Further Chronicles of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

with her lovely hair hanging down over my arm, and my

  heart aching so for her that it hurt bitter. She didn't

  feel as bad as I did, because she'd made up her mind

  what to do and was resigned. She was going to marry

  Mark Foster, but her heart was in France, in that grave

  nobody knew of, where the Huns had buried Owen Blair -

  if they had buried him at all. And she went over all

  they had been to each other, since they were mites of

  babies, going to school together and meaning, even

  then, to be married when they grew up; and the first

  words of love he'd said to her, and what she'd dreamed

  and hoped for. The only thing she didn't bring up was

  the time he thrashed Mark Foster for bringing her

  apples. She never mentioned Mark's name; it was all

  Owen - Owen - and how he looked, and what might have

  been, if he hadn't gone off to the awful war and got

  shot. And there was me, holding her and listening to it

  all, and her stepma sleeping sound 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 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 all very romantic, isn't it? I suppose

  it's better as it is, all things considered. Mark

  behaved splendidly, didn't he? Not many men would have

  done as he did."

  For once in my life I agreed with Isabella. But I felt

  like having a good cry over it all - and I had it. I

  was glad for my dearie's sake and Owen's; but Mark

  Foster had paid the price of their joy, and I knew it

  had beggared him of happiness for life.

  Chapter XV

  Tannis Of The Flats

  FEW people in Avonlea could understand why Elinor Blair

  had never married. She had been one of the most

  beautiful girls in our part of the Island and, as a

  woman of fifty, she was still very attractive. In her

  youth she had had ever so many beaux, as we of our

  generation well remembered; but, after her return from

  visiting her brother Tom in the Canadian Northwest,

  more than twenty-five years ago, she had seemed to

  withdraw within herself, keeping all men at a safe,

  though friendly, distance. She had been a gay, laughing

  girl when she went West; she came back quiet and

  serious, with a shadowed look in her eyes which time

  could not quite succeed in blotting out.

  Elinor had never talked much about her visit, except to

  describe the scenery and the life, which in that day

>   was rough indeed. Not even to me, who had grown up next

  door to her and who had always seemed more a sister

  than a friend, did she speak of other than the merest

  commonplaces. But when Tom Blair made a flying trip

  back home, some ten years later, there were one or two

  of us to whom he related the story of Jerome Carey, - a

  story revealing only too well the reason for Elinor's

  sad eyes and utter indifference to masculine

  attentions. I can recall almost his exact words and the

  inflections of his voice, and I remember, too, that it

  seemed to me a far cry from the tranquil, pleasant

  scene before us, on that lovely summer day, to the

  elemental life of the Flats.

  The Flats was a forlorn little trading station fifteen

  miles up the river from Prince Albert, with a scanty

  population of half-breeds and three white men. When

  Jerome Carey was sent to take charge of the telegraph

  office there, he cursed his fate in the picturesque

  language permissible in the far Northwest.

  Not that Carey was a profane man, even as men go in the

  West. He was an English gentleman, and he kept both his

  life and his vocabulary pretty clean. But - the Flats!

  Outside of the ragged cluster of log shacks, which

  comprised the settlement, there was always a shifting

  fringe of teepees where the Indians, who drifted down

  from the Reservation, camped with their dogs and squaws

  and papooses. There are standpoints from which Indians

  are interesting, but they cannot be said to offer

  congenial social attractions. For three weeks after

  Carey went to the Flats he was lonelier than he had

  ever imagined it possible to be, even in the Great Lone

  Land. If it had not been for teaching Paul Dumont the

  telegraphic code, Carey believed he would have been

  driven to suicide in self-defense.

  The telegraphic importance of the Flats consisted in

  the fact that it was the starting point of three

  telegraph lines to remote trading posts up North. Not

  many messages came therefrom, but the few that did come

  generally amounted to something worth while. Days and

  even weeks would pass without a single one being

  clicked to the Flats. Carey was debarred from talking

  over the wires to the Prince Albert man for the reason

  that they were on officially bad terms. He blamed the

  latter for his transfer to the Flats.

  Carey slept in a loft over the office, and got his

  meals as Joe Esquint's, across the "street." Joe

  Esquint's wife was a good cook, as cooks go among the

  breeds, and Carey soon became a great pet of hers.

  Carey had a habit of becoming a pet with women. He had

  the "way" that has to be born in a man and can never be

  acquired. Besides, he was as handsome as clean-cut

  features, deep-set, dark-blue eyes, fair curls and six

  feet of muscle could make him. Mrs. Joe Esquint thought

  that his mustache was the most wonderfully beautiful

  thing, in its line, that she had ever seen.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Joe was so old and fat and ugly that

  even the malicious and inveterate gossip of skulking

  breeds and Indians, squatting over teepee fires, could

  not hint at anything questionable in the relations

  between her and Carey. But it was a different matter

  with Tannis Dumont.

  Tannis came home from the academy at Prince Albert

  early in July, when Carey had been at the Flats a month

  and had exhausted all the few novelties of his

  position. Paul Dumont had already become so expert at

  the code that his mistakes no longer afforded Carey any

  fun, and the latter was getting desperate. He had

  serious intentions of throwing up the business

  altogether, and betaking himself to an Alberta ranch,

  where at least one would have the excitement of roping

  horses. When he saw Tannis Dumont he thought he would

  hang on awhile longer, anyway.

  Tannis was the daughter of old Auguste Dumont, who kept

  the one small store at the Flats, lived in the one

  frame house that the place boasted, and was reputed to

  be worth an amount of money which, in half-breed eyes,

  was a colossal fortune. Old Auguste was black and ugly