One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri QuatreJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
History
One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
France -- History -- Henry IV, 1589-1610 -- Fiction
Though, as I have said, from this window is derived the sole light
which the room possesses; nevertheless, that light is enough,
especially as the sunshine seems to regard that casement with
particular favour, and never fails to linger about it when the bright
beams visit earth.
At the time to which we must now go back, the floors were not so
dingy, the oak was not so black, as they are at present; but the full
summer sunshine was pouring through the large oriel, chequering the
wood work of the raised flooring with the golden light of the rays and
the dark shadows of the leaden frames in which the glass was set. A
stand for embroidery appeared on the little platform; and before it
sat a lady plying the busy needle and the shining silks; while a maid,
seated near, read to her from a book--the Gothic characters of which
were fast merging into the round letters of the present day--and
another female attendant, a little farther off, followed the
industrious example of her mistress, and busied herself at her frame.
The principal person of the group was habited in deep mourning, which,
in the fashion of that day, was, perhaps, the most unbecoming dress
that the vanity of man ever permitted. The sombre hue of the garment
was relieved by nothing that could give lightness or grace; and the
heavy black veil, hanging from the head, seemed designed purposely to
cast a gloomy, unsoftened shadow over the face. But that lady was one
of those whom we see sometimes, and dream of often, so lovely by the
gift of nature, that art can do nothing either to add to the beauty or
diminish it; and she looked as transcendently lovely in the dark
wimple and the sable stole, as if she had been clad in jewels and in
lace. She was as fair as the morning star, with eyes of the deep, deep
blue of the evening sky, full and soft, and overhung with a long
fringe of jetty eyelashes, which sometimes made the eyes themselves
seem black. Her cheek bore the rosy hue of health, though the colour
was by no means deep, and was so softly diffused over her face, that
it was scarce possible to say where the warm tint of the cheek ended,
and the brilliant fairness of the forehead and temples began. The
features, too, were as lovely as if the brightest fancy and the most
skilful hand had combined to personify beauty; but they had nothing of
the cold, still harshness of the statue, and one looked long in
admiration ere one could pause to trace the graceful lines that went
to form so fair a whole. The form was in no way unworthy of the face;
and even the stiff, heavy folds of the mourning robe were forced into
graceful falls by the symmetry of the limbs they covered. All,
however, was calm and easy, and every part of the figure was
concealed, as far as possible, except the tip of one small foot, and
the soft rounded delicate hands, which, with a thousand graceful
movements, urged the needle through the embroidery.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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