"Why should I?" asks Lady Etwynde, simply. "My dear, I think I know what is troubling you. I have known it long. Do not speak of it unless you wish, if it pains you in any way. But be sure of my sympathy always."
"I am sure of it," answers Lauraine. "I think I have never made a friend of any woman but you. You are always so good, and one always feels one can trust you. But you are right. Something is troubling me very much. I feel to-night as if life was altogether too hard!"
"Who of us does not feel that at some time or other?" says Lady Etwynde, sadly. "A time when to look back or to look forward seems alike equally hard; for during the one we think of what 'might have been,' and during the other we dread to think what may be. There are two very sad things in this life: the waste of love, the dearth of happiness. Both of these are with you now. They were with me once. But I lived through the struggle, and you will do the same. You think it is impossible now. Ah, my dear, so did I; so does every one who suffers. And yet physical force drags us on whether we will or not."
"I have been very foolish," says Lauraine, the tears standing in her eyes as they look out at the quiet night. "When I was young, a mere girl, Keith and I betrothed ourselves. You know my mother was his guardian, and all our childhood was passed together. No one could influence him or manage him as I could. He was always impulsive, reckless, passionate, but oh! so loving and so generous of heart. Well, as we grew older the love seemed to grow with us. Then my mother began to notice it. She became alarmed; we were parted; but still neither of us forgot. At last Keith spoke to my mother. Of course she laughed, and treated it as a boy's fancy. He had nothing, and we were not rich; at least, so she said always. He grew angry, and said he would go abroad, and make a fortune. She said 'very well; when he had made it he could come back and claim me.' In the end he went to America. We were not allowed to correspond, and year after year went by. I heard nothing from him or about him. Then I was introduced to London life. I had a season of triumphs, gaiety, amusements. I will not say it weakened my memory of Keith, but at least it filled up the emptiness of my life, and I was young, and enjoyment seemed easy enough. In my third season, I met Sir Francis Vavasour. From that time my mother's whole soul was bent on a marriage between us. I cannot tell you now the thousand and one things that combined to throw us together, to wind a web about my careless feet. The memory of Keith had grown less distinct. Four years had passed, and no sign. I began to think he had forgotten. Later on, I found my mother had deceived me. He had written to her, speaking always of his unfalterable fidelity; then came the news of brighter prospects of a great fortune in store; of entreaty to tell me, and let me hear from him. She did nothing of the sort. She only told me that if I did not accept Sir Francis it meant ruin to her. That her debts were enormous; that I had cost her a small fortune in these three seasons; that—oh, I cannot tell you it all now. I am not naturally weak-minded, but I suffered myself to be persuaded. I never attempt to hold myself blameless; still, had I known about Keith.... Well, on my wedding-day, I received a letter from him. He was possessor of a large fortune, he loved me more than ever, and he would be in London, at our house, on that very day. Imagine my feelings. It was all too late then. Nothing could be done. I had to school myself as best I could to meet my girlhood's lover an hour after I had become Sir Francis Vavasour's wife. It was a terrible ordeal. Poor Keith! Oh, what I felt when I saw what I had given him to bear. He was half mad, and I—oh, how sick and ashamed and wicked I felt. We parted again, and for eighteen months we did not meet. Then he came to Rome one winter, and I was there. He greeted me like any other acquaintance. I thought he had forgotten. Gradually our old friendship was resumed. Gradually he became my constant companion, and the confidence and sympathy and interests of the past seemed to awaken, and be with us both again. I dreamt of no harm. He never by word or look betrayed that he loved me still. I thought it was all over and done with, and feared no danger. I was not unhappy. Sir Francis was very kind, and I had my boy. I troubled myself in no way about what might be said, Keith had been a sort of brother to me so long. We left Rome and came to London. Then it was that he betrayed himself; then it was that I too learnt I cared for him as I had no right to do."
"And the Gloire de Dijon roses were left under the cedar tree," murmurs Lady Etwynde, faintly.
Lauraine starts and blushes. "Yes, it was that night. I almost hate to think of it, and yet—oh, Etwynde, can I help loving him? Can I tear him out of my heart?"
"My dear," says her friend, gravely, "if love were within our power to give, or to withhold, life would be an easy enough matter for most of us. It has been at cross purposes always. I suppose it won't change tactics, even for our advanced age."
"Well," sighs Lauraine, wearily, "I did what I could, but Keith made me promise that I would not banish him; that I would let him see me sometimes still; that——"
"My dear," murmurs Lady Etwynde, gently, "you were never so foolish as that?"
"I was," answers Lauraine. "I—I pitied him so, and he seemed so desperate, and I had done him all the wrong. I am not a bit of a heroine, Etwynde. I have little moral strength, and he promised he would speak of love no more, so—