The Buccaneer - A Tale

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."