"Thank God!" exclaimed Frances, "she must be recovered, for her position
is changed." And so it was--the veil of black had entirely fallen off,
and her unconfined hair reposed in rich shadowy masses on her bosom and
shoulders: one arm rested on her knee, while the extended hand supported
her head; the other was open on her lap, and upon its small and
transparent palm lay a large locket of peculiar workmanship, set round
with brilliants. On this her eyes were fixed; and when her bower-maid,
Barbara, endeavoured to rouse her mistress's attention, the first
symptom of returning consciousness she gave, was to hide the jewel
within her bosom. She appeared like one waking from a long dream.
Frances spoke to her in a tone of gentle cheerfulness,-"Come, dearest, it is cold; we will in: you must be better presently.
One moment; let me bind up this hair; it keeps back the cloak from
covering your throat, and you shiver like an aspen." Frances was
gathering the large tresses eagerly in her hand, when she stopped, and
letting them suddenly fall, exclaimed,-"What's here to do! One of the finest of your lady's braids severed more
than mid-way, and by no scissors, truly; absolutely butchered! Do but
look, Barbara; I am sure 'twas not so this morning!"
The young tire-woman lifted up her hands in horror and amazement; for
she very properly regarded her mistress's beautiful hair as under her
own especial control, and was about to make some inquiry touching the
mysterious incident, when Constance drew the cardinal completely over
her head, and, leaning her arm on Barbara's shoulder, proceeded towards
the house.
Notwithstanding the great anxiety of Lady Frances on the score of her
friend's indisposition, and it is but justice to admit she loved her
with all the constancy of which her volatile nature was capable, her
affection was nearly overpowered by her curiosity--curiosity to discover
how Constance obtained the locket, and how she lost her most admired
tress. Yet, to neither of these perplexities had she the slightest clue.
Intimate as they had been from childhood; superior as was her rank to
that of Sir Robert Cecil's daughter; yet was there no one of her
acquaintance with whom she would not sooner have taken a liberty than
with Constance Cecil. In the course of the day she tried every little
art that female ingenuity could devise, short of saying, "How came you
by that locket?" to induce her to talk on the subject--and in vain.
Constance made no assertion--offered no explanation; but, when Frances
appeared to come too near the subject, she silenced all farther approach
to confidential communication, simply by raising her clear, calm, and
holy eye, letting it fall upon the animated, restless face of her
companion, and then shading its glory by the long silken lashes that
almost rested on the exquisitely moulded cheek. It was this peculiar
look that made her lively friend usually designate her "the awful
beauty."