On my dearie's wedding morning I wakened early and went to her
room. Long and long ago she had made me promise that I would be
the one to wake her on the morning of her wedding day.
"You were the first to take me in your arms when I came into the
world, Aunt Rachel," she had said, "and I want you to be the
first to greet me on that wonderful day."
But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that there
would be no need of wakening her. And there was not. She was
lying there awake, very quiet, with her hand under her cheek, and
her big blue eyes fixed on the window, through which a pale, dull
light was creeping in--a joyless light it was, and enough to make
a body shiver. I felt more like weeping than rejoicing, and my
heart took to aching when I saw her there so white and patient,
more like a girl who was waiting for a winding-sheet than for a
bridal veil. But she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on her
bed and took her hand.
"You look as if you haven't slept all night, dearie," I said.
"I didn't--not a great deal," she answered me. "But the night
didn't seem long; no, it seemed too short. I was thinking of a
great many things. What time is it, Aunt Rachel?"
"Five o'clock."
"Then in six hours more--"
She suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope of brown
hair falling over her white shoulders, and flung her arms about
me, and burst into tears on my old breast. I petted and soothed
her, and said not a word; and, after a while, she stopped crying;
but she still sat with her head so that I couldn't see her face.
"We didn't think it would be like this once, did we, Aunt
Rachel?" she said, very softly.
"It shouldn't be like this, now," I said. I had to say it. I
never could hide the thought of that marriage, and I couldn't
pretend to. It was all her stepmother's doings--right well I
knew that. My dearie would never have taken Mark Foster else.
"Don't let us talk of that," she said, soft and beseeching, just
the same way she used to speak when she was a baby-child and
wanted to coax me into something. "Let us talk about the old
days--and HIM."
"I don't see much use in talking of HIM, when you're going to
marry Mark Foster to-day," I said.
But she put her hand on my mouth.
"It's for the last time, Aunt Rachel. After to-day I can never
talk of him, or even think of him. It's four years since he went
away. Do you remember how he looked, Aunt Rachel?"
"I mind well enough, I reckon," I said, kind of curt-like. And I
did. Owen Blair hadn't a face a body could forget--that long
face of his with its clean color and its eyes made to look love
into a woman's. When I thought of Mark Foster's sallow skin and
lank jaws I felt sick-like. Not that Mark was ugly--he was just
a common-looking fellow.
"He was so handsome, wasn't he, Aunt Rachel?" my dearie went on,
in that patient voice of hers. "So tall and strong and handsome.
I wish we hadn't parted in anger. It was so foolish of us to
quarrel. But it would have been all right if he had lived to
come back. I know it would have been all right. I know he
didn't carry any bitterness against me to his death. I thought
once, Aunt Rachel, that I would go through life true to him, and
then, over on the other side, I'd meet him just as before, all
his and his only. But it isn't to be."
"Thanks to your stepma's wheedling and Mark Foster's scheming,"
said I.
"No, Mark didn't scheme," she said patiently. "Don't be unjust
to Mark, Aunt Rachel. He has been very good and kind."
"He's as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as Solomon's mule," I
said, for I WOULD say it. "He's just a common fellow, and yet he
thinks he's good enough for my beauty."
"Don't talk about Mark," she pleaded again. "I mean to be a
good, faithful wife to him. But I'm my own woman yet--YET--for
just a few more sweet hours, and I want to give them to HIM. The
last hours of my maidenhood--they must belong to HIM."
So she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her, 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 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 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.