Owen Ford's Confession

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"But she is not free, Mr. Ford. And the only thing you can do is to go away in silence and leave her to her own life."

"I know--I know," groaned Owen. He sat down on the grassy bank and stared moodily into the amber water beneath him. "I know there's nothing to do--nothing but to say conventionally, `Good- bye, Mrs. Moore. Thank you for all your kindness to me this summer,' just as I would have said it to the sonsy, bustling, keen-eyed housewife I expected her to be when I came. Then I'll pay my board money like any honest boarder and go! Oh, it's very simple. No doubt--no perplexity--a straight road to the end of the world!

And I'll walk it--you needn't fear that I won't, Mrs. Blythe. But it would be easier to walk over red-hot ploughshares."

Anne flinched with the pain of his voice. And there was so little she could say that would be adequate to the situation. Blame was out of the question--advice was not needed--sympathy was mocked by the man's stark agony. She could only feel with him in a maze of compassion and regret. Her heart ached for Leslie! Had not that poor girl suffered enough without this?

"It wouldn't be so hard to go and leave her if she were only happy," resumed Owen passionately. "But to think of her living death--to realise what it is to which I do leave her! THAT is the worst of all. I would give my life to make her happy--and I can do nothing even to help her--nothing. She is bound forever to that poor wretch--with nothing to look forward to but growing old in a succession of empty, meaningless, barren years. It drives me mad to think of it. But I must go through my life, never seeing her, but always knowing what she is enduring. It's hideous--hideous!"

"It is very hard," said Anne sorrowfully. "We--her friends here--all know how hard it is for her."

"And she is so richly fitted for life," said Owen rebelliously.

"Her beauty is the least of her dower--and she is the most beautiful woman I've ever known. That laugh of hers! I've angled all summer to evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it. And her eyes-- they are as deep and blue as the gulf out there. I never saw such blueness--and gold! Did you ever see her hair down, Mrs. Blythe?"

"No."

"I did--once. I had gone down to the Point to go fishing with Captain Jim but it was too rough to go out, so I came back. She had taken the opportunity of what she expected to be an afternoon alone to wash her hair, and she was standing on the veranda in the sunshine to dry it. It fell all about her to her feet in a fountain of living gold. When she saw me she hurried in, and the wind caught her hair and swirled it all around her--Danae in her cloud. Somehow, just then the knowledge that I loved her came home to me--and realised that I had loved her from the moment I first saw her standing against the darkness in that glow of light. And she must live on here--petting and soothing Dick, pinching and saving for a mere existence, while I spend my life longing vainly for her, and debarred, by that very fact, from even giving her the little help a friend might. I walked the shore last night, almost till dawn, and thrashed it all out over and over again. And yet, in spite of everything, I can't find it in my heart to be sorry that I came to Four Winds. It seems to me that, bad as everything is, it would be still worse never to have known Leslie. It's burning, searing pain to love her and leave her--but not to have loved her is unthinkable. I suppose all this sounds very crazy--all these terrible emotions always do sound foolish when we put them into our inadequate words. They are not meant to be spoken--only felt and endured. I shouldn't have spoken--but it has helped-- some. At least, it has given me strength to go away respectably tomorrow morning, without making a scene. You'll write me now and then, won't you, Mrs. Blythe, and give me what news there is to give of her?"