Part 29 (2/2)

”Lord Helmsdale,” said Cynthia, with a little pout of disdain.

”Youth should marry youth,” returned Mr. Benoliel.

He looked the girl over from head to foot. She stood in front of him in her delicate frock of soft white satin and lace, long-limbed and slender, with the gloss of youth upon the heavy curls of her fair hair, and the rose of youth on her cheeks, and the sheen of youth upon her white and pretty shoulders. She was the color of a flower, and had the freshness of a flower upon a morning of dew. From the tip of her slim satin slipper to the ribbon in her hair, she was dressed with a daintiness which set her beauty proudly off. To Mr. Benoliel she was radiant and wonderful with youth.

”Yes,” he repeated, ”youth should marry youth, Cynthia, especially when it is such rare youth as yours.”

Cynthia was pleased. She knew a compliment when she heard it.

”You have s.h.i.+fted your ground, Mr. Benoliel,” she said, smiling down at him.

”No,” he answered.

”It was social position, which you wanted me to marry in Lord Helmsdale.”

”That, too. Yes. I don't make light of it. I am old enough not to blow a trumpet round the walls of Jericho in these days,” he said. ”But I did not tell you all my thought. I am an old man, and there are certain things I am shy of talking about. I am like you in that, Cynthia, eh? We neither of us wear our hearts upon our sleeves or are fond of talking sentiment. But I am compelled to to-night. I think the most beautiful thing in the world is a couple of young lovers facing all the unknown future, hand in hand, high of hope and courage, and serious with the uplifting seriousness of love. Now you are not in love, Cynthia, and he's not young. So, from my point of view, on both sides this marriage falls short of the marriage which should be.”

”Captain Rames is not old,” replied Cynthia. She omitted all reference to the point in which she herself failed according to Benoliel's standard. Isaac Benoliel noticed her admission, and, though he made no comment, he became still more determined to prevent the marriage if by any means he could. He had drawn his bow at a venture. With that touch of charlatanism which made him delight in posing as omniscient, he had stated as a fact what he only suspected. But she would have denied the suggestion, and indignantly, had it been false. He was sure now that she did not care for Harry Rames as a young woman should care for the man she is to marry. Moreover there had been a note of involuntary regret in Cynthia's voice as she had answered him. It seemed that she too agreed with him as to what should have been, and grieved that it was not to be.

”No,” he conceded, ”Captain Rames is not old. But neither is he young.

He is forty, or thereabouts. He has lived by eighteen years longer than you have. And so--I will tell you the truth, Cynthia”--and he leaned forward with his hands upon his knees and his eyes shrewdly watching her face--”and so I am afraid. Yes, I look forward into your future, and I am afraid.”

He saw Cynthia wince. So often had she spoken just such words to herself. Ever since she had crouched by the door in the dark room at the estancia, fear had walked at her heels with its shadow thrown upon the road beyond her feet. Was it to lie in front of her all her life?

Here was her chosen adviser thinking her thoughts. She was not to be comforted by Sir James Burrell's reasonings. Mr. Benoliel might be altogether compact of the Orient. None the less his words knocked shrewdly at her heart. She sank down at the end of a sofa close at Mr.

Benoliel's side, her face all troubled and discouraged.

”But I accepted Harry so that I might be safe,” she cried tremulously, ”so that I might no longer be afraid,” and then sat with her cheeks afire, conscious that she had betrayed herself.

”I mean--” she corrected herself hastily.

”Just what you said, Cynthia,” rejoined Mr. Benoliel. Once more he had shot his arrow at a venture and reached the mark. He had now for the first time the key to her. Much was explained to him. But he spoke as though the explanation had long been known to him.

”Yes, ever since I have known you, you have lived in fear, Cynthia,”

he said.

Cynthia did not again deny the truth. She found a better argument in the recollection of old Mr. Daventry's death-bed.

”But there was no reason for the fear,” she cried. ”It was groundless.

I tortured myself for nothing. It was all due to a foolish mistake.”

She hesitated, choosing her words so that they might carry some sort of conviction and yet reveal nothing. ”The mistake arose because--people--were silent--and they were silent because they wished to spare, and thought that knowledge would hurt. It was the silence which hurt.”

”This time,” said Mr. Benoliel, ”silence shall not do harm. Nor shall a thought to spare. I will be frank with you as to why I am afraid, if you will listen to me. I shall have to tell you a little about myself.

I shall not spare myself.”

He spoke with reluctance. For he was reticent about himself. Cynthia realized suddenly how very little she knew of him, though she probably knew him more intimately than any one else, except the separated wife in Eaton Square. He had kept his secrets better than she had kept hers. Now he was going to reveal himself, and certainly to open old wounds for her sake.

”Thank you,” she said gently. ”I shall know of what you are afraid, of something perhaps which I may now be able to avert. But I ought to tell you at once, that nothing which you say can change me.”

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