Further Chronicles of Avonlea - Lucy Maud Montgomery (best reads .TXT) 📗

and triumphant in the next room.

When she had talked it all out she lay down on her pillow again. I got up and went downstairs to light the fire. I felt terrible old and tired. My feet seemed to drag, and the tears kept coming to my eyes, though I tried to keep them away, for well I knew it was a bad omen to be weeping on a wedding day.

Before long Isabella Clark came down; bright and pleased-looking enough, SHE was. I’d never liked Isabella, from the day Phillippa’s father brought her here; and I liked her less than ever this morning. She was one of your sly, deep women, always smiling smooth, and scheming underneath it. I’ll say it for her, though, she had been good to Phillippa; but it was her doings that my dearie was to marry Mark Foster that day.

“Up betimes, Rachel,” she said, smiling and speaking me fair, as she always did, and hating me in her heart, as I well knew. “That is right, for we’ll have plenty to do to-day. A wedding makes lots of work.”

“Not this sort of a wedding,” I said, sour-like. “I don’t call it a wedding when two people get married and sneak off as if they were ashamed of it—as well they might be in this case.”

“It was Phillippa’s own wish that all should be very quiet,” said Isabella, as smooth as cream. “You know I’d have given her a big wedding, if she’d wanted it.”

“Oh, it’s better quiet,” I said. “The fewer to see Phillippa marry a man like Mark Foster the better.”

“Mark Foster is a good man, Rachel.”

“No good man would be content to buy a girl as he’s bought Phillippa,” I said, determined to give it in to her. “He’s a common fellow, not fit for my dearie to wipe her feet on. It’s well that her mother didn’t live to see this day; but this day would never have come, if she’d lived.”

“I dare say Phillippa’s mother would have remembered that Mark Foster is very well off, quite as readily as worse people,” said Isabella, a little spitefully.

I liked her better when she was spiteful than when she was smooth. I didn’t feel so scared of her then.

The marriage was to be at eleven o’clock, and, at nine, I went up to help Phillippa dress. She was no fussy bride, caring much what she looked like. If Owen had been the bridegroom it would have been different. Nothing would have pleased her then; but now it was only just “That will do very well, Aunt Rachel,” without even glancing at it.

Still, nothing could prevent her from looking lovely when she was dressed. My dearie would have been a beauty in a beggarmaid’s rags. In her white dress and veil she was as fair as a queen. And she was as good as she was pretty. It was the right sort of goodness, too, with just enough spice of original sin in it to keep it from spoiling by reason of over-sweetness.

Then she sent me out.

“I want to be alone my last hour,” she said. “Kiss me, Aunt Rachel—MOTHER Rachel.”

When I’d gone down, crying like the old fool I was, I heard a rap at the door. My first thought was to go out and send Isabella to it, for I supposed it was Mark Foster, come ahead of time, and small stomach I had for seeing him. I fall trembling, even yet, when I think, “What if I had sent Isabella to that door?”

But go I did, and opened it, defiant-like, kind of hoping it was Mark Foster to see the tears on my face. I opened it—and staggered back like I’d got a blow.

“Owen! Lord ha’ mercy on us! Owen!” I said, just like that, going cold all over, for it’s the truth that I thought it was his spirit come back to forbid that unholy marriage.

But he sprang right in, and caught my wrinkled old hands in a grasp that was of flesh and blood.

“Aunt Rachel, I’m not too late?” he said, savage-like. “Tell me I’m in time.”

I looked up at him, standing over me there, tall and handsome, no change in him except he was so brown and had a little white scar on his forehead; and, though I couldn’t understand at all, being all bewildered-like, I felt a great deep thankfulness.

“No, you’re not too late,” I said.

“Thank God,” said he, under his breath. And then he pulled me into the parlor and shut the door.

“They told me at the station that Phillippa was to be married to Mark Foster to-day. I couldn’t believe it, but I came here as fast as horse-flesh could bring me. Aunt Rachel, it can’t be true! She can’t care for Mark Foster, even if she had forgotten me!”

“It’s true enough that she is to marry Mark,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying, “but she doesn’t care for him. Every beat of her heart is for you. It’s all her stepma’s doings. Mark has got a mortgage on the place, and he told Isabella Clark that, if Phillippa would marry him, he’d burn the mortgage, and, if she wouldn’t, he’d foreclose. Phillippa is sacrificing herself to save her stepma for her dead father’s sake. It’s all your fault,” I cried, getting over my bewilderment. “We thought you were dead. Why didn’t you come home when you were alive? Why didn’t you write?”

“I DID write, after I got out of the hospital, several times,” he said, “and never a word in answer, Aunt Rachel. What was I to think when Phillippa wouldn’t answer my letters?”

“She never got one,” I cried. “She wept her sweet eyes out over you. SOMEBODY must have got those letters.”

And I knew then, and I know now, though never a shadow of proof have I, that Isabella Clark had got them—and kept them. That woman would stick at nothing.

“Well, we’ll sift that matter some other time,” said Owen impatiently. “There are other things to think of now. I must see Phillippa.”

“I’ll manage it for you,” I said eagerly; but, just as I spoke, the door opened and Isabella and Mark came in. Never shall I forget the look on Isabella’s face. I almost felt sorry for her. She turned sickly yellow and her eyes went wild; they were looking at the downfall of all her schemes and hopes. I didn’t look at Mark Foster, at first, and, when I did, there wasn’t anything to see. His face was just as sallow and wooden as ever; he looked undersized and common beside Owen. Nobody’d ever have picked him out for a bridegroom.

Owen spoke first.

“I want to see Phillippa,” he said, as if it were but yesterday that he had gone away.

All Isabella’s smoothness and policy had dropped away from her, and the real woman stood there, plotting and unscrupulous, as I’d always know her.

“You can’t see her,” she said desperate-like. “She doesn’t want to see you. You went and left her and never wrote, and she knew you weren’t worth fretting over, and she has learned to care for a better man.”

“I DID write and I think you know that better than most folks,” said Owen, trying hard to speak quiet. “As for the rest, I’m not going to discuss it with you. When I hear from Phillippa’s own lips that she cares for another man I’ll believe it—and not before.”

“You’ll never hear it from her lips,” said I.

Isabella gave me a venomous look.

“You’ll not see Phillippa until she is a better man’s wife,” she said stubbornly, “and I order you to leave my house, Owen Blair!”

“No!”

It was Mark Foster who spoke. He hadn’t said a word; but he came forward now, and stood before Owen. Such a difference as there was between them! But he looked Owen right in the face, quiet-like, and Owen glared back in fury.

“Will it satisfy you, Owen, if Phillippa comes down here and chooses between us?”

“Yes, it will,” said Owen.

Mark Foster turned to me.

“Go and bring her down,” said he.

Isabella, judging Phillippa by herself, gave a little moan of despair, and Owen, blinded by love and hope, thought his cause was won. But I knew my dearie too well to be glad, and Mark Foster did, too, and I hated him for it.

I went up to my dearie’s room, all pale and shaking. When I went in she came to meet me, like a girl going to meet death.

“Is—it—time?” she said, with her hands locked tight together.

I said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of Owen would break down her resolution. I just held out my hand to her, and led her downstairs. She clung to me and her hands were as cold as snow. When I opened the parlor door I stood back, and pushed her in before me.

She just cried, “Owen!” and shook so that I put my arms about her to steady her.

Owen made a step towards her, his face and eyes all aflame with his love and longing, but Mark barred his way.

“Wait till she has made her choice,” he said, and then he turned to Phillippa. I couldn’t see my dearie’s face, but I could see Mark’s, and there wasn’t a spark of feeling in it. Behind it was Isabella’s, all pinched and gray.

“Phillippa,” said Mark, “Owen Blair has come back. He says he has never forgotten you, and that he wrote to you several times. I have told him that you have promised me, but I leave you freedom of choice. Which of us will you marry, Phillippa?”

My dearie stood straight up and the trembling left her. She stepped back, and I could see her face, white as the dead, but calm and resolved.

“I have promised to marry you, Mark, and I will keep my word,” she said.

The color came back to Isabella Clark’s face; but Mark’s did not change.

“Phillippa,” said Owen, and the pain in his voice made my old heart ache bitterer than ever, “have you ceased to love me?”

My dearie would have been more than human, if she could have resisted the pleading in his tone. She said no word, but just looked at him for a moment. We all saw the look; her whole soul, full of love for Owen, showed out in it. Then she turned and stood by Mark.

Owen never said a word. He went as white as death, and started for the door. But again Mark Foster put himself in the way.

“Wait,” he said. “She has made her choice, as I knew she would; but I have yet to make mine. And I choose to marry no woman whose love belongs to another living man. Phillippa, I thought Owen Blair was dead, and I believed that, when you were my wife, I could win your love. But I love you too well to make you miserable. Go to the man you love—you are free!”

“And what is to become of me?” wailed Isabella.

“Oh, you!—I had forgotten about you,” said Mark, kind of weary-like. He took a paper from his pocket, and dropped it in the grate. “There is the mortgage. That is all you care about, I think. Good-morning.”

He went out. He was only a common fellow, but, somehow, just then he looked every inch the gentleman. I would have gone after him and said something but—the look on his face—no, it was no time for my foolish old words!

Phillippa was crying, with her head on Owen’s shoulder. Isabella Clark waited to see the mortgage burned up, and then she came to me in the hall, all smooth and smiling again.

“Really, it’s