A Son of Ishmael by L.T. Meade — Read

The great house-warming at Rowton Heights was never forgotten by anyone who was present at it. The merry ball was not only remembered on account of the grand festivity itself, but because of that mystery and tragedy which immediately followed it. At the time it went, as Rowton had prophesied, without a single hitch. Rowton was now a king, and Nance was a queen. The king had come in for his own again, and the county rejoiced. Pretty Nance, or Dame Rowton, as the guests called her on account of her quaint and lovely dress, was the undoubted belle of the occasion. She suited the quaint rich costume to perfection. Her slim young figure, her delicate features, the bloom of youth on her cheeks, the sparkle of hope and happiness in her eyes, gave to her beauty a unique and almost spiritual appearance. She might have really lived in the days she so cunningly represented. There was a certain ethereal quality about her which made her appear at times, and under certain emotions, more spirit than flesh; but hers was the sort of beauty which no man has ever been known to resist. There was something womanly, essentially gentle, about her. It was impossible to connect unkindness, want of charity, or any of the vices with that sweet face.

Nance was one of those people who feel so much that, like an Æolian harp, each breath which blew upon her brought out some fresh attribute of her bright spirit. Never for long could the charming face look the same. One half hour the cheeks would be bright, the eyes shining, the rosebud lips would part with smiles; the next, all the colour would have fled, the pathetic eyes would look full of undefined trouble, the lips would be too faintly coloured for health; laughter would then be banished, and the grave face would be too thoughtful for its youth.