Next Sunday we were rather puzzled on entering the church to see an ample lady clad in the most resplendent of widow’s weeds, sitting in solitary state in the very front row—a seat usually patronised only by the halt and maimed.
Her dress and mantle were of dull black silk trimmed with crêpe about a quarter of a yard in depth. True, it was not quite new, but its cut and style were unmistakable; anyone who possessed such a dress could afford to wear it even after its first newness had worn off; it stamped the wearer as a lady of means. A long weeper, black kid gloves, and a black-bordered handkerchief completed all we could see of the lady. We could only conclude that the distinguished stranger must be very deaf indeed, to take the front seat.
By this time all the congregation as it came in was interested. Such a stylish stranger would naturally attract attention. She kept her head devoutly bent, and used the handkerchief frequently; we couldn’t see her face. She might have been a peeress-in-waiting, judging by the dignity and decorum of her bearing.
It was just as the Rector was repeating the opening sentences that the resplendent one turned round to see the effect she was making on the congregation, and behold—that Mrs. Price!
I am afraid I only just saved myself from making the time-honoured remark, “Did you EVER!”
“But what I want to know is this,” said Miss Primkins (as several of us walked together along the high road after church, leaving Mrs. Price giving details of the funeral, and the innumerable wreaths, to her friends). “Where did she get those weeds from? There isn’t a widow among us, nor a relative of a widow, so far as I know. Now who gave them to her?”
But we none of us knew. It certainly looked suspiciously as though Mrs. Price had used the poor late Zebadiah as an excuse for dragging the whole county!
I wasn’t surprised that she herself had donned fresh weeds, for as we are remarkably healthy upon these hills, we are apt to make the most of a funeral when it chances our way, and the opportunity to wear mourning, carrying with it, as it does, a certain personal distinction, is not to be passed over lightly.
On one occasion I remember meeting a farmer’s wife on Sunday morning in deep black (that had done duty for several previous family bereavements), weeping into her handkerchief as she went along the road to church. We stopped to inquire about her trouble.