The
elegant black gown in which she mourned the memory of Michael Vanstone
was not a mere dress--it was a well-made compliment paid to Death. Her
innocent white muslin apron was a little domestic poem in itself. Her
jet earrings were so modest in their pretensions that a Quaker might
have looked at them and committed no sin. The comely plumpness of
her face was matched by the comely plumpness of her figure; it glided
smoothly over the ground; it flowed in sedate undulations when she
walked. There are not many men who could have observed Mrs. Lecount
entirely from the Platonic point of view--lads in their teens would
have found her irresistible--women only could have hardened their hearts
against her, and mercilessly forced their way inward through that fair
and smiling surface. Magdalen's first glance at this Venus of the autumn
period of female life more than satisfied her that she had done well
to feel her ground in disguise before she ventured on matching herself
against Mrs. Lecount.
"Have I the pleasure of addressing the lady who called this morning?"
inquired the housekeeper. "Am I speaking to Miss Garth?"
Something in the expression of her eyes, as she asked that question,
warned Magdalen to turn her face further inward from the window than she
had turned it yet.
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