Aunty Jones, the Peacemaker
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Aunty Jones — she was called "Aunty" by half the village, old and young, though she claimed with no individual in Bloomingdale a blood relationship. Aunty Jones was sitting by the window of her neat little cottage home, when a neighbor entered through the white-washed gate, and came with a quick step along the flower-bordered walk that led up to the door.
"Good afternoon, Aunty," said she, entering without ceremony.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Blake! How are all at home?"
"Well, thank you. How are you today?"
"As well as usual, dear; take a chair." Mrs. Blake sat down. She was a young woman with rather a smart air, and free manners. Her eyes were black, and had a good deal of latent fire in them. After a few remarks, she said, with considerable animation:
"There's trouble between Mrs. Fry and Mrs. Lingen."
"Indeed! I'm sorry for that," said Aunty Jones, a shade of regret passing over her countenance. "What's the matter?"
"Mrs. Fry is greatly to blame," said Mrs. Blake, "and I don't wonder that Mrs. Lingen is angry. I would be if I were in her place."
"What has happened to interrupt the good understanding that has always existed between them? They've been fast friends for years."
"I know they have," answered Mrs. Blake. "But after what Mrs. Fry has done, it is impossible for them to be friends any longer."
"What has she done?" Aunty looked seriously troubled.
"I'll tell you," said Mrs. Blake, speaking in her animated way, and entering with much feeling into the relation: "Willy Lingen was over at Mrs. Fry's this morning, playing with her children. The little folks had a falling out about something, as children will fall out, you know, and from angry words came to blows. Hearing the noise and outcry that followed, Mrs. Fry ran out the garden, and, in a fit of passion, seized Willy Lingen by the hair, and boxed his ears like a fury. He, poor child, as it happened, had been sick all last night with the ear-ache, and the side of his face and head were tender as a boil, and badly swollen. He was, in consequence, hurt terribly. Of course, he came home and told his mother, and, of course, she was outraged, as any mother would be. She didn't stop a moment for reflection, but went, in hot haste, over to Mrs. Fry's, and gave her a piece of her mind in about the plainest kind of terms."
"Bad — bad — very bad," said Aunty Jones, shaking her head.
"I've just come from Mrs. Lingen's," continued Mrs. Blake; "and, I can tell you, she's as sharp as a pin about it — and a little sharper. Poor Willy shows signs of his hard treatment. Dear little fellow! It made my blood boil when his mother told me of the cruel way in which he had been served. Some of the neighbors blame her for what she said to Mrs. Fry, but I don't. I would have said as much, and, maybe, twice as much more, if I had been in her place. Beat a neighbor's child in the head, and pull its hair — when her own brats in all probability, were most to blame! According to Willy's story, he was only defending himself when she came at him like a tiger."
After Mrs. Blake had fully informed Aunty Jones as to this new cause of excitement in the village, she bade her a good afternoon, and went on her gossiping round of visits. Not long after her departure, Aunty Jones had another call. It was from a neighbor in the opposite interest — a friend to Mrs. Fry, whose house she had left a little while before. Her version of the affair differed considerably from that given by Mrs. Blake, with the exception of the part about Mrs. Lingen's indignant visit to the house of Mrs. Fry — which was given with some added incidents and a higher coloring.
"Mrs. Fry did just as I would have done, had I been in her place," said she, warmly. "The children were playing together, when Mrs. Fry heard her little Katy scream out suddenly; running into the garden, she saw Willy Lingen with her finger in his mouth. He got angry with her about something, and snapped at her finger like a dog! Mrs. Fry caught hold of him, and ordered him to let go instantly. But the young savage held on, and she did just as I or you would have done, boxed his ears until he was glad to let go; when he ran off home, bellowing like a calf, and told his mother some lie about it."
"Bad — bad — -very bad!" Aunty Jones shook her head as before, and looked quite sorrowful about the matter.
"Of course," said the neighbor, "they will be bitter enemies till they die. Quarrels about children are generally of the worst kind."
"I hope not," said Aunty Jones. "We must forgive, if we would be forgiven."
"They'll never forgive each other. How can they?" remarked the neighbor. "If you'd heard the way in which Mrs. Lingen talked to Mrs. Fry, you'd see that it was impossible. Mrs. Lingen is not the woman to make apologies; and it would take a book-full to satisfy the lady she was pleased to outrage by all sorts of disgraceful epithets; even going so far as to throw up things that happened long before Mrs. Fry was married!"
"I'm very sorry." Aunty Jones had no words to utter but words of regret.
"Do you blame Mrs. Fry for being outraged?" The neighbor tried to get Aunty Jones committed to her side of the question.
"In all quarrels among neighbors, there is usually faults on both sides." This was as far as she would go.
"I can't see what fault there was on the side of Mrs. Fry," was answered with considerable warmth. "Suppose it had been your child instead of Mrs. Fry's, wouldn't you have boxed the ears of the young savage who was biting her finger, to compel him to let go? My word for it, you would, Aunty Jones; you are not a stock or a stone!"
But Aunty Jones admitted no imaginary action of her own, by way of justification in the case of Mrs. Fry. She had only regrets to utter. Before night, several neighbors called in to talk the matter over with Aunty Jones, each one having a slightly different version of the affair, and each being warmly committed to one side or the other. Mrs. Frick always knew that Willy Lingen was one of the worst children in Bloomingdale, and as for his mother, it was only necessary to look into her face to see that she was a dragon. For her part, she fully justified Mrs. Fry, and had told her so. Mrs. Camp had seen Mrs. Lingen, and examined poor, dear Willy's head. None but a savage, in her opinion, could have so cruelly maltreated a child. It was well known that Mrs. Fry was a woman of most ungovernable temper, and beat her own children awfully. Indeed, she had heard it whispered — and she repeated the rumor in a confidential whisper — that she had even struck her husband in a fit of passion.
Aunty Jones was grieved to the heart. To all of this, she answered but little, except to suggest that there must be exaggeration on both sides, and that if the exact truth could be brought to the light, it would, in all probability, be found, that both of the exasperated mothers had been excited into a blind passion by falsehood, over-acting, ormisrepresentation on the part of the children. The two neighbors, so suddenly set at variance, were, both of them, her warm friends, and had been on terms of close intimacy with each other for years. Both were, in the main, kind-hearted and right-minded women; and both of them, Aunty Jones believed, would soon be sorry for what they had done, and ashamed of having taken counsel of passion. She was the peacemaker of Bloomingdale; and even in this bad-looking case, was soon pondering the question of reconciliation.
On the next morning, Aunty Jones went over early to see Mrs. Lingen. She had thought it best to give her the benefit of a night's sleep on the matter. She found her strongly exasperated against Mrs. Fry. Willy's inflamed ear was shown in triumphant vindication of her right to be angry. Aunty Jones examined the ear, but could not find any very decided marks of inflammation. There was, just within the opening, a little deeper tinge, and on the back of the ear, close to the head, a spot of darker hue, that, if she saw right, came from a little cluster of pimples. Willy had all the appearance of a suffering martyr, as Mrs. Lingen exhibited him in evidence of the wrong done to her mother's heart, and in justification of her indignant assault upon Mrs. Fry.
"Willy," said Aunty Jones, as he stood before her, with one of his little hands held in one of hers, and her kind, yet earnest eyes, looking right into his — "Willy, what was Katy Fry doing to you, when you got her finger into your mouth?"
Mrs. Lingen gave a startle at this question, and Willy's face crimsoned. A glance from Aunty Jones kept the mother silent.
"You didn't bite Katy's finger hard, I hope Willy?"
"No ma'am!" Willy's face was redder still, as he made this admission.
"What made you bite her finger, Willy?" — Aunty Jones spoke so very kindly, and yet so earnestly, keeping the child's eyes fixed in hers all the time that no chance was left for anything but truthful answers.
"Because she was trying to take my apple from me, and wouldn't let go. But I didn't bite it hard, Aunty Jones; and Mrs. Fry had no business to box me on my sore ear as she did." Willy closed this defense by bursting into tears.
Enough, however, had been elicited to place the whole matter in an entirely new light before his mother's eyes. She told the weeping child to leave the room, and, as soon as he had done so, said to her visitor:
"This is all new to me, Aunty Jones. It is the first intimation I have had of any finger-biting in the case."
"I am told," replied Aunty Jones, "that Willy bit Katy's finger very badly; and that Mrs. Fry had to box his ears several times, very severely before he would let go. If this is the case — and Willy admits that he did bite the finger — can you greatly wonder at Mrs. Fry? Reverse the case. Think how you would act, if you were to find a neighbor's child biting Willy's finger, and your child screaming in pain. Would you stay your hand an instant?"
The countenance of Mrs. Lingen fell. All indignation died out of her heart. She stood rebuked in the presence of Aunty Jones, like one convicted of a great wrong.
"Would you, Mrs. Lingen?" Aunty Jones pressed her last query.
"No, not for an instant!" was the firm reply.
A broad smile lit up the fine face of Aunty Jones, as she reached out her hand, and said:
"There spoke out the true woman! I knew your heart was in the right place. And I have not lost faith in Mrs. Fry. Neither of you is capable of wantonly hurting a child — neither of wantonly outraging the other. There does not exist the slightest reason why you should not be friends as of old."
"Oh yes, there does," was firmly answered.
"What reason?"
"I don't believe she will ever forgive me for what I said to her, yesterday, in the heat of passion."
"Yes, she will. Leave that to me. When she understands how the matter was presented to your mind, she will not wonder that you were provoked; and the slightest apology on your part, will make all right again."
"I can't believe it," said Mrs. Lingen.
"I am sure of it," replied Aunty Jones, confidently.
And, in less than an hour she had the two old friends face to face again, bathed in tears of reconciliation.
Blessings on Aunty Jones! She was the peacemaker of Bloomingdale. Neighbors would fall out, and busy-bodies would make wider every breach; but Aunty Jones was always true to her mission — always on hand to throw oil upon the troubled waves of passion. She knew that there was honor, and truth, and right purposes in every heart, as well as selfishness and blind passion; and her hands never rested when she saw the latter obscuring the former, until the dimming veil was rent asunder.
Would that every village and neighborhood had its Aunty Jones!
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