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