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an upper drawer。 She was going to let down her hair； and make
herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne’s
dressing…room。 It was soon done； and the dark hyacinthine curves
fell on her neck。 It was not heavy； massive； merely rippling hair；
but soft and silken； running at every opportunity into delicate
rings。 But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture； and
form a dark curtain； throwing into relief her round white neck。
Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at herself；
folding her arms before her； still like the picture。 Even the old
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mottled glass couldn’t help sending back a lovely image； none the
less lovely because Hetty’s stays were not of white satin—such as I
feel sure heroines must generally wear—but of a dark greenish
cotton texture。
Oh yes！ She was very pretty。 Captain Donnithorne thought so。
Prettier than anybody about Hayslope—prettier than any of the
ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase—indeed it seemed
fine ladies were rather old and ugly—and prettier than Miss
Bacon； the miller’s daughter； who was called the beauty of
Treddleston。 And Hetty looked at herself to…night with quite a
different sensation from what she had ever felt before； there was
an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morning on the
flowers。 His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty
things she had heard in the wood； his arm was round her； and the
delicate rose…scent of his hair was with her still。 The vainest
woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is
loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return。
But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something
was wanting； for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out
of the linen…press； and a pair of large ear…rings out of the sacred
drawer from which she had taken her candles。 It was an old old
scarf； full of rents； but it would make a becoming border round her
shoulders； and set off the whiteness of her upper arm。 And she
would take out the little ear…rings she had in her ears—oh； how
her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored！—and put in
those large ones。 They were but coloured glass and gilding； but if
you didn’t know what they were made of； they looked just as well
as what the ladies wore。 And so she sat down again； with the large
ear…rings in her ears； and the black lace scarf adjusted round her
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shoulders。 She looked down at her arms： no arms could be prettier
down to a little way below the elbow—they were white and plump；
and dimpled to match her cheeks； but towards the wrist； she
thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter…making
and other work that ladies never did。
Captain Donnithorne couldn’t like her to go on doing work： he
would like to see her in nice clothes； and thin shoes； and white
stockings； perhaps with silk clocks to them； for he must love her
very much—no one else had ever put his arm round her and
kissed her in that way。 He would want to marry her and make a
lady of her； she could hardly dare to shape the thought—yet how
else could it be？ Marry her quite secretly； as Mr。 James； the
doctor’s assistant； married the doctor’s niece； and nobody ever
found it out for a long while after； and then it was of no use to be
angry。 The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty’s hearing。
She didn’t know how it would be； but it was quite plain the old
Squire could never be told anything about it； for Hetty was ready
to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase。
He might have been earth…born； for what she knew。 It had never
entered her mind that he had been young like other men； he had
always been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened。
Oh； it was impossible to think how it would be！ But Captain
Donnithorne would know； he was a great gentleman； and could
have his way in everything； and could buy everything he liked。
And nothing could be as it had been again： perhaps some day she
should be a grand lady； and ride in her coach； and dress for dinner
in a brocaded silk； with feathers in her hair； and her dress
sweeping the ground； like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey； when she
saw them going into the dining…room one evening as she peeped
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through the little round window in the lobby； only she should not
be old and ugly like Miss Lydia； or all the same thickness like Lady
Dacey； but very pretty； with her hair done in a great many
different ways； and sometimes in a pink dress； and sometimes in a
white one—she didn’t know which she liked best； and Mary Burge
and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage—
or rather； they would hear of it： it was impossible to imagine these
things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt。 At the thought
of all this splendour； Hetty got up from her chair； and in doing so
caught the little red…framed glass with the edge of her scarf； so
that it fell with a bang on the floor； but she was too eagerly
occupied with her vision to care about picking it up； and after a
momentary start； began to pace with a pigeon…like stateliness
backwards and forwards along her room； in her coloured stays
and coloured skirt； and the old black lace scarf round her
shoulders； and the great glass ear…rings in her ears。
How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress！ It would be
the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her： there is such a
sweet baby…like roundness about her face and figure； the delicate
dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck； her
great dark eyes with their long eye…lashes touch one so strangely；
as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them。
Ah； what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like
Hetty！ How the men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast；
and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and orange
blossoms。 The dear； young； round； soft； flexible thing！ Her heart
must be just as soft； her temper just as free from angles； her
character just as pliant。 If anything ever goes wrong； it must be the
husband’s fault there： he can make her what he likes—that is
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plain。 And the lover himself thinks so too： the little darling is so
fond of him； her little vanities are so bewitching； he wouldn’t
consent to her being a bit wiser； those kitten…like glances and
movements are just what one wants to make one’s hearth a
paradise。 Every man under such circumstances is conscious of
being a great physiognomist。 Nature； he knows； has a language of
her own； which she uses with strict veracity； and he considers
himself an adept in the language。 Nature has written out his
bride’s character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip
and chin； in those eyelids delicate as petals； in those long lashes
curled like the stamen of a flower； in the dark liquid depths of
those wonderful eyes。 How she will dote on her children！ She is
almost a child h