The Eustace Diamonds | Page 9

mean to say that I think we shouldn't trouble ourselves about a
few stones." But the family lawyer, Mr. Camperdown, would by no
means take this view of the matter. It was, however, generally thought
that the young widow opened her campaign more prudently than had
been expected.
And now as so much has been said of the character and fortune and
special circumstances of Lizzie Greystock, who became Lady Eustace
as a bride, and Lady Eustace as a widow and a mother, all within the
space of twelve months, it may be as well to give some description of
her person and habits, such as they were at the period in which our
story is supposed to have its commencement. It must be understood in
the first place that she was very lovely; much more so, indeed, now

than when she had fascinated Sir Florian. She was small, but taller than
she looked to be, for her form was perfectly symmetrical. Her feet and
hands might have been taken as models by a sculptor. Her figure was
lithe, and soft, and slim, and slender. If it had a fault it was this, that it
had in it too much of movement. There were some who said that she
was almost snake-like in her rapid bendings and the almost too easy
gestures of her body; for she was much given to action and to the
expression of her thought by the motion of her limbs. She might
certainly have made her way as an actress, had fortune called upon her
to earn her bread in that fashion. And her voice would have suited the
stage. It was powerful when she called upon it for power; but, at the
same time, flexible and capable of much pretence at feeling. She could
bring it to a whisper that would almost melt your heart with tenderness,
as she had melted Sir Florian's, when she sat near to him reading poetry;
and then she could raise it to a pitch of indignant wrath befitting a Lady
Macbeth when her husband ventured to rebuke her. And her ear was
quite correct in modulating these tones. She knew--and it must have
been by instinct, for her culture in such matters was small--how to use
her voice so that neither its tenderness nor its wrath should be
misapplied. There were pieces in verse that she could read, things not
wondrously good in themselves, so that she would ravish you; and she
would so look at you as she did it that you would hardly dare either to
avert your eyes or to return her gaze. Sir Florian had not known
whether to do the one thing or the other, and had therefore seized her in
his arms. Her face was oval--somewhat longer than an oval--with little
in it, perhaps nothing in it, of that brilliancy of colour which we call
complexion. And yet the shades of her countenance were ever changing
between the softest and most transparent white and the richest,
mellowest shades of brown. It was only when she simulated anger--she
was almost incapable of real anger --that she would succeed in calling
the thinnest streak of pink from her heart, to show that there was blood
running in her veins. Her hair, which was nearly black, but in truth with
more of softness and of lustre than ever belong to hair that is really
black, she wore bound tight round her perfect forehead, with one long
lovelock hanging over her shoulder. The form of her head was so good
that she could dare to carry it without a chignon or any adventitious
adjuncts from an artist's shop. Very bitter was she in consequence when

speaking of the head-gear of other women. Her chin was perfect in its
round--not over long, as is the case with so many such faces, utterly
spoiling the symmetry of the countenance. But it lacked a dimple, and
therefore lacked feminine tenderness. Her mouth was perhaps faulty in
being too small, or, at least, her lips were too thin. There was wanting
from the mouth that expression of eager-speaking truthfulness which
full lips will often convey. Her teeth were without flaw or blemish,
even, small, white, and delicate; but perhaps they were shown too often.
Her nose was small, but struck many as the prettiest feature of her face,
so exquisite was the moulding of it, and so eloquent and so graceful the
slight inflations of the transparent nostrils. Her eyes, in which she
herself thought that the lustre of her beauty lay, were blue and clear,
bright as cerulean waters. They were long, large eyes, but very
dangerous. To those who knew how to read a face, there was danger
plainly written in them. Poor Sir Florian had not known. But, in