The Village Gossip CHAPTER 11.
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The case of Mary Green against the blacksmith had come to trial before a justice of the peace as often as twice; but, each time, the lawyers employed by the two parties managed, on one pretense or other, to get it postponed. By this means, both were enabled to increase their fees. On each occasion Striker had returned so stupid from drink, that he scarcely knew his own house when he arrived at home, and for several following days did not do a stroke of work. The third trial of the case was to take place at ten o'clock on the day following that on which Nancy Wimble called at the old Markland house, as mentioned in the preceding chapter; and the blacksmith was nursing his bitter feelings against Mrs. Green, and vowing, in his heart, to spend every dollar he could "make and scrape together in the world — would be cast in the approaching trial." He knew more of law and legal proceeding, than he had ever known in his life before, and talked of little else.
As for Mrs. Striker, she was recovering but slowly from the utter prostration of mind and body that took place when the warm light of hope for the future which had fallen around her with so cheering a presence, went suddenly out in darkness. For nearly a week she kept her bed. When, at last, she was able to rise, and go about the house for a short time each day, it was with such feeble and tottering steps, and such a sense of weakness, that she could not keep back the tears which a thought of her helplessness, amid so many duties, brought ever to her eyes.
Day by day passed, and the unhappy woman seemed scarcely to gain anything in physical strength, and nothing occurred to bring a ray of comfort to her mind. She was, besides, apparently deserted by all her friends. No one came to aid or comfort her in her weakness and sorrow — no one sent even with a message of kind words, as had been the aforetime custom in Cedardale, when a neighbor was sick or in feeble health, some little delicacy to tempt the capricious appetite. Alone she stood, while the burden she strove to carry was crushing her hopelessly to the earth.
And so the weary, tearful, despairing time wore on for Mrs. Striker; the clouds, instead of showing a rift, were it ever so small, through which the sky above could be seen — becoming thicker and darker. She had arisen from her bed, one day, scarcely refreshed, after having, in utter exhaustion, thrown herself down an hour before, about the middle of the afternoon, and had seated herself by a table on which was a large pile of clothes to clean and fold, preparatory to their being ironed. This was on the same day that Nancy Wimble paid her visit to Mary Green and to the Truemans. The arms of the poor woman, as she rested them on the table, felt as if they were of lead — so heavy and shorn of vitality did they seem; and it was with an effort that she could support herself in her chair.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she sighed, as her head sank down to the level of the table, and rested on her hands, "What shall I do? What is to become of us?"
The latch of the garden-gate clicked at this moment. Mrs. Striker raised her head, and glanced from the window. Two strange ladies were entering from the road.
"Who can they be?" she said wonderingly; and as they approached along the path which led to the house, she made a hurried effort to restore to partial order, the disarranged furniture of the room.
In a moment or two came a low knock at the door, which she opened.
"Mrs. Striker?" said the elder of the visitors, in a mild voice, and with a smile on her face that made the blacksmith's wife feel instantly that a friend stood before her.
"Will you walk in?" she replied, in a tone and with a manner that at once dispelled from the minds of her visitors, who were none other than Mrs. Trueman and her daughter, alldoubts as to their reception — doubts which the remarks of Nancy Wimble had very naturally created.
The two ladies entered, and so soon as seated, the elder of them said —
"We have just moved into the village, my name is Mrs. Trueman, and this is my daughter; we have taken the house and farm that used to be owned by the Marklands. Hearing a little while ago that you were sick, we have called over to see if there is anything that we can do for you. So, you will excuse our seeming intrusion."
And the lady smiled with so pleasant a smile, and there was such a look of true humanity on her face, that Mrs. Striker's heart was drawn to her instantly.
"You are very kind," she murmured, while a slight flush came into her pale cheeks. "Very kind — and I thank you."
This was gently said, and in a grateful voice.
"Have you been sick long?" inquired the younger of the two visitors — Mary Trueman. She had not spoken before. Instantly the feelings of Mrs. Striker went out toward her, as they had already gone out toward her mother. She felt that she was in the presence of true friends; that she was not altogether deserted in her sorrow and despair. The thought melted her feelings, as was seen in her slightly quivering lips, and unsteady voice, when she answered—
"A few weeks."
She did not venture to say more; but reserved her words until self-possession was regained.
"What has ailed you?" now inquired Mrs. Trueman.
Although Mrs. Striker's eyes remained fixed on those of her questioner, she did not reply. Once or twice there was a motion of the lips, as if she were about to answer; but the silence continued until a slight sense of embarrassment began to creep over the feelings of both Mrs. Trueman and her daughter. The former was about making some remark on a new subject, when she observed tears pressing out from the eyes of Mrs. Striker, who was, evidently, struggling hard to conceal emotions that were too powerful for restraint, and began to fall, in quickly succeeding drops, over her cheeks.
"We are friends; and I am sure you will find us, in the end, real friends," said Mrs. Trueman, drawing her chair close to that of Mrs. Striker, and laying her hand upon hers. "We are here to offer service and good-will."
Scarcely were these words spoken, before the heart of Mrs. Striker gave way. A few quivering sobs ran through her slender frame, and then, with a low moan, or rather cry, she bent forward and leaned her weeping face upon her visitor.
A deep silence succeeded to this. Then such gentle and encouraging words as Mrs. Trueman could utter, were spoken. Calmness and self-possession came in their own good time. Before the two ladies went out from the humble dwelling of the blacksmith, they knew the history of his life, and understood clearly his present relations and the unhappy condition of his family; and what was more, and better, they were resolved, if it were possible, to change the one and improve the other.
Scarcely had they departed, before Nancy Wimble came in. But she was too late to do harm. Though she talked against and sneered at the Truemans as "proud," "upstarts," and "meddlesome," she did not succeed in planting a single germ of ill-will, suspicion, car dislike, in the mind of her neighbor, whose heart had unfailingly recognized the genuine kindness and real purpose to do good in the characters of her recent visitors.
"I only wish," was her simple, rather distantly spoken reply to Nancy's censures, "that we had a few more in Cedardale like them. We should all be much better and happier than we now are."
Nancy curled her lip, and tossed her head at this, and prophesied that there would be a "change of tune" on the part of Mrs. Striker before many weeks passed over. After abusing the schoolmaster and his wife in the bitterest manner, and imparting the information, in a tone evincing inward pleasure, that the school was nearly broken up, and the family getting into very straitened circumstances, she went away, and left Mrs. Striker in a more cheerful state than she had been for many weeks.
"What is done must be done quickly," said Mrs. Trueman to her daughter, as they walked homeward from their visit to Mrs. Striker. "I must try and see Mrs. Green today, and use my best efforts to dissuade her from a further prosecution of this suit."
"She may think it a most unjustifiable interference on your part," returned the daughter. "We are but strangers in the village, you know; and must be a little on our guard. People are naturally sensitive about new-comers."
"True enough, Mary. I shall have to move with circumspection. But, as things are so near a crisis, the worst can only come from inaction. Something must be risked when matters assume a position like the present."
Even while the mother and daughter were thus conversing, Mary Green, who had received a note from Sharp, the lawyer, desiring to see her at his office to consult about the trial which was to take place on the next day, was preparing to visit Elderglen. Fanny was not, of course, in a state to be ridden; and so Mrs. Green had to depend, for a horse, on one of her neighbors. The blacksmith's old brown horse was out of the question; and she was not on her usual good terms with the miller. Application was, therefore, first made in another quarter; but the owner of the animal she wished to borrow having had a misunderstanding with the shoemaker, was just preparing to ride over to Elderglen to get shoes for himself and one of his boys; and his wife was to accompany him in order to buy some groceries and dry goods, which she imagined could be purchased on better terms than in Cedardale — forgetful of the fact that even if a few pennies were saved, dollars were thrown away in loss of time. So Mary Green was disappointed here; and a like disappointment attended every other application. There was not a single owner of a horse for which she asked, who was not preparing to ride over to Elderglen on some business or other.
In this dilemma, it occurred to Mrs. Green that, probably, her new neighbors, the Truemans, might be willing to let her have a horse for a few hours. She did not wish to intrude on them for a favor, so early after their arrival in Cedardale; but then her visit to Elderglen could not be delayed, even if she had to go the whole distance there and back on foot. After a good deal of thought on the subject, she finally made up her mind to call on the Truemans and ask them, as a great favor, to lend her one of their horses for a few hours. So she put on her things, and started for the old Markland house, which was not very far distant.
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