"No, no," I hastened to rea.s.sure 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sured 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 s.e.x," 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 a.s.sistance, 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE ENCHANTMENT OF A FACE.