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
