CHAPTER XVI
ONE MYSTERY EXPLAINED
Meantime, Cecily Marlowe, immured in the lonely house, had been havingan experience all her own. And when the girls came to see her, the dayafter the visit to the ship, she too was bursting with news. But shequietly waited till they had told their own tale, and was as puzzled asthey about the strange translation of the characters on the bracelet. Ofanything pertaining to China or the Chinese she had not the remotestnotion, and could not understand how it could have any connection withher affairs.
"Now you must hear _my_ story," she began, when they had discussed thenewest development till there was nothing left to discuss. "It's aboutMiss Benedict. She has--but just wait, and I'll begin at the beginning.It was two nights ago, and she had one of those headaches. She hassuch very bad ones, you know. She says they are from her poor eye-sight,and she suffers terribly.
"Well, she had a worse one than usual, and so she was obliged to call meinto her room and ask me to fetch things for her. I sat by her andbathed her head and fanned her, and at last she fell asleep. Even then Ididn't go away, but sat there fanning and fanning her for a long time,till finally, after a couple of hours, she woke up.
"She was very much better then, and presently she began to talk to mequite differently from what she ever had before. First she asked me if Iwere contented and happy here. I said I tried to be, but I was verylonely sometimes. She didn't say much to that, but suddenly she spokeagain:
"Child, I suppose you wonder very much at this queer lifeI lead!"]
"'Child, I suppose you wonder very much at this queer life I lead, don'tyou?' I said, yes, I couldn't help wondering about it. Then she turnedaway her head and whispered:
"'Oh, if you only _knew_, you would not wonder! I have been veryunhappy. My life has been very unhappy!' All I could think of to answerher was that I was so sorry, and she need not tell me anything shedidn't wish to. I would never ask about it. And she raised herself up inbed, and said:
"'That's just it, dear child. I have always supposed that young folkswere one and all curious, inquisitive, and thoughtless. That is onereason I was so--so strict with you--in the beginning. But you and thosetwo nice girls next door have been a revelation to me.'
"Wasn't that lovely of her?" exclaimed Cecily, interrupting herself.
"Just darling!" cried Marcia. "But do go on, Cecily. We're crazy to hearwhat came next!"
"Well, next she said: 'People think I live a very singular life, I know.They think I'm eccentric--queer--crazy, even! Oh, _I_ know it! But thereare few alive to-day--and none in this neighborhood--who even guess atthe real reason, who--remember!' And then she put her hand to her headas if it was aching badly, and dropped back on the pillow. She was veryquiet for a while, but at last she looked up again and said: 'LittleCecily, would you care to have a home with me always? Would you bewilling to put up with my queerness and peculiarities, and some of thestrange conditions here?' And I answered, indeed, yes; if I could go outonce in a while and visit you girls occasionally, I should very muchlike to stay. And she said:
"'Of course you shall, dear. You have been dreadfully shut in here, butthat was before I knew you so well. I was not sure I _wanted_ to keepyou before, but now I know that I do. I only ask you to be asconsiderate of me as you can. Some day, I feel certain, I shall lose mysight. I know that it is coming. When it does come, I shall have todepend very, very much on you. I and one other. You will not fail methen, will you, Cecily?'
"Girls, I could have cried then and there--I felt so _sorry_ for her.And I told her she could _always_ depend on me, no matter what happened.I had no other home and no one else to care for me except you girls.And after that she told me the story about herself--at least, some ofit. I can't tell it in her words, so I'll use my own. But this is it:
"A great many years ago, when this house was new, she lived here withher father and an older sister and a younger brother. They were all veryhappy together, and the brother was the pride and joy and hope of thewhole family. But one time he had a violent disagreement with his father(she didn't tell me what it was about), and she and her sister tooksides with her father against the brother. After that they had the samedisagreement a great many times, and at last one so bad that the youngman declared he wouldn't endure it any longer, and threatened to leavehome.
"They didn't believe he was really serious about it, but the nextmorning his room was vacant, and a note pinned to his pillow said he hadgone away never to return. They felt awfully about it, of course, butthat wasn't the worst. About two weeks later they received word that hehad taken passage on a steamer for Europe, and after only a day or soout he was discovered to be missing, so he must have fallen overboard,or been washed over and drowned. Wasn't that frightful?"
Janet and Marcia looked horrified. "What did she do then?" theywhispered.
"That's the most dreadful part," went on Cecily. "The shock was so greatthat the father died a week afterward--the doctors said virtually of abroken heart. So there were two gone, and within a month. The two thatwere left, Miss Benedict and her sister, shut themselves up and wentinto mourning and saw almost no one. For a while they were paralyzedwith grief. And then, little by little, very gradually, they began torealize that people were talking about them--saying dreadful things. Oneof the few friends they _did_ see let drop little hints of the gossipthat was going on outside. People were saying that they were to blamefor it all, and that they probably weren't so sorry as they pretended tobe, for now they could enjoy all the money themselves. Can you imagineanything so horrid?"
"Oh, but that's nonsense!" interrupted Janet impatiently. "How could anyone say it was their fault?"
"Well, you know how people talk," replied Cecily. "They meant that bynagging and quarreling they had driven the brother away on purpose, andthen made it so unpleasant for the father that he couldn't stand it anylonger either. It wasn't said in so many words, but just little hintsand allusions and shrugging shoulders and all that sort of thing. Butthe meaning was there underneath it all, as plain as anything.
"Their grief and the horrid talk about them made them feel so very badlythat they determined to live in such a way that no one could accuse themof enjoying an ill-gotten fortune. So they shut up the house,--at leasta large part of it,--and dismissed all their servants, and did most ofthe work themselves. After a while the few friends they had began todrop away, one by one, till no one came to see them any more.
"And then one day, two or three years later, the older sister had aparalytic stroke and lost her memory. She's been shut up in that roomever since, and Miss Benedict takes care of her. She can sit up in achair and knit, and she likes to have a chess-board on her lap, and movethe pieces around, because she once loved to play the game with heryounger brother. But she can't remember anything--not even who she isherself, and nothing about what has happened. Miss Benedict feelsterribly about her, especially about her not remembering anything, andshe says that is why she didn't tell me about her at first. It seemed soterrible.
"She says all the friends and relatives they had are dead and gone now,so no one knows the real reason for their queer life. And as the yearshave passed she has grown more and more into the habit of living thisway till it seemed quite natural to her--at least it did till I came;and now she is beginning to realize again that it _is_ queer. And shewas so afraid of gossip and talk that when you first wanted to befriends with me she would not allow it, for fear of starting moreunpleasant inquiries into her life."
"But what about her poor eyes?" asked Janet.
"Oh, yes! About ten years ago she began to have those terrible pains inher eyes, and then she had to darken all the house and wear the veil anddark glasses outdoors. She went to a doctor about them, but was toldthat the case was hopeless unless she had some complicated operation andspent months in a dark room. This she felt she couldn't do on account ofher sister, whom she _would_ not leave to a stranger's care. So she hasjust suffered ever since.
"That's all, girls, except that
she told me her sister's name isCornelia and that hers is Alixe. I'm to call her Miss Alixe after this.It makes me seem a little nearer to her."
"What a pretty name--Alixe!" commented Marcia. "It just seems to suither, somehow. But isn't that the saddest story? It just goes to show howunhappy we can make people by talking about them and their affairs."
"And oh! there's one thing more. Miss Benedict--I mean Miss Alixe--gaveme permission to tell you all this, but she only asks that you will notrepeat it except to your father and aunt. She says she knows you can bedepended on to do this."
That day, before Janet and Marcia left, they encountered Miss Benedictin the hall. And, by the way she pressed their hands in saying good-bythey felt that she knew Cecily had told them her story, though she madeno reference to it.
"Cecily may run in and visit you a while to-morrow. I think the changewill do her good," she remarked at parting. And that was the only hintshe gave of a change in the affairs of "Benedict's Folly."
When Janet and Marcia were at last outside the gate they gazed up at theforbidding brick wall and drew a long breath of wonder.
"So _that_ is the story!" breathed Marcia. "What an awful thing--thattwo people's lives should be spoiled just by unkind gossip!"
But Janet was thinking of something else. "I wonder why Miss Benedictdidn't tell what the family had the disagreement about!" she queried.
The Girl Next Door Page 16
