"Poor or rich I cannot marry her son. It may kill me, but my oath, my oath! let me rest, let me rest"—
She drew her hand wearily across her forehead and her bright eyes filled with tears.
"But you are sorry for this oath, my Isabel?"
"Sorry, it is killing me."
He looked down upon the white folds of her muslin wrapper, brightened as they were by the crimson glow of a dressing-gown that flowed over it. He saw how thin she had grown, how like wax her delicate hand lay upon the crimson of her dress, and how mournfully large her eyes had become.
"This shall not be, it is madness!" he exclaimed aloud and passionately. "Mother I"—
"Hush!" said aunt Hannah, silencing him with her uplifted hand, "let me speak!"
She moved a step forward, standing almost in the centre of the room, with Mrs. Farnham and her lawyer friend on the left, and the clergyman who stood near the newly married pair on her right. All had a full view of her face. Her features seemed harder than ever—the expression on them was stern as granite. Her eyes burned with a settled purpose, and her whole person was imposing.
For a moment, when all eyes were bent upon her she seemed to falter; you could see by the choking in her throat and a spasmodic gripe of her fingers, that the struggle for her first words was agony.
But she did speak, and her voice was so hoarse that it struck those around her with amazement; nay, a look of awe stole over the faces turned so earnestly towards her.