It seemed to me that Mr. Marriner and Miss Sutton were certainly lovers, and that matrimony was in their view. Now and then they went to church together, Susan Kate carrying a clean handkerchief and a Prayer Book, John Willie carrying Susan Kate's umbrella. Sometimes they went for walks on a Sunday afternoon; I more than once encountered them on these occasions, and curiously observed the manner of their love-making. We invariably met in shady lanes or woodland paths—Mr. Marriner in his Sunday suit, with some hedgerow flower in his buttonhole, invariably came first, bearing Miss Sutton's umbrella, with which he would occasionally switch the grass; Miss Sutton, very rosy-cheeked, followed at a distance of two yards. They never seemed to hold any discourse one with the other, but if they looked sheepishly conscious, they were undeniably happy.
Into this apparent Paradise suddenly entered a serpent.
There came into the sitting-room one morning, when I happened to be alone there, a Susan Kate whom I had certainly not seen before. This Susan Kate had evidently spent a considerable part of the night in affliction—her eyes were red and heavy, and there was even then a suspicious quiver at the corners of her red and pouting lips. She laid the tablecloth, set the plates and the knives and forks upon the table as if it was in her mind to do an injury to them.
"Why, Susan Kate!" said I. "What is the matter?"
Susan Kate's only immediate answer was to sniff loudly, and to retire to the kitchen, whence she presently returned with a cold ham, uncarven as yet, and a crisp lettuce, either of which were sights sufficient to cheer up the saddest heart. But Susan Kate was apparently indifferent to any creature comforts. She sniffed again and disappeared again, and came back with the eggs and the toast and the tea.
"I'm afraid, Susan Kate," said I, with all the dignified gravity of middle age, "I'm afraid you are in trouble."
Susan Kate applied a corner of her apron to her left eye as she transferred a bowl of roses from the sideboard to the middle of the breakfast-table. Then she found her tongue, and I noticed that her hands trembled as she rearranged my cup and saucer.
"It's all that there Lydia Lightowler!" she burst out, with the suddenness of an April shower. "A nasty, spiteful Thing!"
I drew my chair to the table.
"And who is Lydia Lightowler, Susan Kate?" I inquired.