The lady by whom she was accompanied was not so tall, and of a much
slighter form; her limbs delicately moulded, and her features more
attractive than beautiful. There was that about her whole demeanour
which is expressively termed coquetry, not the coquetry of action, but
of feeling: her eyes were dark and brilliant, her mouth full and
pouting; and the nose was only saved from vulgarity by that turn, to
describe which we are compelled to use a foreign term--it was un peu
retroussé: her complexion was of a clear olive, through which the blood
glowed warmly whenever called to her cheek by any particular emotion.
The dress she wore, without being gay, was costly: the full skirt of
crimson grogram descended not so low as to prevent her small and
beautifully-turned ankle from being distinctly seen, and the cardinal of
wrought purple velvet, which had been hastily flung over her shoulders,
was lined and bordered with the finest ermine. Nor did the contrast
between the ladies end here: the full and rich-toned voice of Constance
Cecil was the perfection of harmony, while the light and gay speech of
her companion might be called melody--the sweet playful melody of an
untaught bird.
"You must not mourn so unceasingly, my dear Constance," she said,
looking kindly into the sorrowing face of her friend: "I could give you
counsel--but counsel to the distressed is like chains thrown upon
troubled waters."
"Say not so, Frances; rather like oil upon a stormy sea is the sweet
counsel of a friend; and truly none but a friend would have turned from
the crowded and joyous court to sojourn in this lonely isle; and, above
all, in the house of mourning."
"I do not deny to you, Constance, that I love the gaiety, the pomp, and
the homage of our courts; that both Hampton and Whitehall have many
charms for me; but there are some things--some things I love far more. I
loved your mother," she continued, in a tone of deeper feeling than was
usual with so gay a spirit; "and I love the friend who, while she
reproves my follies, can estimate my virtues: for even my sombre sister
Elizabeth, your grave god-mother, admits that I have virtues, though she
denies them to be of an exalted nature."
"Were the Lady Claypole to judge of others according to the standard of
her own exceeding excellence, Frances, we should, indeed, fall far below
what we are disposed to believe is our real value; but, like the rose,
instead of robbing less worthy flowers of their fragrance, she imparts
to them a portion of her own."