"
"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
would never have come, if she'd lived."
"I dare say Phillippa's mother would have remembered that Mark
Foster is very well off, quite as readily as worse people," said
Isabella, a little spitefully.
I liked her better when she was spiteful than when she was
smooth. I didn't feel so scared of her then.
The marriage was to be at eleven o'clock, and, at nine, I went up
to help Phillippa dress. She was no fussy bride, caring much
what she looked like. If Owen had been the bridegroom it would
have been different. Nothing would have pleased her then; but
now it was only just "That will do very well, Aunt Rachel,"
without even glancing at it.
Still, nothing could prevent her from looking lovely when she was
dressed. My dearie would have been a beauty in a beggarmaid's
rags. In her white dress and veil she was as fair as a queen.
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