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.
