"Either I shall invite my father to my wedding, or I shall not
have a wedding," she repeated steadily, adopting her mother's own
effective tactics of repetition undistracted by argument.
"Invite him then," snapped Mrs. Spencer, with the ungraceful
anger of a woman, long accustomed to having her own way,
compelled for once to yield. "It'll be like chips in porridge
anyhow--neither good nor harm. He won't come."
Rachel made no response. Now that the battle was over, and the
victory won, she found herself tremulously on the verge of tears.
She rose quickly and went upstairs to her own room, a dim little
place shadowed by the white birches growing thickly outside--a
virginal room, where everything bespoke the maiden. She lay down
on the blue and white patchwork quilt on her bed, and cried
softly and bitterly.
Her heart, at this crisis in her life, yearned for her father,
who was almost a stranger to her. She knew that her mother had
probably spoken the truth when she said that he would not come.
Rachel felt that her marriage vows would be lacking in some
indefinable sacredness if her father were not by to hear them
spoken.
Twenty-five years before this, David Spencer and Isabella
Chiswick had been married. Spiteful people said there could be
no doubt that Isabella had married David for love, since he had
neither lands nor money to tempt her into a match of bargain and
sale.
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