Only a Common Fellow Page #3

"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

								

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.
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