hadrelinquished all hope of again looking upon the world and enjoying life,now find myself actually in possession of my vision and able to mix withmy fellow-men. Place yourself for a moment in my position, and try toimagine my constant thankfulness."
"You must feel that a new life is opened to you--that you have begun afresh existence," she observed with a true touch of sympathy in hersweet voice. Then she added, as if by afterthought. "How many of uswould be glad to commence life afresh!"
The tone in which she uttered that sentence seemed incongruous. A fewmoments before she had been all brightness and gaiety, but in thosewords there vibrated a distinctly gloomy note.
"Surely you do not desire to commence your life again?" I said.
She sighed slightly.
"All of us have our burden of regrets," she answered vaguely, raisingher eyes for an instant to mine, and then lowering them.
We appeared in those moments to grow confidential. The crimson andorange was fast fading from the sky. It was growing dark beneath theshadow of the great elms, and already the line of street lamps out inKensington Gore were twinkling through the foliage on our left. No onewas in the vicinity, and we were walking very slowly, for, truth totell, I desired to delay our parting until the very last moment. Of allthe leafy spots in giant London, there is none so rural, so romantic, orso picturesque in summer as that portion of Kensington Gardens lyingbetween Queen's Gate and the Broad Walk. Save for the dull roar ofdistant traffic, one might easily fancy one's self far in the country, ahundred miles from the sound of Bow Bells.
"But you are young, Miss Anson," I observed philosophically, after abrief pause. "And if I may be permitted to say so, you have scarcelybegun to live your life. Yet you actually wish to commence afresh!"
"Yes," she responded briefly, "I do. Strange, is it not?"
"Is the past, then, so full of bitterness?" I asked, the Colonel'sstrange warning recurring to me at the same moment.
"Its bitterness is combined with regrets," she answered huskily, in alow voice.
"But you, young, bright, happy, and talented, who need not think of thetrials of everyday life, should surely have no regrets so deep as tocause you this anxiety and despair," I said, with a feeling oftenderness. "I am ten years older than you, therefore I may bepermitted to speak like this, even though my words may soundpresumptuous."
"Continue," she exclaimed. "I assure you that in my present position Iappreciate any words of sympathy."
"You have my deepest sympathy, Miss Anson; of that I assure you," Ideclared, detecting in her words a desire to confide in me. "If at yourage you already desire to recommence life, your past cannot have been ahappy one."
"It has been far from happy," she answered in a strange, mechanicalvoice. "Sometimes I think that I am the unhappiest woman in all theworld."
"No, no," I hastened to reassure her. "We all, when in trouble, imaginethat our burden is greater than that of any of our fellows, and thatwhile others escape, upon us alone fall the graver misfortunes."
"I know, I know," she said. "But a pleasant face and an air ofcarelessness ofttimes conceal the most sorrowful heart. It is so in mycase."
"And your sorrow causes you regret, and makes you wish to end yourpresent life and commence afresh," I said gravely. "To myself, ignorantof the circuit stances, it would seem as though you repented of some actor other."
"What do you mean?" she gasped quickly, looking at me with a strangeexpression in her dark eyes. "I do not repent--I repent nothing!"
I saw that I had made a grave mistake. In my fond and short-sightedenthusiasm I had allowed myself to speak a little too confidentially,whereupon her natural dignity had instantly rebelled. At once Iapologised, and in an instant she became appeased.
"I regret extremely that you should have such a weight of anxiety uponyour heart," I said. "If I can do anything to assist you, rely uponme."
"You are extremely kind," she answered in a gloomy tone; "but there isnothing--absolutely nothing."
"I really can't understand the reason why, with every happiness aroundyou, you should find yourself thus plunged in this despair," I remarked,puzzled. "Your home life is, I presume, happy enough?"
"Perfectly. I am entirely my own mistress, save in those things whichmight break through the ordinary conventionalities of life. I mustadmit to you that I am rather unconventional sometimes."
I had wondered whether, like so many other girls, she had some imaginarygrievance in her home; but now, finding that this was not so, itnaturally occurred to me that the cause of her strange desire to liveher life over again arose through the action of some faithless lover.How many hundreds of girls with wealth and beauty, perfectly happy inall else, are daily wearing out their lives because of the fickleness ofthe men to whom they have foolishly given their hearts! Thetightly-laced corsets of every eight girls in ten conceals a heartfilled by the regrets of a love long past; the men smile airily throughthe wreaths of their tobacco-smoke, while the women, in those littlefits of melancholy which they love to indulge in, sit and reflect insilence upon the might-have-beens. Is there, I wonder, a single one ofus, man or woman, who does not remember our first love, the deepimmensity of that pair of eyes; the kindly sympathy of that face, whichin our immature years we thought our ideal, and thereupon bowed the kneein worship? If such there be, then they are mere unrefined boorswithout a spark of romance in their nature, or poetry within their soul.Indeed, the regrets arising from a long-forgotten love ofttimes minglepleasure with sadness, and through one's whole life form cherishedmemories of those flushed days of a buoyant youth. To how many of thosewho read these lines will be recalled vivid recollections of a summeridyll of long ago; a day when, with the dainty or manly object of theiraffections, they wandered beside the blue sea, or on the banks of thetranquil, willow-lined river, or perhaps hand-in-hand strolled beneaththe great old forest trees, where the sunlight glinted and touched thegnarled trunks with grey and gold! To each will come back the sweetrecollection of a sunset hour now long, long ago, when they pressed thelips of the one they loved, and thought the rough world as rosy as thatsummer afterglow. The regret of those days always remains--often only apleasant memory, but, alas! sometimes a lamentation bordering upondespair, until the end of our days.
"And may I not know something, however little, of the cause of thisoppression upon you?" I asked of her, after we had walked some distancein silence. "You tell me that you desire to wipe out the past andcommence afresh. The reason of this interests me," I added.
"I don't know why you should interest yourself in me," she murmured."It is really unnecessary."
"No, no," I exclaimed hastily. "Although our acquaintance has been ofbut brief duration, I am bold enough to believe that you count me amongyour friends. Is it not so?"
"Certainly, or I would not have given you permission to walk with mehere," she answered with a sweetness which showed her unostentatiousdelicacy of character.
"Then, as your friend, I beg of you to repose whatever confidence in meyou may think fit, and to be assured that I will never abuse it."
"Confidences are unnecessary between us," she responded. "I have tobear my grief alone."
"Your words sound strange, coming from one whom I had thought so merryand light-hearted," I said.
"Are you, then, ignorant of the faculty a woman has of concealing hersorrows behind an outward show of gaiety--that a woman always possessestwo countenances, the face and the mask?"
"You are scarcely complimentary to your own sex," I answered with asmile. "Yet that is surely no reason why you should be thus wretchedand downhearted." Her manner puzzled me, for since the commencement ofour conversation she had grown strangely melancholy--entirely unlike herown bright self. I tried to obtain from her some clue to the cause ofher sadness, but in vain. My short acquaintance with her did notwarrant me pressing upon her a subject which was palpably distasteful;nevertheless, it seemed to me more than strange that she should thusacknowledge to me her so
rrow at a moment when any other woman would havepractised coquetry.
"I can only suffer in silence," she responded when I asked her to tellme something of the cause of her unhappiness.
"Excuse my depression this evening. I know that to you I must seem ahypochondriac, but I will promise you to wear the mask--if ever we meetagain."
"Why do you speak so vaguely?" I inquired in quick apprehension. "Icertainly hope that we shall meet again, many, many times. Your wordswould make it appear as though such meeting is improbable."
"I think it is," she answered simply. "You are very