"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.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261