She was sitting beside the garden brook1 on the little rustic2 seat Gilbert had built. Owen Ford3 stood before her, leaning against the bronze column of a yellow birch. He was very pale and his face bore the marks of the preceding sleepless4 night. Anne, glancing up at him, wondered if, after all, his summer had brought him the strength it should. Had he worked too hard over his book? She remembered that for a week he had not been looking well.
"I'm rather glad the doctor is away," said Owen slowly. "I wanted to see you alone, Mrs. Blythe. There is something I must tell somebody, or I think it will drive me mad. I've been trying for a week to look it in the face—and I can't. I know I can trust you—and, besides, you will understand. A woman with eyes like yours always understands. You are one of the folks people instinctively5 tell things to. Mrs. Blythe, I love Leslie. LOVE her! That seems too weak a word!"
His voice suddenly broke with the suppressed passion of his utterance6. He turned his head away and hid his face on his arm. His whole form shook. Anne sat looking at him, pale and aghast. She had never thought of this! And yet—how was it she had never thought of it? It now seemed a natural and inevitable7 thing. She wondered at her own blindness. But—but—things like this did not happen in Four Winds. Elsewhere in the world human passions might set at defiance8 human conventions and laws—but not HERE, surely. Leslie had kept summer boarders off and on for ten years, and nothing like this had happened. But perhaps they had not been like Owen Ford; and the vivid, LIVING Leslie of this summer was not the cold, sullen9 girl of other years. Oh, SOMEBODY should have thought of this! Why hadn't Miss Cornelia thought of it? Miss Cornelia was always ready enough to sound the alarm where men were concerned. Anne felt an unreasonable10 resentment11 against Miss Cornelia. Then she gave a little inward groan12. No matter who was to blame the mischief13 was done. And Leslie—what of Leslie? It was for Leslie Anne felt most concerned.
"Does Leslie know this, Mr. Ford?" she asked quietly.
"No—no,—unless she has guessed it. You surely don't think I'd be cad and scoundrel enough to tell her, Mrs. Blythe. I couldn't help loving her—that's all—and my misery14 is greater than I can bear."
"Does SHE care?" asked Anne. The moment the question crossed her lips she felt that she should not have asked it. Owen Ford answered it with overeager protest.
"No—no, of course not. But I could make her care if she were free—I know I could."
"She does care—and he knows it," thought Anne. Aloud she said, sympathetically but decidedly:
"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," groaned15 Owen. He sat down on the grassy16 bank and stared moodily17 into the amber18 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, bustling19, 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 flinched20 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 stark21 agony. She could only feel with him in a maze22 of compassion23 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 passionately24. "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 rebelliously25.
"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 evoke26 that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it. And her eyes—they are as deep and blue as the gulf27 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 standing28 on the veranda29 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 swirled30 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 soothing31 Dick, pinching and saving for a mere32 existence, while I spend my life longing33 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 inadequate34 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?"
"Yes," said Anne. "Oh, I'm so sorry you are going—we'll miss you so—we've all been such friends! If it were not for this you could come back other summers. Perhaps, even yet—by-and-by—when you've forgotten, perhaps—"
Silence and twilight36 fell over the garden. Far away the sea was lapping gently and monotonously37 on the bar. The wind of evening in the poplars sounded like some sad, weird38, old rune—some broken dream of old memories. A slender shapely young aspen rose up before them against the fine maize39 and emerald and paling rose of the western sky, which brought out every leaf and twig40 in dark, tremulous, elfin loveliness.
"Isn't that beautiful?" said Owen, pointing to it with the air of a man who puts a certain conversation behind him.
"It's so beautiful that it hurts me," said Anne softly. "Perfect things like that always did hurt me—I remember I called it 'the queer ache' when I was a child. What is the reason that pain like this seems inseparable from perfection? Is it the pain of finality—when we realise that there can be nothing beyond but retrogression?"
"Perhaps," said Owen dreamily, "it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection."
"You seem to have a cold in the head. Better rub some tallow on your nose when you go to bed," said Miss Cornelia, who had come in through the little gate between the firs in time to catch Owen's last remark. Miss Cornelia liked Owen; but it was a matter of principle with her to visit any "high-falutin" language from a man with a snub.
Miss Cornelia personated the comedy that ever peeps around the corner at the tragedy of life. Anne, whose nerves had been rather strained, laughed hysterically41, and even Owen smiled. Certainly, sentiment and passion had a way of shrinking out of sight in Miss Cornelia's presence. And yet to Anne nothing seemed quite as hopeless and dark and painful as it had seemed a few moments before. But sleep was far from her eyes that night.
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1
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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4
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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6
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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7
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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8
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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9
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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10
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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12
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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13
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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15
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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16
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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30
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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36
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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38
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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39
maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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40
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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41
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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