Only a Common Fellow

"Only a Common Fellow" is a charming short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that explores themes of love, identity, and the perceptions of societal status. The narrative follows a young woman who finds herself drawn to an unassuming yet genuine man, challenging her preconceived notions about romance and social standing. Through the lens of Montgomery's signature lyrical style, the story delves into the beauty of authenticity and the value of sincere connections, illustrating that true worth lies not in wealth or achievement, but in character and kindness.

• Short story

								
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

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