Part 14 (1/2)

”If he had carried me away!” she would cry. ”If he had come back with the law at his side and had carried me away!” And the streets of Buenos Ayres would pa.s.s before her eyes in a procession of blazing thoroughfares and dimly lighted lanes. And because she had escaped by so little, she looked out upon all unknown things with apprehension.

Moreover, Daventry's disclosure to her upon his death-bed had, in a strange way, added to her apprehension. There were three people--thus her thoughts ran; two of them seeking to hide from her knowledge which they thought would cause her pain; and she the third, seeking to hide from them, just for the same reason, that the knowledge was hers already. The years of terror had been needless, yet they had been endured, and it was love itself which had inflicted them. Kindness then could do just the same harm as the deliberate will to hurt. She took that thought into her heart of hearts, and because of it dreaded what might come through when the door opened upon the world.

With the coming of the spring, however, there came a stir in her blood. It was a spring of sunlit days and warm, soft nights. The great garden bursting into leaf and blossom, the annual miracle of tender green, the return of the birds, and the renewal of melody quickened the girl's pulses, gave to her a lightness of spirit, and made her dreamily expectant of wonders. She walked of an evening under her great cedar trees, with the flowers and the paths glimmering pale in the warm dusk, and the earth whispered to her of things as yet beyond her knowledge; throbbing moments of life, dreams minted in events. She woke eagerly to the clear, early mornings and the blackbirds calling on the lawn; she lingered on that lawn when the windows in the house were alight and the nightingales sang in the copses, and from some distant wood the clear, double note of a cuckoo was borne to her across the darkness. There came an evening in the middle of May when she burst her sheath like any bud on the bole of one of her chestnut trees. She stood a creature of emotion. The soft wind brought to her ears the chimes of the clock in the great church tower at Ludsey.

Desire for the adventure overswept her fears. Her feet danced, and her youth had its way with her.

She could see through the long open window Diana Royle in the drawing-room. She ran across the gra.s.s.

”Di!”

Some new sound in her voice, a leap, a thrill, made Diana look up. She saw a look in the girl's face, a light in her eyes, a soft color in her cheeks which quite transfigured her.

”I have been rather a brute, Di,” cried Cynthia. ”We will go to London.”

”When?”

”As soon as we can pack.”

A telegram was sent off to Mr. Benoliel, who was now in Grosvenor Square. He was bidden to work his quickest and his best. The furnished house in Curzon Street was still unlet. It was secured, and by the beginning of June Cynthia had come to town. There she was of course unknown. But she had made many friends in Warwicks.h.i.+re. Mr. Benoliel set his shoulder to the wheel; and she had a handsome balance at the bank. Add to these advantages her looks, and it will be seen that it was fairly smooth sailing for Cynthia during her first season. She danced, she dined, she lunched at Hurlingham, she went to plays and to the opera, she rode under the trees of the Row in the morning, she went up in a balloon; she came with both hands outstretched for new experiences. Yet she grasped them with a certain wariness. Eager she was, but her eagerness was guarded. For dim in the shadows at the back of her mind there was still the image of the mirror and the door. She had been in London less than a month when Harry Rames was brought to her side by Mr. Benoliel.

They talked for a moment upon immaterial topics, and then Mr. Benoliel turned to Harry Rames:

”So it is all settled, I hear.”

”Practically,” replied Rames. ”I have still to be formally adopted as prospective candidate by the Three Hundred, but that will be done at a meeting on Monday night.”

”Then there is no longer any reason why we should keep the matter secret, especially from Miss Daventry, who lives not five miles from your const.i.tuency. Cynthia,” and both men turned toward her, ”Captain Rames is going to stand for Ludsey at the next election.”

Captain Rames smiled modestly, expecting congratulations. He liked congratulations, especially from pretty girls, but he was disappointed. He saw only a wrinkle of perplexity upon Cynthia's forehead and a shadow in her eyes.

”Why?” she asked.

”You disapprove?” said Rames.

Cynthia drew back.

”I have no right to disapprove,” she said coldly, and Harry Rames planted himself st.u.r.dily on both his feet in front of her.

”Nevertheless you do,” he insisted.

In spite of herself, a faint smile of amus.e.m.e.nt played about Cynthia's lips as she watched him. She felt constrained to accept his challenge.

”I should have thought--” she said with a trifle of hesitation; ”it's not my business, of course--you may think it an impertinence--but since you challenge me, I should have thought that you would have done better to have gone back to the Antarctic again.”

”That's just what Smale said,” remarked Mr. Benoliel, and he moved away.

”That's just what Smale said, what every one will say. But it's all wrong,” Rames exclaimed emphatically. ”I was very glad to go South. I am very glad now that I went; but once is enough.”

A little wrinkle of disdain showed about Cynthia's mouth.