MR. BENOLIEL, however, persisted.
“I daren’t be silent, Cynthia. There are just three great crises—some would say three great catastrophes—birth, marriage, and death. The first and the last happen. They are outside our control. But about the middle one we do ourselves have a word to say; we can direct it. And it’s the most important of them all. For it means the beginning of life for others, and the making or undoing of our own. Therefore you can’t afford to trust to luck, Cynthia.”
“I am not trusting to luck at all,” said Cynthia confidently.
“Aren’t you?” asked Mr. Benoliel. “You are proposing to marry a man, nineteen years of whose life—whose man’s life—if you understand me, you have had no share in, no influence upon, and have now no real knowledge of. I am not suggesting that the conventional other woman is somewhere in the background, waiting to appear at the marriage ceremony with a baby in her arms,” he continued with a smile. “But during those nineteen years how many things must have happened to him, trials and miseries and elations, to modify and mould his character? And since you are ignorant of the things which happened to him, how can you know the man?”
“Yet I think I do know him,” said Cynthia, and her confidence increased. She could meet Mr. Benoliel on this battle-ground. “And without laying claim of any particular insight. For he has always been careful that I should know him. From the very first day of our acquaintanceship he has spoken and acted quite deliberately in order that I might have no illusions about him. He has wanted me to know him just as clearly as he knows himself.”
Mr. Benoliel shrugged his shoulders.
“Does he know himself?” he asked.
“Better than most men,” said Cynthia. “He has set out to use himself as a machine and he has studied the machine unceasingly, its limits and its capacities, so that he might use it to its fullest power.” She recalled Harry Rames’s foresight, the careful laying of his plans, the queer modesty which underlay his ambition to excel. She turned triumphantly to Mr. Benoliel. “Oh, yes, he knows himself a good deal better than youth can know itself.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Benoliel, raising a warning finger. “I was waiting for that. I admit that youth doesn’t know itself. But then it’s not so important that it should. There’s not, after all, as yet, so very much to know. But take it this way. Suppose that you and Captain Rames were both young and of an age! Suppose that he had the nineteen years which separate you in front of him instead of behind him!”
“Well?” said Cynthia.
“Why, then, when he reached forty, you, the wife, would know him better than he would know himself. A wife always does, if she lives in sympathy with her husband. I am presuming that. You would know him a good deal better than he knows himself now. The solitary nineteen years, of which now I dread the consequences, you would have shared. That’s the point. And you wouldn’t be running the danger you are running now.”
“What danger?” asked Cynthia impatiently. “Of what are you afraid?”
“I am afraid of the latent things,” Mr. Benoliel answered. “I am afraid of the seeds which may have been sown in him during these nineteen years, and of which the plant has not yet shown. I am afraid of latent desires, fancies, ambitions, latent cravings of which he is not yet aware, and which may some day come to life with overwhelming strength. Haven’t you seen men suddenly change for no apparent reason to the ordinary observer, drop from all their established habits, begin again upon another plane? I have, and that’s the change I am afraid of now. For it’s one you would be powerless to avert, since you would not even suspect it until it had actually begun.”
He turned toward Cynthia, and with a smile upon his face summed up his argument.
“Make no mistake, Cynthia. I am not making light of Captain Rames. In a way my fears are an actual tribute to the man. But I am afraid that out of a life so busy, and so keen as his has been, so fraught with incidents, so varied, something may suddenly seize him and catch him back and hold him; some craving, some ambition in which you will have no share, and which will separate you forever.”
He spoke with so much earnestness that Cynthia was impressed against her will. She was sure that he was speaking with knowledge of a kindred case. Certain words he had dropped made her certain that the kindred case was his own.
“But supposing that such a change came,” she said with hesitation, “must it separate?”
“No,” said Mr. Benoliel gently, “not if both bring to the marriage love. Then I don’t think it need.” He glanced at her swiftly, and said with a sudden sharp note in his voice: “But what if the marriage be only a bargain, Cynthia? What then?” and the blood rushed into the girl’s face as he looked at her.
“I’ll tell you,” he cried. His voice rose and a kind of sombre passion rang in it. “One party doesn’t keep the bargain, or keeps it half-heartedly, as an irksome thing, and day by day the separation grows more complete, until you are living with your enemy or living quite alone.”
His voice dropped again to a whisper on the last words. He finished and sat lost wistfully in his own recollections, and forgetful of Cynthia at his side. After a little while his lips moved, and, as an old man will, he spoke a word or two to himself. Cynthia’s ears caught the words.
“It was my fault, and it couldn’t be helped,” he said, and so again fell into a long silence, with his eyes upon the coals of the fire. At length Cynthia touched him gently upon the sleeve.
“I should like—the instance,” she said timidly.
Isaac Benoliel roused himself with a start.
“Yes. I mean to give it you.”
“But I have no right to it,” Cynthia insisted. “You must remember that.”
Benoliel shook his head and smiled.
“You are a young girl starting out on life. You have every right to it, Cynthia.”
“I mean that it cannot change me,” she said. “I would like to hear it—yes. But it is only that I may understand and be ready. And if you think that reason insufficient, don’t tell me. I shall thank you, all the same, for offering to tell me.”
“You mustn’t take the warning literally,” he said. “I am of the East, you know. So is my story”; and a sudden relief swept over Cynthia. He was not of her people, his stand-point would not be hers, his warning might not apply to her. She thought of Sir James Burrell’s words. Discouragement sat more lightly upon her than it had done during the last hour. There were certain curious phases in Mr. Benoliel’s life which were not understood—sudden disappearances, for instance, during which no one met him to bring back to London the place of his abode. He was recognized as a man apart. Yes, he was of the Orient, and he might have no message for her ears.
“It was my race which caught me back,” Benoliel began, and Cynthia’s courage increased. But his story was only just begun.
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