It was not that she wore such very slight mourning—soft black silks and cashmeres that were the merest apology for weeds—for everybody knew that Mr. Kingston had had a horror of crape, and had been repeatedly heard to declare that no wife of his should wear it if he could help it.
Mrs. Hardy had explained that it was in deference to his wishes that she had defied custom in this respect; and, though there was a strong impression that she ought to have insisted on paying proper respect to his memory, in spite of him—and even that his protests against conventional suttee were never intended to include this particular case (as was very probable), but only indicated his personal distaste for harsh and unbecoming materials in ladies' apparel—the fact that it was growing the fashion to be lax and independent in these matters, saved her the verdict of the majority.
And it was not that she drove about, within two months of his death, with her veil turned back over her bonnet—in the case of a veil so transparent, it didn't make much difference whether it were up or down—leaving her youthful, lovely, rose-leaf face exposed to public view as heretofore.
It was not that she was heartless or unfeeling, or that she infringed the laws of good breeding and good taste in any distinctly and visible manner.
No one could quite say what it was, and yet everyone felt that the fact was sufficiently indicated that she was recovering from the shock of her sudden and terrible bereavement with unexpected, if not unbecoming, rapidity.
"You mark my words," somebody would say to somebody else, when Mrs. Kingston's carriage went flashing by, and she turned to bow to them, perhaps with her serene, sweet, grave smile; "you mark my words—that woman will be married again by this time next year. I don't know what makes me think so, but I am sure of it. There is a look in her face as if she were going to make herself happy."
The person addressed, being a man, would probably reply that the odd thing would be if she did not make herself happy (and generally he suggested that by remaining a widow she would be most likely to secure that object), with youth and beauty, leisure and liberty, and ten thousand a year to do what she liked with; and that he sincerely hoped she would be.
Being a woman, she was more likely than not to look after Rachel and her carriage with solemn severity, and wonder how it was that that poor, dear, foolish man never could see that the girl cared nothing at all about him, and had only married him for his money.
Mrs. Hardy was becoming aware of this state of public opinion with respect to her niece's conduct—which had been so extremely proper hitherto—and was herself conscious of the subtle change that had taken place, and was uneasily wondering what it indicated, when one day Rachel came to see her.
It was eleven o'clock on a warm summer morning, just before Christmas; and the young widow walked over through the gardens and the back gate, wearing a light, black cambric dress and a shady straw hat, looking—Mrs. Hardy thought, glancing up at her from her writing-table in a cool corner of the now transformed drawing-room—unusually well and strikingly young and girlish.