Meantime, Cecily Marlowe, immured in the lonely house, had been having an experience all her own. And when the girls came to see her, the day after the visit to the ship, she too was bursting with news. But she quietly waited till they had told their own tale, and was as puzzled as they about the strange translation of the characters on the bracelet. Of anything pertaining to China or the Chinese she had not the remotest notion, and could not understand how it could have any connection with her affairs.

"Now you must hear my story," she began, when they had discussed the newest development till there was nothing left to discuss. "It's about Miss Benedict. She has—but just wait, and I'll begin at the beginning. It was two nights ago, and she had one of those[Pg 171]
[Pg 172]
[Pg 173] headaches. She has such 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 me into her room and ask me to fetch things for her. I sat by her and bathed her head and fanned her, and at last she fell asleep. Even then I didn'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 me quite differently from what she ever had before. First she asked me if I were contented and happy here. I said I tried to be, but I was very lonely sometimes. She didn't say much to that, but suddenly she spoke again:

"'Child, I suppose you wonder very much at this queer life I lead, don't you?' I said, yes, I couldn't help wondering about it. Then she turned away her head and whispered:

"'Oh, if you only knew, you would not wonder! I have been very unhappy. My life has been very unhappy!' All I could think of to answer her was that I was so sorry, and she need not tell me anything she didn't wish to. I would never ask about it. And she raised herself up in bed, and said:

"'That's just it, dear child. I have always supposed that young folks were one and all curious, inquisitive, and thoughtless. That is one reason I was so—so strict with you—in the beginning. But you and those two 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 hear what 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 there are few alive to-day—and none in this neighborhood—who even guess at the real reason, who—remember!' And then she put her hand to her head as if it was aching badly, and dropped back on the pillow. She was very quiet for a while, but at last she looked up again and said: 'Little Cecily, would you care to have a home with me always? Would you be willing to put up with my queerness and peculiarities, and some of the strange conditions here?' And I answered, indeed, yes; if I could go out once in a while and visit you girls occasionally, I should very much like to stay. And she said:

"'Of course you shall, dear. You have been dreadfully shut in here, but that was before I knew you so well. I was not sure I wanted to keep you before, but now I know that I do. I only ask you to be as considerate of me as you can. Some day, I feel certain, I shall lose my sight. I know that it is coming. When it does come, I shall have to depend very, very much on you. I and one other. You will not fail me then, 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 of it. 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 with her father and an older sister and a younger brother. They were all very happy together, and the brother was the pride and joy and hope of the whole 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 took sides with her father against the brother. After that they had the same disagreement a great many times, and at last one so bad that the young man declared he wouldn't endure it any longer, and threatened to leave home.

"They didn't believe he was really serious about it, but the next morning his room was vacant, and a note pinned to his pillow said he had gone away never to return. They felt awfully about it, of course, but that wasn't the worst. About two weeks later they received word that he had taken passage on a steamer for Europe, and after only a day or so out 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?" they whispered.

"That's the most dreadful part," went on Cecily. "The shock was so great that the father died a week afterward—the doctors said virtually of a broken heart. So there were two gone, and within a month. The two that were left, Miss Benedict and her sister, shut themselves up and went into mourning and saw almost no one. For a while they were paralyzed with grief. And then, little by little, very gradually, they began to realize that people were talking about them—saying dreadful things. One of the few friends they did see let drop little hints of the gossip that was going on outside. People were saying that they were to blame for it all, and that they probably weren't so sorry as they pretended to be, for now they could enjoy all the money themselves. Can you imagine anything so horrid?"

"Oh, but that's nonsense!" interrupted Janet impatiently. "How could any one say it was their fault?"

"Well, you know how people talk," replied Cecily. "They meant that by nagging and quarreling they had driven the brother away on purpose, and then made it so unpleasant for the father that he couldn't stand it any longer either. It wasn't said in so many words, but just little hints and allusions and shrugging shoulders and all that sort of thing. But the meaning was there underneath it all, as plain as anything.

"Their grief and the horrid talk about them made them feel so very badly that they determined to live in such a way that no one could accuse them of enjoying an ill-gotten fortune. So they shut up the house,—at least a large part of it,—and dismissed all their servants, and did most of the work themselves. After a while the few friends they had began to drop 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 a paralytic stroke and lost her memory. She's been shut up in that room ever since, and Miss Benedict takes care of her. She can sit up in a chair and knit, and she likes to have a chess-board on her lap, and move the pieces around, because she once loved to play the game with her younger brother. But she can't remember anything—not even who she is herself, and nothing about what has happened. Miss Benedict feels terribly about her, especially about her not remembering anything, and she says that is why she didn't tell me about her at first. It seemed so terrible.

"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 years have passed she has grown more and more into the habit of living this way 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 she was so afraid of gossip and talk that when you first wanted to be friends with me she would not allow it, for fear of starting more unpleasant 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 in her eyes, and then she had to darken all the house and wear the veil and dark glasses outdoors. She went to a doctor about them, but was told that the case was hopeless unless she had some complicated operation and spent months in a dark room. This she felt she couldn't do on account of her sister, whom she would not leave to a stranger's care. So she has just suffered ever since.

"That's all, girls, except that she told me her sister's name is Cornelia 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 suit her, somehow. But isn't that the saddest story? It just goes to show how unhappy we can make people by talking about them and their affairs."

"And oh! there's one thing more. Miss Benedict—I mean Miss Alixe—gave me permission to tell you all this, but she only asks that you will not repeat it except to your father and aunt. She says she knows you can be depended on to do this."

That day, before Janet and Marcia left, they encountered Miss Benedict in the hall. And, by the way she pressed their hands in saying good-by they felt that she knew Cecily had told them her story, though she made no reference to it.

"Cecily may run in and visit you a while to-morrow. I think the change will do her good," she remarked at parting. And that was the only hint she 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 the forbidding brick wall and drew a long breath of wonder.

"So that is the story!" breathed Marcia. "What an awful thing—that two people's lives should be spoiled just by unkind gossip!"

But Janet was thinking of something else. "I wonder why Miss Benedict didn't tell what the family had the disagreement about!" she queried.