It was agreed that, having married an out-and-out rascal, she ought to be willing to spend the remainder of her life quietly. So she was left to herself, which seemed, on the face of it, to be about what she wanted. She tended Eben's house, drove the one cow to pasture, and sang to little Juliet from morning till night the songs she remembered from her own childhood.
During that time no one had any fault to find with her, excepting old Mrs. Crabbe, who thought she should have called her child Mary instead of Juliet. "It's not a proper name," she said to Mrs. Tomkins. "It isn't in the Bible, Mrs. Tomkins. You'd do as well to call the child Salomy. Salomy's in the Bible."
When Eben Wicket died, early in 1917, he left his house and about an acre of land to his daughter-in-law. She was poor; still, she had enough to get along on. She was young, but every one thought of her as a woman whose life was over. So when Noel Ploughman took to keeping company with her, the gossips were all aflitter. It was June; the regulars were on their way to France; and what with the war, and Mrs. Wicket, the village had plenty to talk about. Old Mrs. Ploughman said nothing, but regarded her friends with a gloomy and thoughtful air. On the other hand, Miss Beal, the dressmaker, saw no reason to keep her opinions to herself. "It's a scandal," she said to her friend Mrs. Grumble; "what with Eben Wicket scarcely cold in his grave, and John a thief, with his neck broke and heaven only knows what else besides."
Nevertheless, that summer Noel Ploughman's sober, honest face was often to be seen in Mrs. Wicket's garden patch, among the beans and the lettuces. Who can say what they found in one another to admire? In his company she was both happy and regretful, while he, seeing her by turns quiet and gay, could not determine which he found more charming. They talked over the weather together, and discussed the crops. Love comes slowly in the north; there is time for every one to take a hand in it. August passed without either having mentioned what was in their hearts. Then Mrs. Ploughman made up her mind to put an end to it. One day, when Noel was in Milford, she came to call on Mrs. Wicket. One can imagine what she said to the young woman, who was already a mother and a widow. The next day Mrs. Wicket appeared in her garden, pale and composed. Those who had occasion to pass the little cottage at the edge of the village, remarked that she no longer hummed under her breath the gay tunes of her childhood.
"Her sin has found her out," said Miss Beal. "She's fallen by the way."
"You'd think," said Mrs. Crabbe, "she'd behave herself a speck, after the life she's had."
Mrs. Grumble also was of the opinion that Mrs. Wicket had done wrong in allowing herself to care for Noel Ploughman. For it seemed to the gossips that Mrs. Wicket's life was, by rights, no longer her own to do with. She was the earthly remains of a sinner; she had no right to enjoy herself.
Two days later Noel Ploughman enlisted, "for the duration of the war." His grandmother accepted the congratulations of Mrs. Crabbe and the sympathy of Mrs. Barly with equal satisfaction. It seemed to her that she had done her duty as she saw it. But when Noel was killed in France a year later, she felt that Mrs. Wicket had killed him. "Now," she croaked to Mrs. Crabbe, "I hope she's satisfied."
She seemed to be; she took the news of Noel's death with curious calm. It was almost as if she had been expecting it, looking for it . . . one might have thought she had been waiting for it. . . . After a while, she began to sing again. Her voice, as she crooned to Juliet, was musical, but quavery. It provoked the good women of the village, who began to think that perhaps, after all, she had "had her way." "There's this much about it," said Miss Beal; "no one else will have him now."
Mrs. Grumble agreed with her. She disliked Mrs. Wicket because Mr. Jeminy liked her. He pitied the young woman who had had the misfortune to marry a thief, and he forgave her for wanting to be happy, because it did not seem to him that to have been the wife of a good-for-nothing was much to settle down on. In his opinion, life owed her more than she had got.