"Terrible!" she ejaculated, glancing at me with those wonderful dark
eyes of hers that seemed to hold me in fascination and look me through
and through. "We who possess our eyesight cannot imagine the great
disadvantages under which the blind are placed. How fortunate that you
are cured!"
"Yes," I explained. "The cure is little short of a miracle. The three
greatest oculists in London all agreed that I was incurable, yet there
one day came to me a man who said he could give me back my sight. I
allowed him to experiment, and he was successful. From the day that I
could see plainly he, curiously enough, disappeared."
"How strange! Did he never come and see you afterwards?"
"No. He took no reward, but simply discontinued his visits. I do not
even know his real name."
"How extraordinary!" she observed, greatly interested. "I really
believe that there is often more romance and mystery in real life than
in books. Such a circumstance appears absolutely bewildering."
"If to you, Miss Anson, then how much more to me! I, who had
relinquished all hope of again looking upon the world and enjoying life,
now find myself actually in possession of my vision and able to mix with
my fellow-men. Place yourself for a moment in my position, and try to
imagine my constant thankfulness."
"You must feel that a new life is opened to you--that you have begun a
fresh existence," she observed with a true touch of sympathy in her
sweet voice. Then she added, as if by afterthought. "How many of us
would be glad to commence life afresh!"
The tone in which she uttered that sentence seemed incongruous. A few
moments before she had been all brightness and gaiety, but in those
words 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, raising
her eyes for an instant to mine, and then lowering them.
We appeared in those moments to grow confidential. The crimson and
orange was fast fading from the sky. It was growing dark beneath the
shadow of the great elms, and already the line of street lamps out in
Kensington Gore were twinkling through the foliage on our left. No one
was in the vicinity, and we were walking very slowly, for, truth to
tell, I desired to delay our parting until the very last moment. Of all
the leafy spots in giant London, there is none so rural, so romantic, or
so picturesque in summer as that portion of Kensington Gardens lying
between Queen's Gate and the Broad Walk. Save for the dull roar of
distant traffic, one might easily fancy one's self far in the country, a
hundred miles from the sound of Bow Bells.
"But you are young, Miss Anson," I observed philosophically, after a
brief pause. "And if I may be permitted to say so, you have scarcely
begun 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's
strange warning recurring to me at the same moment.
"Its bitterness is combined with regrets," she answered huskily, in a
low voice.
"But you, young, bright, happy, and talented, who need not think of the
trials of everyday life, should surely have no regrets so deep as to
cause you this anxiety and despair," I said, with a feeling of
tenderness. "I am ten years older than you, therefore I may be
permitted to speak like this, even though my words may sound
presumptuous."
"Continue," she exclaimed. "I assure you that in my present position I
appreciate any words of sympathy."
"You have my deepest sympathy, Miss Anson; of that I assure you," I
declared, detecting in her words a desire to confide in me. "If at your
age you already desire to recommence life, your past cannot have been a
happy one."
"It has been far from happy," she answered in a strange, mechanical
voice. "Sometimes I think that I am the unhappiest woman in all the
world."
"No, no," I hastened to reassure her. "We all, when in trouble, imagine
that our burden is greater than that of any of our fellows, and that
while others escape, upon us alone fall the graver misfortunes."
"I know, I know," she said. "But a pleasant face and an air of
carelessness ofttimes conceal the most sorrowful heart. It is so in my
case."
"And your sorrow causes you regret, and makes you wish to end your
present life and commence afresh," I said gravely. "To myself, ignorant
of the circuit stances, it would seem as though you repented of some act
or other."
"What do you mean?" she gasped quickly, looking at me with a strange
expression 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-sighted
enthusiasm I had allowed myself to speak a little too confidentially,
whereupon her natural dignity had instantly rebelled. At once I
apologised, and in an instant she became appeased.
"I regret extremely that you should have such a weight of anxiety upon
your heart," I said. "If I can do anything to assist you, rely upon
me."
"You are extremely kind," she answered in a gloomy tone; "but there is
nothing--absolutely nothing."
"I really can't understand the reason why, with every happiness around
you, 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 which
might break through the ordinary conventionalities of life. I must
admit to you that I am rather unconventional sometimes."
I had wondered whether, like so many other girls, she had some imaginary
grievance in her home; but now, finding that this was not so, it
naturally occurred to me that the cause of her strange desire to live
her life over again arose through the action of some faithless lover.
How many hundreds of girls with wealth and beauty, perfectly happy in
all else, are daily wearing out their lives because of the fickleness of
the men to whom they have foolishly given their hearts! The
tightly-laced corsets of every eight girls in ten conceals a heart
filled by the regrets of a love long past; the men smile airily through
the wreaths of their tobacco-smoke, while the women, in those little
fits of melancholy which they love to indulge in, sit and reflect in
silence upon the might-have-beens. Is there, I wonder, a single one of
us, man or woman, who does not remember our first love, the deep
immensity of that pair of eyes; the kindly sympathy of that face, which
in our immature years we thought our ideal, and thereupon bowed the knee
in worship? If such there be, then they are mere unrefined boors
without a spark of romance in their nature, or poetry within their soul.
Indeed, the regrets arising from a long-forgotten love ofttimes mingle
pleasure with sadness, and through one's whole life form cherished
memories of those flushed days of a buoyant youth. To how many of those
who read these lines will be recalled vivid recollections of a summer
idyll of long ago; a day when, with the dainty or manly object of their
affections, they wandered beside the blue sea, or on the banks of the
tranquil, willow-lined river, or perhaps hand-in-hand strolled beneath
the great old forest trees, where the sunlight glinted and touched the
gnarled trunks with grey and gold! To each will come back the sweet
recollection of a sunset hour now long, long ago, when they pressed the
lips of the one they loved, and thought the rough world as rosy as that
summer afterglow. The regret of those days always remains--often only a
pleasant memory, but, alas! sometimes a lamentation bordering upon
despair, until the end of our days.
"And may I not know something, however little, of the cause of this
oppression upon you?" I asked of her, after we had walked some distance
in silence. "You tell me that you desire to wipe out the past and
commence 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 of
but brief duration, I am bold enough to believe that you count me among
your friends. Is it not so?"
"Certainly, or I would not have given you permission to walk with me
here," she answered with a sweetness which showed her unostentatious
delicacy of character.
"Then, as your friend, I beg of you to repose whatever confidence in me
you may think fit, and to be assured that I will never abuse it."
"Confidences are unnecessary between us," she responded. "I have to
bear my grief alone."
"Your words sound strange, coming from one whom I had thought so merry
and light-hearted," I said.
"Are you, then, ignorant of the faculty a woman has of concealing her
sorrows behind an outward show of gaiety--that a woman always possesses
two countenances, the face and the mask?"
"You are scarcely complimentary to your own sex," I answered with a
smile. "Yet that is surely no reason why you should be thus wretched
and downhearted." Her manner puzzled me, for since the commencement of
our conversation she had grown strangely melancholy--entirely unlike her
own bright self. I tried to obtain from her some clue to the cause of
her sadness, but in vain. My short acquaintance with her did not
warrant me pressing upon her a subject which was palpably distasteful;
nevertheless, it seemed to me more than strange that she should thus
acknowledge to me her sorrow at a moment when any other woman would have
practised coquetry.
"I can only suffer in silence," she responded when I asked her to tell
me something of the cause of her unhappiness.
"Excuse my depression this evening. I know that to you I must seem a
hypochondriac, but I will promise you to wear the mask--if ever we meet
again."
"Why do you speak so vaguely?" I inquired in quick apprehension. "I
certainly hope that we shall meet again, many, many times. Your words
would make it appear as though such meeting is improbable."
"I think it is," she answered simply. "You are very kind to have borne
with me like this," she added, her manner quickly changing; "and if we
do meet, I'll try not to have another fit of melancholy."
"Yes, Miss Anson," I said, halting in the path, "let us meet again.
Remember that we have to-day commenced a friendship--a friendship which
I trust will last always."
But she slowly shook her head, as though the heavy sadness of her heart
still possessed her.
"Friendship may exist between us, but frequent meetings are, I fear,
impossible."
"Why? You told me only a moment ago that you were your own mistress," I
observed.
"And so I am in most things," she answered. "But as far as meeting you,
we can only leave that to chance."
"Why?"
"Please do not endeavour to force me to explanations," she answered with
firmness. "I merely tell you that frequent meetings with you are
unlikely--that is all."
We had walked on, and were nearing the gate leading out into the High
Street, Kensington.
"In other words, then, you are not altogether pleased with my
companionship?"
"No, really," she laughed sweetly. "I didn't say that. You have no
reason to jump at such a conclusion. I thank you very much indeed for
your words of sympathy."
"And you have no desire to see me again?" I interrupted, in a tone of
bitter disappointment.
"If such were the case, ours would be a very extraordinary friendship,
wouldn't it?" and she lifted her eyes to mine with a kindly look.
"Then I am to take it that my companionship on this walk has not been
distasteful to you?" I asked anxiously.
She inclined her head with dignified air, saying. "Certainly. I feel
that this evening I have at least found a friend--a pleasant thought
when one is comparatively friendless."
"And as your friend--your devoted friend--I ask to be permitted to see
you sometimes," I said earnestly, for, lingering at her side, I was very
loth to part from her. "If I can ever be of any assistance, command
me."
"You are very kind," she answered, with a slight tremor in her voice.
"I shall remember your words always." Then, putting forth her
well-gloved hand, as we stood upon the kerb of the High Street, she
added, "It is getting late. We've taken such a long time across the
Park that I must drive home;" and she made a gesture to a passing
hansom.
"Before we part," I said, "I will give you a card, so that should you
require any service of me you will know where to write;" and, as we
stood beneath the street lamp, I drew out a card and, with a pencil I
took from my vest-pocket, scribbled my address.
In silence she watched, but just as I had finished she suddenly gripped
my hand, uttering a loud cry of amazement.
"What's that you have there?" she demanded. "Let me see it!"
Next instant--before, indeed, I could be aware of her intention--she had
snatched the pencil from my grasp, and was examining it closely beneath
the gaslight.
"Ah!" she gasped, glaring at me in alarm. "It is--yes, it is his!"
The small gold pencil which I had inadvertently used was the one I had
taken from the pocket of the dead unknown on that fateful August night.