CHAPTER VIII
AT THE END OF THE STRING
It was past midnight, that night, before the two girls could settlethemselves for a wink of sleep. So bewildering had been Cecily'srevelations about herself and Miss Benedict and the conditions in themysterious house, that they found inexhaustible food for discussion andconjecture.
The most interesting question, of course, was the absorbing mystery ofhow Cecily came to be there at all.
"Why should her mother have sent her there?" demanded Marcia, for thetwentieth time.
"Perhaps she was a relative," ventured Janet.
"That's perfect nonsense," argued Marcia, "for then Miss Benedict wouldsurely have acted quite differently. If she had been the most distantconnection, Miss Benedict would surely have told her. No, I should sayshe might be the child of a friend that Miss Benedict never caredparticularly 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 ladyin the house!" added Janet.
"What a darling Cecily is!" exclaimed Marcia, irrelevantly. "If MissBenedict knew how sweet and loyal and obedient Cecily is, she'd be alittle less strict with her, I'm sure. I suppose she doesn't want her togossip about what goes on in that queer house. And, by the way, we mustget our string in working order to-morrow. Let's send her other thingsbeside notes, too--things she'd enjoy."
And until they fell asleep they planned the campaign for lightening thelonely hours of the girl next door.
"They heard Cecily's light footsteps"]
Next day they jointly wrote a long letter,--telling all aboutthemselves, their homes, their schools, their studies, and any otheritems they thought might interest her,--fastened it to the end of thestring, and dropped it into the dark garden after nightfall. Later theyheard Cecily's light footsteps in the gloom below, and when they pulledup 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 totake it," said Janet; "and I'm relieved, even if she doesn't answer. Ican see why she mightn't think it right to do _that_. And now we mustplan to send her something besides, every once in a while. I shouldthink she'd just die of lonesomeness in that old place, and with hardlya thing to do, either!"
That night they sent her down a little box of fudge that they had madein the afternoon, and the next night a book that had captivated themboth. And when they pulled up the string the evening after, there wasthe 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 absorbedinterest.
"Who could possibly imagine her as beautiful!" they marveled. And truly,it was an effort of imagination to connect beauty with the queer, oddlyarrayed little figure.
Also, at various times during each day, Marcia made a point of giving alittle violin concert at her window, and, at Janet's suggestion, hadchosen the liveliest and most cheerful music in her repertoire for sadlittle Cecily's entertainment.
The two girls likewise exhausted every possibility in the line of smallgifts and tiny trifles to amuse and entertain their young neighbor. Butthere was no further communication from her till one night after theyhad sent down an embroidery ring and silks, the latest pattern of adainty boudoir-cap, and elaborate instructions how to embroider it. Nextnight there was a note on the end of the string when they drew it up. Itread:
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 theboudoir-cap that pleased her. And then they spent much time wonderingwhat use she _was_ going to make of it.
Two nights later, when they pulled up the string, they found, to theirsurprise, a small parcel attached to the end. It contained a little boxin which lay, wrapped in jeweler's cotton, a tiny coral pendant in anold-fashioned gold setting, and a silver bracelet of thin filigree-work.The pendant was labeled, "For Marcia, with Cecily's love," and thebracelet, "For Janet, with love from Cecily."
The two girls gazed at the pathetic little gifts and sudden tears cameinto their eyes.
"Oh, Jan!" half sobbed Marcia; "we oughtn't to keep them! They'reprobably the only trinkets she has."
But Janet was wiser. "We must keep them," she decided. "Cecily doesn'twant all the giving to be on one side, and she has probably been longingto do something for us. I suppose these are the only things she had thatwould be suitable. Much as I hate to have her deprive herself of them, Iknow she'd be terribly hurt if we sent them back. To-morrow we mustwrite her the best letter of thanks we can."
So the days went by for two or three weeks. The girls caught, in allthis time, not so much as one glimpse of Cecily, but they managed,thanks to their "line of communication," to keep constantly in touchwith her. Meantime, the summer weather waxed hotter and hotter, and thecity fairly steamed under the July sun. Their own time was taken up bymany diversions: trips to the parks, beaches, and zoo; excursions outof town with Aunt Minerva; shopping, and quiet sewing or reading intheir pleasant living-room. Every time they went out of their home on apleasure-jaunt, they felt guilty, to think of the lonely little prisonercooped up in the dreary house next door, and both declared they wouldgladly give up their places to her, had such a thing been possible.
Then, one night, something unusual occurred. They had sent down theusual 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 thatCecily feels she mustn't do this any more?"
"_I_ didn't hear any footsteps down there to-night, did you?" saidJanet.
"No, come to think of it, I didn't. She must have stayed indoors for thefirst time since we began this. But what do you suppose is the reason?"
Janet suddenly clutched her friend. "Marcia, can it be possible thatMiss Benedict has discovered what we've been doing, and won't let hercome 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 itover.
"Well, what are we going to do about it?" demanded Marcia.
"Wait till to-morrow night and try again," counseled Janet. "It's justpossible Cecily had a headache or felt sick from this abominable heatand couldn't come down. Let's see what happens to-morrow."
The next night they tied the basket and another note to the string anddropped it down hopefully. But they drew it up untouched, precisely thesame as before.
"It's just one of two things," decided Marcia. "Either Cecily is ill orMiss Benedict has found out about our little plan and forbidden Cecilyto 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 getbetter pretty soon and come out some night, and there'll be nothing forher. She'd be dreadfully disappointed. I don't care if there _is_ thepossibility that Miss Benedict knows all about it. I'm going to keepright on writing and take the chance!"
For a whole week they followed their usual program, nightly sending downa fresh note that they always later drew up, unclaimed. And as the dayspassed they became more and more ala
rmed. Something had certainlyhappened to Cecily. Of that they were sure, and their misgivings grewmore 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 mightnever see Cecily again, and the delightful and curious friendship wouldbe ended forever.
Their usual good spirits were quite subdued, and even their heartyappetites suffered somewhat, which worried Aunt Minerva not a little,though she attributed it to the heat. Finally, one night, precisely oneweek after the first unclaimed communication, they sent down the usualletter, begging Cecily, if possible, to let them know what was thematter. It seemed to both, during the interval they left it there, thatthey heard light, almost stealthy footsteps in the garden below. Butneither 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 itthey saw fastened a little scrap of paper, no bigger than a quarter ofan 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 spreadit out on the table.
It was not in Cecily's handwriting, and contained but a few words. Bothgirls read it at a glance, and then stared into each other's eyes, halfterror-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.