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Updated: June 23, 2025
Yet her present phase of loveliness was of the loveliest type. No fault could be found with the perfect oval of her face, her delicate white-rose skin, her small seductive mouth, curved in the approved line of the "Cupid's bow," her deep, soft, bright eyes, fringed with long-lashes a shade darker than the curling waves of her abundant brown hair.
I should like to see him and his son together." A hard and almost vicious gleam shone for as instant in his eyes. "You're as cruel as a Spaniard at a bull-fight." "My boy, I've been gored by the bull." Pierce was silent for a minute. He thought of Lady Holme's white-rose complexion and of the cessation of Carey's acquaintance with the Holmes.
But to-day, as he gazed down at her white-rose paleness, the heavy lashes making their violet shadow on her cheek her red mouth mutinous and full the conviction came back to him that there were breadths and depths and heights about which he had no conception even. And an ice hand clutched his heart.
The invalid leaned far back in her cushioned easy-chair, and, as the physician rested his arm on the mantelpiece and looked down at her, he thought of the lines that had more than once recurred to his mind, since the commencement of their acquaintance, "What finely carven features! Yes, but carved From some clear stuff, not like a woman's flesh, And colored like half-faded, white-rose leaves.
Its wild white-rose fairness had dulled into the pallor of old ivory. There were deep, bluish shadows about the eyes and round the mouth, and the hollow at the base of the throat, where the pulse throbbed and fluttered visibly, had grown deep. Her red-brown hair had lost its burnished beauty.
Her complexion owed its white-rose tinge to a strong, gentle life, and its few freckles to the pale sun of Scotland, for she courted every breeze bonnetless on the hills, when she accompanied her father in his walks, or carried home the work he had finished.
He did not want to think of her; he wanted to go to sleep. Twice only had he seen her. Once upon the occasion of the red pump and once when casually passing her on the main street. There was no reason why her white-rose face with its strange blue eyes and its smile-curved lips should float about in the darkness of Mrs. Sykes' best room. Yet there it was. It was the eyes, perhaps.
There was a fragrance from him a perfume of youth and health and vitality that was powerful, heady, intoxicating as the first warm, flower-scented wind of Spring, blowing down a mountain-kloof from the high ranges. Her white-rose cheeks took sudden warmth of hue, and her pale nostrils quivered. A faint, mysterious smile dawned upon her lips.
She is suggestive somehow. She makes one's imagination work. Of course she is beautiful." "And she thinks that is everything. She would part with her voice, her intelligence she is very intelligent in the quick, frivolous fashion that is necessary for London that personal fascination you speak of, everything rather than her white-rose complexion and the wave in her hair." "Really, really?" "Yes.
"Cleverly done, but a close thing," the Chief said, as he turned away. "I wish I had had that fellow's chance!" was written in Beauvayse's face. To have won a look of gratitude from those wonderful black-fringed eyes, brought a flush of admiration into those white-rose cheeks, would have been worth while.
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