forehead were great beads of
perspiration, and she drew her breath in little gasps. Quite unconscious
of their united gaze, she leaned forward and touched Dr. Atwater's arm
with an imploring hand.
"Was there--was there no way of--of ascertaining his _real_ name?" she
stammered.
Dr. Atwater looked at her with compassion in his kindly eyes. "I know of
but one thing that might have served as an identification," he conceded.
"When I was giving him the medical examination, I noticed on his left
upper arm two small initials surrounded by a tiny row of dots. They
were just such a mark as small boys often tattoo themselves with in
indelible ink, and of course, they are there for life. Doubtless he had
so decorated himself with his initials in his boyhood days--"
"Oh, what _were_ the initials?" interrupted Miss Benedict in a stifled
voice.
"They were 'S. B.,'" replied Dr. Atwater.
With a little choking cry, Miss Benedict buried her face in her hands.
"Oh, it can't--it _can't_ be _possible_!" they heard her murmur. Then in
an instant she had collected herself and gazed about at them all,
amazement and incredulity in her lovely eyes.
"My friends," she spoke very quietly, "I cannot understand what this
means. My brother's name was Sydney Benedict, and I remember when, as a
boy, he had tattooed those initials on his left arm, as Dr. Atwater has
described them. And he performed wonderfully on the violin, and dreamed
only of being a great artist some day. He longed to go abroad and
study, but my father would not hear of it. He wished his only son to
enter his business and continue it after him. They were both
high-tempered and had many terrible quarrels about it. I--my sister and
I--sided with my father. At last my father threatened to disinherit
Sydney if he did not accede to his wishes. And on the following
morning--it was his twenty-first birthday--we found only a note pinned
to his pillow, saying he had gone away forever. He had taken with him
only his violin.
"But," and here she hesitated, gazing around inquiringly on the company,
"I cannot understand what follows. Two weeks later we received word from
a steamer that had just arrived in Europe from New York, that a young
man named Sydney Benedict had fallen or jumped overboard one night when
they were two days out, and his loss was not discovered till next day.
Only his violin remained in the cabin. He was certainly lost at sea. I
cannot understand--" She suddenly pressed both hands to her head as if
it pained her.
"Wait a moment!" cried Dr. Atwater. "I believe I can explain that. I
should have told it before, but I quite forgot; there was so much to
tell. He did once confide to me (apropos of some little adventure we had
had together on one of my trips, when I almost lost my life) that he too
had once had the narrowest kind of escape from death. He said that on
leaving America he had taken a steamer for Europe, hoping to find the
means to study there. They hadn't passed Sandy Hook, however, before he
became violently seasick, and lay in his berth like a log for
twenty-four hours. On the second night it became so stiflingly hot in
his cabin that he felt he must get to the deck for air or die.
"So he struggled out and up the companionway, somehow, meeting no one,
for it was very late. On the deck he crawled in behind a life-boat, and
lay in a rather unprotected outer portion of the deck, so sick that he
scarcely knew where he was or how dangerous was the spot he had chosen.
All of a sudden the vessel gave an unusually heavy lurch, and before he
could clutch for any hold he was catapulted into the sea.
"Curiously enough, the sudden ducking dispelled his horrible sickness,
and when he came to the surface he found himself striking out to swim.
Useless to shout for help from the great steamer, which had already
passed a boat's length beyond him. But he was a strong swimmer, the
night was warm, and he resolved not to give up till he _had_ to.
"All night, till dawn, he managed to keep on the surface, swimming and
floating. And at daylight a sailing-vessel picked him up, numb and
weary, and ready to go to the bottom at the next stroke. The ship on
which he found himself was bound for China, and of course he had to 'tag
along,' working his passage as a common sailor in return for his keep.
It was then, I suspect, that he made up his mind to change his name. I
think, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Archibald Ferris and Sydney
Benedict are one and the same person!"
At this Aunt Minerva, who hadn't spoken a word since her speech of
introduction, put on her glasses and swept the assembly with a
triumphant gaze. The girls and Captain Brett were so absorbed that they
could not utter a syllable, and Miss Benedict sat back in her chair in a
stunned silence.
Only Cecily seemed unconscious enough of the strain to do the natural
thing. She rose from her chair and went over to Miss Benedict, dropping
down on her knees beside her, and snuggling her head on the older
woman's shoulder with a confiding movement.
"I'm Cecily _Benedict_ now," she said simply, "and I--I love you--Aunt
Alixe! I'm glad there _was_ a good reason why I was sent over here to
you!"
Miss Benedict looked down at the golden head, and the terrible tension
in her face relaxed.
"Sydney's child!--my little Cecily!" they heard her murmur.
But they heard no more, for at this point, Aunt Minerva arose and
majestically motioned the entire company out of the room!