“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.”
“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make her a good husband. They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying—”
“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And they have no business to tell tales about their masters.”
“No, mum—or else, they have said some things about Mr. Huntingdon too.”
“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.”
“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.
“Do you believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause.
“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was you, Miss Helen, I’d look very well before I leaped. I do believe a young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.”
“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be dressed.”
And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough—it was not for Annabella—it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.