“But, Miss Maxwell,” said Hope, with some confusion, “Helen will not be at our house to-night,—she never comes to our house—she always stays at home.”
“And why does she always stay at home?”
Hope’s face flushed indignantly.
“Because she has to keep a school—not a school for young ladies—and because she is proud, and other people are foolish and do not know what it is to be a gentlewoman;—and because my father—”
Hope paused, perceiving that it might not be necessary to publish the faults of her father. At the same time Hope was very anxious to make Lilias useful in her absence as a means of proclaiming the excellencies of Helen; and there was yet another thing which Hope desired to make Lilias understand,—that William was by no means an eligible parti, whatever his father or Mossgray might say to the contrary. Hope had never heard yet of the mysterious Indian letters, and did not know that Lilias was as completely fortified against the attractions of William as he was from hers.
“Because she keeps a school, and because she is proud,” repeated Lilias; “but she has been here in Fendie all her life—and she must have friends.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Hope, promptly, “she has plenty of friends; only you know, Miss Maxwell, nobody she cares about—I don’t mean that either—I mean there is nobody like herself—I never saw any one like Helen but you.”
“And am I like Helen?”
Hope looked up at the calm, pensive face before her with its fair still features, and faint colour, and thoughtful melancholy eyes—and confessed to herself that it was not so.
“No—I don’t mean you are like in the face—only—” Hope paused and was puzzled, “only you are Helen’s age—and you are alone—and—you are a gentlewoman.”