In that piece of broken glass—with a disc not bigger than a dinner-plate—was reflected a face with which the most critical connoisseur of female beauty could scarce have found fault.
The features were of the true gipsy type—the aquiline nose—the wild, hawk-like eye—the skin of golden brown—and thick crow-black hair overshadowing all. There was a form, too, beneath, which, though muscular almost as a man’s, and with limbs large and vigorous, was, nevertheless, of tempting tournure. It was no wonder that Marion Wade had deemed it worthy the admiration of Henry Holtspur—no wonder that Henry Holtspur had deemed Will Walford unworthy of possessing it.
“He coming here! And to find me in this drabby dress, with my hair hanging like the tail of father’s old horse! I should sink through the floor for very shame!
“I trust I shall be in time to titivate myself. Bother my hair!—it’s a yard too long, and a mile too thick. It takes as much trouble to plait as would weave a hank of homespun.
“It’ll do now. Stick where I stick you, ye ugly comb! Will’s gift. Little do I prize it, troth!
“Now for my Sunday gown—my cuffs and ruffs. They’re not quite so grand as those of Mistress Marion Wade; but I flatter myself they’re not amiss. If I were only allowed to wear gloves—pretty gauntlets, like those I’ve seen on her hands, small and white as the drifted snow! Ah! there, I’m far behind her: my poor hands are red and big; they’ve had to work and weave; while hers, I dare say, never touched a distaff. Oh! that I could wear gloves to cover these ugly fingers of mine. But no—I daren’t. The village girls would laugh at me, and call me a —. I won’t say the word. Never mind for the gloves. Should he come, I’ll keep my hands under my apron, so that he shan’t see a finger.”
Thus soliloquised Bet Dancey in front of her bit of broken looking-glass.
It was not Will Walford who had summoned up her ludicrous soliloquy; nor yet the cuirassier—he who had called twice. For neither of these was the dark-haired damsel arraying herself in her flaunting finery. The lure was being set for higher game—for Henry Holtspur.
“I hope father mayn’t meet him on the way. He’ll be sure to turn him back if he do: for father likes better to go to Stone Dean than for him to come here. Luckily there’s two paths; and father always takes the short cut—by which he never comes.
“Ha! the dog barks! ’Tis some one! Mercy on me! If’t be him I’m not half ready to receive him. Stay in, you nasty comb! It’s too short in the teeth. Will’s no judge of combs, or he’d a bought me a better. After all,” concluded she, bending down before the bit of glass, and taking a final survey of her truly beautiful face, “I think I’ll do. Perhaps I’m not so pretty as Mistress Marion Wade; but I’m sure I’m as good-looking as Mistress Dorothy Dayrell. The dog again! It must be somebody, I hope ’tis—”