A second glance at Alida de Barberie was scarcely necessary to betray her
mixed descent. From her Norman father, a Huguenot of the petite noblesse,
she had inherited her raven hair, the large, brilliant coal-black eyes, in
which wildness was singularly relieved by sweetness, a classical and
faultless profile, and a form which was both taller and more flexible than
commonly fell to the lot of the damsels of Holland. From her mother, la
belle Barberie, as the maiden was often playfully termed, had received a
skin, fair and spotless as the flower of France, and a bloom which
rivalled the rich tints of an evening sky in her native land. Some of the
em bon point, for which the sister of the Alderman had been a little
remarkable, had descended also to her fairer daughter. In Alida, however,
this peculiarity did not exceed the fullness which became her years,
rounding her person and softening the outlines of her form, rather than
diminishing its ease and grace These personal advantages were embellished
by a neat but modest travelling habit, a little beaver that was shaded by
a cluster of drooping feathers, and a mien that, under the embarrassment
of her situation preserved the happiest medium between modesty and
perfect self-possession.
When Alderman Van Beverout joined this fair creature, in whose future
happiness he was fully justified in taking the deep interest which he has
betrayed in some of the opening scenes of this volume, he found her
engaged in a courteous discourse with the young man, who was generally
considered as the one, among the numerous pretenders to her favor, who was
most likely to succeed.
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