habitual black, although in deference to the party, she had exchanged bombazine for the finest silk.
“Welcome to Darby, one and all,” our goodly host continued with enthusiasm, “though I must declare myself quite put out at your skill with cards, Mrs. Austen—I suffered such a loss Thursday as must make me your sworn enemy at every future Assembly. Our differences shall be forgot, however, madam, for the length of this evening.”
“The credit must be all Captain Fielding's,” my mother replied with an effort at modesty; but I knew her to be quite puffed up at her success.
“Then Darby's card tables assuredly never shall be produced,” Mr. Crawford rejoined, “for the Captain is within, and I shall spend the better part of the evening in preventing a like collusion.”
The affable fellow helped me from the carriage and swept his eyes the length of my pale blue muslin. I confess to having taken especial care with my dress that evening, and of having abandoned my cap for the daring measure of a feathered turban very like my sister Eliza's, and obtained only a few days previous from Mr. Milsop.
“You are decidedly lovely this evening, Miss Austen. Darby shall be beside itself, we are all got up so fine! For you know/’ Mr. Crawford confided, “I have prevailed upon Sidmouth to bring his cousin, the bewitching Mademoiselle LeFevre; and I perceive them even now at the turning of the drive/’
I looked over my shoulder, and espied a curricle,1 with Mr. Sidmouth at the reins; a moment, and they were upon us. Mr. Crawford hastened to the curricle's side, the better to assist Seraphine from the conveyance, his aspect all admiration.
“Mademoiselle LeFevre! Darby is honoured indeed!”
“It is I who must profess myself to be so,” the lady replied, with a quiet smile and downcast eyes. And such a voice! Like the sound of cool water slipping over stones, with a depth of peace in its faintiy foreign accent The drab garb of a common field labourer she had cast off, and the red cloak was left at High Down; tonight she stood arrayed in a sprigged white lawn with a modest train, as befit her age and station, her fair hair swept up and becomingly ringed about the brow. A circlet of pearls was twined in her hair, and a bright pink sash caught at her waist. I gazed, and admired, and strained despite myself for a glimpse of ethereal wings.
“Miss Austen, you will wish to be presented to Mademoiselle,” Mr. Crawford cried, quite ignorant of our previous meeting; I extended my hand, a tentative smile upon my lips, uncertain how I should be received. But my hesitancy was all unwarranted; the girl took my hand in her own, her face transformed by the gladdest of looks; and bobbed a curtsey.
“Miss Austen, Reverend Austen, Mrs. Austen—I am happy to see you once more,” she said simply; but I wondered at the change in her. Where once there had been coldness and indifference, a patent dislike of unwanted strangers, there was now an evident desire to please, and to be pleased in return. To what did we owe the warmth of such a reception?—the good offices of her cousin, perhaps?
But it required only the removal of our party from the stoop to the drawing-room, for a yet more astounding meeting to ensue. Our host led the way, and behind him ourselves, so that it was some few moments before Mr. Sidmouth and Seraphine observed the presence of Cap tain Fielding before Darby's ornate marble mantel—a delay that only sharpened the effect of surprise. I turned, in the act of taking a chair, and observed Mademoiselle Le-Fevre start and draw back, her cheeks overcome with blushes and her eyes at a loss for an object; Mr. Sidmouth's countenance whitened, and he stopped short in the very doorway, a wave of rage transforming his steady gaze.
“What is the meaning of this, Crawford?” he burst out, as Captain Fielding turned from the fire with a low bow— and at his poor host's bewilderment, and Miss Crawford's stiffened form, betrayed all his consternation.
There was a moment's shocked silence, with the party utterly at a loss for words. I observed Mr. Sidmouth narrowly, and knew that he struggled for self-mastery. Above the sharp hook of his nose, his eyes had gone cold with indignation, and the dark brow was decidedly furrowed. Whatever could it mean?
“Forgive me,” he finally said, in a tone that was anything but penitent; “but I fear