She had a delicate
color that was like the faint flush one sees inside a rose. She had eyes
of the same beautiful blue as the purple heartsease, and great masses of
golden-brown hair that fell in rich waves on her neck and shoulders.
She was patrician from the crown of her dainty head to the little feet;
the slender, girlish figure was full of grace and symmetry, the white,
rounded throat and beautiful shoulders were fit models for a sculptor.
She had pretty white hands, with a soft, rose-leaf flush on the fingers.
She was a lovely girl, fair, high-bred and elegant, and she gave promise
of a most superb and magnificent womanhood. Such was Marion Arleigh on
this June evening. The young man by her side was handsome after a
certain style; the impression his face left upon every one was that he
was not to be trusted; his dark eyes were not frank and clear, the thin
lips were shrewd, with lines about them that betokened cruelty; it was a
face from which children shrank instinctively, and women as a rule did
not love. They stood side by side under the shade of an elder tree.
Plainly as patrician was written on her beautiful face and figure,
plebeian was imprinted on his. He was tall, but there was no high-bred
grace, no ease of manner, no courteous dignity such as distinguishes the
true English gentleman. His face expressed passion, but half a dozen
meaner emotions were there as well. None were perceptible to the girl by
his side. She thought him perfection and nothing else.
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