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.
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