The Village Gossip CHAPTER 10.
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The reader will be in no way surprised to hear that, in consequence of the school-master's hasty condemnation and unjust punishment of the miller's son, he lost a scholar — or rather, we should say three scholars; for Mr. White had three children in Martin's school, all of whom were removed forthwith.
On the morning after the exciting scene, which, but for the timely appearance of the stranger, would have been even more exciting, and, in all probability, led to a lawsuit between the miller and the school-master, Bill Striker, the blacksmith's son, happened to be one of the first scholars who appeared at the school-house.
"Wasn't it Dick Wimble who told me, yesterday, that Ben White had been playing truant?" said Martin to the lad.
"Yes, sir," replied young Striker.
"He must have known better," said the schoolmaster, speaking partly to himself.
"And he did know better," unhesitatingly replied Striker.
"What reason, have you for saying this?" was very naturally asked.
"I heard Dick say, after school, that he'd got Ben White one good thrashing. That he knew well enough that his father had sent him to Elderglen, for he was riding his horse, and had some picks in a bag. But that he owed him a grudge, and you too — and that now he was satisfied."
This was all true; and so the school-master received it. The lesson of the day before, on the subject of hasty judgment and a too prompt action therefrom, was now forgotten in the anger excited against Wimble. The moment the boy appeared, he was arraigned. Two or three scholars confirming, in part, the allegation of Striker, swift and severe punishment came. The jacket of the boy had been taken off, and the rod of Martin, having in it two or three rough protuberances, broke the skin in several places on his back, while the bruises were many in number. The exhibition of these bruises and lacerations at home, accompanied by Dick's own version of his offence, produced another explosion, and another diminution of scholars in the village-school. Three of the shoemaker's children were removed.
Thus the trouble increased. In Nancy Wimble, the school-master found an active enemy. The mere removal of her own children was not regarded as by any means a sufficient satisfaction for the wrong alleged to have been done to her boy. She was bent on driving the schoolmaster out of Cedardale, and filling his place with, as she was pleased to say, "another and a better man." And before a week had elapsed, she was in a fair way to accomplish her purpose, having in that brief time influenced three families to withdraw their children from his school.
Martin was now becoming seriously alarmed, and set himself to work to counteract the movements of Nancy Wimble. In this, his wife, who was a pretty free and not over-scrupulous talker, joined him in good earnest. Their "bread and butter was in danger," and this was reason sufficient to induce an active opposition on their part; and they soon had the satisfaction of knowing, that if the school-room showed a poorer attendance of scholars, the ringing of Wimble's hammer on his lapstone was far less incessant than before, and that a certain maker and mender of shoes in Elderglen had received a material increase of custom. Their boast of this, as an effect produced by themselves, coming to the ears of the Wimbles, aroused them to new activity.
On the other hand, the aid of Sharp, the lawyer, was invoked by the Martins. From him they gained the information, that Wimble and his wife could be prosecuted for libel and defamation of character, which had resulted in material detriment to themselves. So he was instructed forthwith to have suits commenced against these offending parties. This was all in Sharp's line of business; and, accordingly, the suits were brought. So, here was more trouble for Cedardale and its inhabitants.
Meantime poor Striker had fallen, it was feared, not to rise again. His only sober time was in the morning; while night after night found him drunk to utter insensibility. He was worse, in fact, than he had ever been before. The only time that any work could be got out of him, was early in the forepart of the day; and it usually happened that nearly all the money he received was spent for liquor before night. Mrs. Striker remained sick, and her children sadly neglected. The miller and his wife, who both continued to feel very much incensed toward Mr. and Mrs. Striker, had influence enough to keep up an active prejudice among a large number of the villagers, and thus obstruct the humane consideration and attention which the sick and heart-broken woman would have received.
The baleful effects of so sad a state of antagonism as was exhibited at Cedardale, soon manifested itself in a way to affect, more or less intimately, every one of its inhabitants. The miller refused to employ the blacksmith, the shoemaker, and the schoolmaster, and these, in turn, not only refused to employ him, but each other. More than one-half of the people were either suffering inconvenience or wasting their time in running over to Elderglen to get work done or make purchases. In consequence, the mill-wheel stood dry and motionless in the sun, for more than half the time, while the bright water, unused, went foaming over the dam; the fire died on the blacksmith's forge; the shoemaker sat smoking for hours before his door, or wandered off to seek companionship at the tavern; while the schoolmaster contemplated, with no pleasant feelings, his more than half-emptied desks and benches. Even the storekeeper, who had kept a closer tongue than usual, while he listened to all, offended in consequence of not taking sides, and lost custom both in this way and because people who went to Elderglen on other business took occasion to purchase dry goods and groceries while there, under the impression that they could buy to more advantage. This latter impression was encouraged by the Elderglen storekeeper, who sold certain articles below cost, in order to create a talk in Cedardale, and get up a reputation for cheapness. So the storekeeper in Cedardale suffered equally with the rest, and perhaps a little beyond them.
Thus matters remained for a long enough time to produce serious distress in the village; yet there was no one to come forward as a true peacemaker, and seek, from an unselfish regard for the good of the whole, to bring order and harmonious action out of these conflicting elements; and those who were in the bitterness of antagonism cherished, rather than strove to give up, that baleful hatred of their neighbor, under the dominion of which they had so entirely come.
One day, some weeks after this unhappy state of affairs had reached a most alarming climax, and one and another began to ask, in low, trembling voices, where it was all to end; Nancy Wimble, who had been unable to learn how the case of Mary Green and the blacksmith stood, paid a visit to the former, in order to have her curiosity fully satisfied. She found that Mrs. Green, who had already paid the lawyer, for fees, serving writ, etc., over twelve dollars, was getting rather sick of the business. But she probed the festering sore, and succeeded in exciting renewed feelings of bitterness towards the blacksmith. After settling this, the main purpose of her errand, she said —
"Didn't I see the windows of the old Markland house open, as I came along?"
This was a fine old mansion, not far from Mrs. Green's, which had been unoccupied for years; the owner having died, and the heirs, who lived at a distance, becoming involved in a lawsuit respecting the settlement of the estate. This suit had recently been brought to a close, and the property, which included a fine farm, thrown into the market.
"I shouldn't wonder if you did," replied Mary Green. "The property has been sold."
"You don't tell me!" responded Nancy. "Then that lawsuit is ended?"
"So I presume."
""Who has bought the property?"
"A gentleman named Trueman, I hear."
"Trueman? Trueman? Who is he, I wonder?"
"He's of the family of Truemans who live in Elderglen."
"Oh! Ah! Indeed! Is he? Well, they are not much to brag of. I wonder if he's going to occupy it himself?"
"So I have been told."
"Humph!" Nancy tossed her head and curled her lips. "They are a stuck-up set, those Truemans, the whole of them."
Mary Green not responding to this, Nancy ran on with a good deal more, in disparagement of the Truemans, and ended by saying, that if they did not carry themselves pretty straight in Cedardale, they would soon find themselves in hot water.
In returning home, the shoemaker's wife could not resist the strong inclination she felt to call at the old Markland house, especially as many signs of inhabitants, not before noticed, were now apparent to her closer observation. As she approached the large entrance to the mansion, along the graveled walk, she was met by a middle-aged, thoughtful-looking gentleman, with a countenance strangely familiar, who said, "Good day, madam," in a tone so respectful and kind, that she experienced an instant bias in his favor. He then asked her to walk into the house, which invitation she accepted. The ample parlor into which she was taken, had the newly-introduced furniture all arranged; and there were present two ladies — one in the meridian, and the other in the sweet May-morning of life. To these Nancy was presented, and they received her with an easy dignity and a kindness of manner which quite overcame her. Self-possessed and assured as she was under most circumstances, she felt a good deal confused now, and it was some moments after she was seated before she could collect her thoughts to say —
"I hope you will excuse me for calling; but seeing the old house, which has so long been empty, once more inhabited, I thought I would just drop in, and ask if I could be of any service."
"We are certainly very much obliged to you," replied the elder of the two ladies, in a mild, penetrating voice; yet gazing so fixedly into the face of Nancy, that the eyes of the latter sank under the intelligent scrutiny. Then she added —
"We are strangers here, and shall, of course, feel indebted for any kindnesses which may be extended toward us."
Nancy, in spite of her struggles to regain her self-possession, felt embarrassed. There was something in the presence of the ladies that caused a feeling of uneasiness almost suffocating. Before she replied to the last remark, the speaker added —
"You have one of the most beautiful villages I have ever seen; and I trust we shall find the hearts of its inhabitants in accord with the harmonies of nature."
To this, Nancy replied —
"Cedardale, ma'am, is a lovely spot, certainly. As for the people, however, they are no better than you will find in other places. It takes all sorts, you know, to make a world."
"You belong to the village, of course?" said the gentleman, who had remained silent from the time of his entrance, yet reading her face carefully.
"Oh yes, sir," answered Nancy, turning her eyes toward the speaker, and now, for the first time, recognizing the stranger, to whom, not many weeks before, she had given so discouraging an account of the denizens of Cedardale.
"Mrs. Wimble, the shoemaker's wife, I believe?" he added.
"Yes, sir." The color rose over the neck and face of Nancy, in spite of her efforts to prevent it.
"I hope," said the gentleman, "that we shall find things in rather a better condition than they were a few weeks ago, when I called, as you may remember, at your house. Have the miller and blacksmith settled their difficulty?"
"Oh no!" quickly answered Nancy. "And what's more, never will."
"Never is a long time," was gravely answered to this.
"It isn't long enough for them to come together, by a great deal. And not much matter, at best. No great deal will be lost; for Striker is going to the dogs as fast as he can go."
"What's the matter with him?"
"He's drunk all the time."
"What does his poor family do?" asked one of the ladies, in a voice of real sympathy.
"Heaven knows! I am not on good terms with Mrs. Striker; and haven't been to her house for these two or three weeks. She's been sick; and I don't know that she's much better now."
"Poor woman!" said the lady with manifest concern. "If ifs so bad with her husband, as you say, I don't wonder that she is sick. Where does she live?"
"In the little red house, with a garden in front, just where the road turns off to go to the mill," replied Nancy.
"We must send down and see if she doesn't need something," remarked the elder of the two ladies, speaking aside to her daughter, for that was the relation between them.
Nancy heard this, and felt it as a rebuke. In self-justification she said —
"I'm sure I'd do anything I could for Mrs. Striker; but the last time I called there, she snapped me up in a way that was not at all agreeable. I have feelings as well as other people. And, besides, I don't care about offering a bone to a dog that may bite my fingers off while taking it. If you'll heed the advice of one who knows," added Nancy Wimble, "you'll not be too familiar with Hannah Striker. She's as proud as Lucifer; and, if you make an offer of kindness, will, most likely, tell you she is no pauper. I know her like a book."
The ladies merely glanced at each other, without making any reply. Nancy did not see the peculiar look that was exchanged. Fairly on her hobby, and now stimulated by a question from the gentleman, she entered pretty freely upon the personal history and characteristics of the villagers, not one of whom she spared. This work of slander and depreciation finished, Nancy, who, from the remarks that followed, was pretty well assured that her auditors did not think too highly of her, as a defamer, took her departure.
"I'm most sorry I said so much," she remarked to herself, as, with a feeling of wounded self-esteem, she left the house and took her way homeward. "But they'll soon find out for themselves. Let them go or send to Hannah Striker, and, my word for it, they'll get enough of her."
The oftener Nancy Wimble turned over in her thoughts the kind of reception she had met with from the Truemans, the less did she feel satisfied. It was very plain that they had not formed quite so good an opinion of her as she entertained of herself; and the longer this unpleasant consciousness remained, the stronger and stronger became her feelings of dislike toward them. With Nancy, to feel, was to talk. But in the present state of misunderstanding and separation in Cedardale, to whom could she talk? The number was small. Still, by communicating to these her impression of the new-comers, that impression would soon pass from lip to lip, and thus make the circuit of the village in a short time.
So, she forthwith began her work. Anticipating an early visit from Mrs. Trueman, or her daughter, to the blacksmith's wife, and very naturally apprehending a different reception from the one she had prophesied — a result that would still further lessen her in their good opinion — she determined to let go for nothing, a most positive assertion that she would "never darken Mrs. Striker's door again' and make her first visit of detraction to her. This was accordingly done.
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