A lady in black — A Closer Reading

“And besides, you know, my dear Mrs. Rose, there is generally something wrong about a woman who dresses so very well.”

So spoke Mrs. Bonnington, the Vicar’s wife, laying down the law; a law indeed, which most English women are ready to take for granted. Mrs. Rose, a tall, thin, pale lady who had “nerves,” and who, on this bright April morning, wore a woollen shawl half off her shoulders as she sat in the warm sun by the dining-room window, assented readily.

“That’s what I always say. Especially a widow. I’m sure if anything were to happen to my husband,” went on Mrs. Rose euphemistically, “the last thing I should think about would be my dress. I should be far too unhappy to trouble myself about the fit of my dresses or the shape of my bonnets.”

Now this was perhaps true, as Mrs. Rose, though she spent as much money and as much thought upon her clothes as her compeers, never succeeded in looking as if her clothes had been made for her, or as if the subject of “fit” were of any importance.

Mrs. Bonnington shook her head with vague disquietude, and resumed her homily.

“I assure you the matter has caused me a good deal of anxiety. You know how solicitous both the Vicar and I are about the tone of the parish.”

“I do indeed,” murmured Mrs. Rose sympathetically.

“You know how hard we work to keep up a high standard. Why, everybody knows that it was through us that those objectionable people at Colwyn Lodge went away, and how we would do anything to rid the place of those terrible Solomons at Stone Court!”

At the other end of the room, a young face, with gray eyes full of mischief, was turned in the direction of Mrs. Bonnington with a satirical smile. Mabin Rose, the overgrown, awkward step-daughter of Mrs. Rose, who hated the Vicar’s wife, and called her a busybody and a gossip, brought her darning nearer to the table and dashed headlong into the fray.

“Papa wouldn’t thank you if you did drive the Solomons out of the parish, as you did the people at Colwyn Lodge, Mrs. Bonnington,” broke in the clear young voice that would be heard. “He says Mr. Solomon is the best tenant he ever had, and that he wishes that some of the Christians were like him.”

“Hush, Mabin. Go on with your work, and don’t interrupt with your rude remarks,” said Mrs. Rose sharply. “I am quite sure your father never said such a thing, except perhaps in fun,” she went on, turning apologetically to her visitor. “Nobody is more anxious about ‘tone’ and all those things than Mr. Rose, and he was saying only yesterday that he would rather I didn’t call upon this Mrs. Dale until something more was known about her.”

Again the young face at the other end of the table looked up mutinously; but this time Mabin controlled her inclination to protest. She looked down again, and began to darn furiously, to the relief of her feelings, but to the injury of the stocking.

Mrs. Bonnington went on:

“You were quite right. It’s not that I wish to be uncharitable.”

“Of course not,” assented Mrs. Rose with fervor.

“But a woman like yourself, with daughters to take care of, cannot be too careful. Young people are so easily led away; they think so much of the mere outside. They are so easily dazzled and taken in by appearances.”

Mabin grew red, perceiving that this little sermon by the way was directed at herself. Her step-sisters, Emily and Ethel, one of whom could be heard “practising” in the drawing-room, were not the sort of girls to be led away by anything.

“But why shouldn’t a nice face mean something nice?” put in the rash young woman again.

The fact was that Mabin had been charmed with the sweet pink-and-white face and blue eyes of Mrs. Dale, their new neighbor at “The Towers,” and was mentally comparing the widow’s childlike charms with the acidulated attractions of the Vicar’s dowdy wife.