In the course of my walk that morning I crossed the field in which Mr. John William Marriner was performing his daily task. Usually he sang or whistled all day long, and you could locate him by his melody at least a quarter of a mile away. But on this particular morning—a very beautiful one—John William was silent. He neither whistled nor sang, and when I got up to him I saw that his good-natured face was clouded over. In fact, John William looked glum, not to say sulky. He was usually inclined to chat, but upon this occasion his answers were short and mainly monosyllabic, and I did not tarry by him. It was plain that John William was unhappy.
So there was a cloud over Arcadia. It appeared to increase in density. It was on a Tuesday when it first arose; after Wednesday Susan Kate wept no more, but went about with dry eyes and her nose in the air, wearing an injured expression, while John William conducted his daily avocations in a moody and sombre fashion. There were no more idylls of the orchard gate, and the farmhouse kitchen heard no merry laughter.
But on the next Monday morning I found Susan Kate laying the breakfast-table and showing undoubted signs of grief—in fact, she looked as if she had cried her eyes out. And this time there was no need to invite her confidence, for she was only too anxious to pour out her woes.
"He walked her to church and home again last night!" exclaimed Susan Kate, nearly sobbing. "And they sat in the same pew and sang out of the same book, same as what him and me used to do. And Bob Johnson, he saw them going down Low Field Lane, and he said they were hanging arms!"
"Dear, dear, dear!" said I. "This, Susan Kate, is getting serious."
"And it's the Flower Show at Cornborough this week," continued Susan Kate, "and he'd promised faithful to take me to it, but now I expect he'll take her—a nasty, mean, spiteful cat!"
"John William's conduct is most extraordinary," I said. "It is—yes, Susan Kate, it is reprehensible. Reprehensible!"
Susan Kate looked at me half suspiciously.
"I don't want to say nothing against John Willie," she said. "I know what's the matter with him. It's 'cause she dresses so fine—I saw her the first Sunday she came to church. And John Willie has such an eye for finery. But fine feathers makes fine birds. I could be just as fine as what she is if I hadn't had to send my wages home to my mother when father broke his leg the other week. There's a hat in Miss Duxberry's window at Cornborough that would just suit me if I could only buy it. I'd like to see what John Willie would say then. 'Cause I'm as good-looking as what she is, any day, for all she's got yellow hair!"
Then Susan Kate retired, presumably to weep some more tears. But next morning she was all pride again.