She named her little one Hope, with a sad irony. She was a small, weird-looking baby, with large, dark-gray eyes, and skin white, even waxen white; never did the least tinge of the rose visit the cheek. Her eyes were shaded by long, black lashes, but, as she grew, it became evident that her hair was to be snowy white. It would seem that this feature of the human frame being more volatile than all others, is the one most likely to be affected with change, and that that moment of horror, which had struck the mother to the earth, changed forever the color of her child’s hair, and blanched its cheek to a perpetual paleness.
Years passed, and sons and daughters graced the mansion of Sir Richard Vines; fair, even beautiful were the children, trained to all gentle usages by the father and mother, and finally they were sent to England to be “finished” and presented at court, for the true Englishman never neglects the duties of his birth, or the privileges of his rank.
Little Hope had reached the age of seventeen. She was exceedingly diminutive in stature, but most exquisitely formed. Her cheek was still colorless, and her long, abundant hair still white; but this, while it gave a peculiarity, did not detract from her beauty. Sometimes the sisters of Hope would call her “white head,” a term which she resented in a manner unwonted to her character, in which was no ingredient of vanity.
It was evident that she considered her hair a sacred badge, and tenderly associated with the fate of her uncle Raleigh; hence, any jest aimed at this peculiarity not only shocked her reverence, but offended her taste. She held long and solemn talks with the old English nurse, Aunt Sallie, about the period of her birth, and the cruel death of Sir Walter, and the good creature did not fail to impress her mind with her own superstitious belief in the supernatural omen which we have heretofore related.
“Your hair is a mark, my pretty darling,” she would say; “it is a mark, and you are none the worse for it. Not one of your sisters can compare with my pretty, for handsome looks, with all their airs.”
It was evident that Hope was the favorite of Aunt Sallie, who sometimes conceived that the child was not fully appreciated by the members of the household, whose characters circled within the more ordinarily understood limits. Hope was freakish and petulant, Aunt Sallie would exclaim:
“And why shouldn’t she have her own way! Surely she is pretty enough to have it, and I see no fault to be found with her.”
Indeed, Aunt Sallie had little cause for complaint, as all the freaks of Hope were patiently tolerated, and her peculiar, but most abundant hair accepted as no detriment to her good looks. At home these peculiarities were less dangerous to her than they were hereafter to become to her abroad.
The Indians around her saw and turned again and again to mark those lips, of that ruby red which goes with perfect health; black, perfectly arched brows, and long, dark lashes, shading eyes of wonderful brilliancy and depth of expression. The whole aspect of her beauty, while it was artistic, would have presented also the idea of something preternatural, even to those less impressible by such things than the Indian.
We will now resume the thread of our narrative.