The Village Gossip CHAPTER 12.
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Mrs. Trueman and her daughter had been home a short time, and were still in conference about the unhappy condition of affairs in the village, when a visitor was announced. A middle-aged woman, with a mild, not over-expressive face, was shown in, and the ladies were rather taken by surprise when she mentioned her name as Mrs. Green. In the blacksmith's prosecutor, they had pictured to themselves quite a different personage.
"A golden opportunity," said Mrs. Trueman to herself, with that genuine emotion of pleasure which is felt by a true lover of the neighbor, at the prospect of doing good. Then advancing toward her visitor, she received her with a frankness and courtesy that instantly won her heart. Before Mrs. Green made known her errand, Mrs. Trueman had taken occasion to allude to her recent visit to the blacksmith's wife. She saw that a shadow instantly fell over the mild face of Mary Green; but as the subject was now opened, she determined to pursue it, trusting for a favorable issue.
"Poor woman," she remarked in a tone of genuine feeling, "I don't know when my sympathies for anyone have been so much excited. Broken down in mind and body; a family of children claiming her care, thought, and labor; neglected by old friends and neighbors, afflicted with a drunken husband — can you, Mrs. Green, imagine a condition more painful? Ah! if you had seen her white face today, as I saw it; her weakened frame, bending under its own weight, as she moved with uneven steps about the room; if you had heard, in sad, broken tones, as I did, the story of her weakness and hopelessness — your heart must have been wet with tears. Mine was."
Mrs. Green had feelings, and they did not lie very far below the surface; she had a conscience, too, not inaccessible to words of reproof. Already she was touched with pity for poor Mrs. Striker, and rebuked for what she had done toward adding to a burden already too heavy to be borne without weariness and pain.
"She has been sick," was her remark. She only spoke because there seemed to be a necessity for saying something.
"Quite sick, and ought to be in bed now," replied Mrs. Trueman. "But, is it not very strange, Mrs. Green, that her neighbors have not called in during her sickness to see her and help her? What can it mean? Why, even if she were the vilest of the vile, common humanity would dictate a different course from this!"
"Her husband has made himself very offensive to everybody in the village," said Mrs. Green, a flush coming into her face.
"Men who drink are very apt, while in liquor, to give offence to their neighbors," replied Mrs. Trueman. "But, surely their offences should not be visited on their poor wives, whose cup must already be full to running over. Instead of neglect and unkindness — their very position should make them objects of sympathy and active goodwill."
"Very true; but — " Mrs. Green paused. She was merely going to offer an excuse for her conduct; but felt that it would be far too transparent to affect the mind of Mrs. Trueman. She was embarrassed; and this embarrassment was plainly visible.
"We are too apt," resumed Mrs. Trueman, "to treat men who are addicted to intemperance as criminals, rather than as invalids."
"Invalids!" ejaculated Mary, in some surprise.
"Yes, invalids, for intemperance is a disease rather than a crime. The inebriate, ever impelled to the cup of intoxication by a diseased appetite, which he so often and earnestly strives to repress, needs medicine rather than punishment. But society too often visits with stripes, what can only yield to the physician's care, tenderness, and wise application of remedies. Will you pardon me, Mrs. Green, if I speak freely in the present case — if I seek to create in your mind a different regard for Mr. Striker than you now entertain? Believe me that I have only good in view. Shall I tell you the story that poor, sick Mrs. Striker told to me?"
"If you please," said Mrs. Green, in a low voice.
"I was so encouraged about my husband, a few weeks ago, said Mrs. Striker," thus began Mrs. Trueman; "he never had seemed so earnest in his life about giving up his bad habit of drinking. One morning — it was after a day on which two of our neighbors had quarreled with and fretted him until they drove him to the bottle, which he had promised never to touch again — we had a long talk, and he was in such real earnest about the matter, that my heart became full of hope. We shall have better days, Hannah, he repeated over and over again. I will be a man again. And with these words he left me for his shop. Oh, ma'am, my heart had not been so light for years, as it was during the whole of that morning. I felt that the unhappy past was no more to be repeated in the future. I was sure my husband was in earnest — in earnest as I had not seen him for a long, long time before. I even caught myself many times singing at my work, as I moved about the house; and wondered how it could be so. Ah! ma'am, how little did I dream of what was to follow. Noon came and passed — it was our dinner-hour — he was ever, when entirely himself, promptly at home as the line of shadow on the window marked the hour of twelve; but he was still away, and for the first time since morning, a gloom fell upon my spirit. Just then Nancy Wimble called in and told me that a writ had been served on my husband that morning at the direction of Mary Green. Oh, ma'am! How suddenly did my bright hopes go out in utter darkness. I comprehended all in a moment. My husband, worried and made angry by this, had fallen again, and from that day until this — he has scarcely drawn a sober breath. Strong in body, and cheerful in mind as I was that morning — both body and mind gave way in a moment. For days I was unable to lift my head from the pillow, and in all this time of sickness and sorrow, not a neighbor came in to see me, or to look after my poor neglected children. Oh, ma'am — I have wondered since, that my heart did not break — "
Mrs. Trueman paused, for a smothered sob, followed by a gush of tears, from Mary Green — told her that, in narrating what she had heard, the desired impression was made. A few moments sat Mrs. Green, struggling to calm herself. Failing in this, she started up suddenly, and, turning away, almost fled from the presence of Mrs. Trueman and her daughter.
The thoughts of the blacksmith had run somewhat clearer on that day, though he was exceedingly fretted in prospect of the trial to take place on the day following; and several times, as a sort of desperation came over him, he had thrown down his hammer and started for Joe Parker's tavern. Before reaching this place, however, better purposes each time gained power in his mind, and forced him back again to his shop. A new struggle had commenced; yet, even while he struggled in the powerful folds of a debased appetite, he had a sickening consciousness that, when the morrow came, even if he kept himself sober until then, the odds would all be on the adverse side. Whether the case of Mary Green went for or against him, in either event, the balance of reason would be disturbed — and he had a troubled foreboding of another, and, perhaps, lower fall.
Sobriety gave the blacksmith a clearer view of his social business and domestic relations, and this tended in no degree to soothe his troubled feelings. He was not earning enough to buy the food that was consumed at his table; and there was no rational prospect of a change for the better. Nearly all the work of Cedardale was going over to Elderglen, and the fires on his forge were dead, in consequence, for a larger portion of the time. Even as he was musing despondingly on this gloomy condition of things, White, the miller, rode by, with his bag of picks and facing-hammers, on his way to Elderglen; and, soon after, a neighboring farmer, from whom he had been in the habit of receiving a good deal of work, drove along past his shop in the same direction. At this, a feeling of anger and bitterness was mixed with the blacksmith's despondency.
A trifling job at which he had been working, being finished, Striker sat down upon his anvil, with no clearly defined train of thought in his mind; yet with a depressing weight on his feelings. This weight kept on increasing, until the unhappy man, unable passively to endure the pressure any longer, started up with an ejaculation of pain, at the same time that he struck his hands together with considerable force.
"O dear! I can't bear this. It will drive me mad!" he had just exclaimed, impatiently, when the sound of horses' hoofs and the voice of a man arrested his attention. Going to the door of his smithy, he was a little surprised to see the stranger whom, a short time previously, he had treated with so much discourtesy, in the act of dismounting. The man, after hitching his horse, came forward, and said, in a pleasant tone —
"Good-day, neighbor Striker. Can you do a little work for me?"
To this unexpected salutation, the blacksmith replied, in a manner very different indeed from that used on a former occasion —
"I shall be much pleased to serve you, sir."
"I have just moved into your neighborhood," said the man. "My name is Trueman. I have taken the old Markland house; and finding things a good deal out of repair, shall need considerable work done in your line. In riding down here, my horse has lost a shoe. So, if you will replace it now, I will be much obliged."
How instantly changed were the blacksmith's feelings! The pulses of his heart beat to a quicker measure; and the heavy weight he was a little while before so vainly endeavoring to throw off, fell, like the burden of 'Christian', suddenly from his shoulders. With alacrity he stepped to the horse, examined his foot, took the dimensions, and was soon busy at his forge and anvil.
Meantime, Mr. Trueman took occasion to speak further of the work he wished done, and he asked the blacksmith a good many questions as to the state of affairs in the village. Striker's version did not place things in a very encouraging light. In referring to the miller, the shoemaker, and several others — he expressed himself very strongly, and said they might starve before he would turn his hand over to help them, or give them a stroke of his work. As for Mrs. Green, he denounced her bitterly. To all this, Mr. Trueman replied with as much prudence as was possible. Mrs. Green had, no doubt, been badly advised, he said, and he would take occasion to see and have a serious talk with her.
"Oh, don't see her on my account," replied Striker, quickly, to this suggestion. "I've no favors to ask of her. I wouldn't turn over my little finger to induce her to give up the suit. She's undertaken to drive me — so let her whip on. If she doesn't repent of this work before she's done with it, I'm mistaken. She's forgotten the damage I suffered from her cow in the destruction of my garden; but I haven't. That rod is over her head — though she little dreams of it; but it will fall — it will fall!"
And Striker fairly ground his teeth in his angry excitement.
"All this is wrong, my friend," said Mr. Trueman, mildly; "and two wrongs, as you have often heard it said, never make a right. Do you think you are a happier or a better man, since Mrs. Green commenced this suit?"
"Happier and better!" exclaimed the blacksmith, in some surprise at the singular question. Then after a pause, he said, with much feeling —
"Heaven knows that I am not. Happier and better? I am worse than I have ever been, and oh! wretched beyond endurance."
Mr. Trueman was deeply moved by the tone and manner in which this was uttered. He did not say a great deal more — except in a general way, but he made up his mind to see Mrs. Green at the earliest moment, and use his good offices toward effecting a settlement of the difficulty between her and the blacksmith. On leaving Mr. Striker, he requested him to call over at his house in the morning, as he wished to consult him about several matters in his line.
"I can't come in the morning," replied Striker. "But I will try and see you in the afternoon."
"Ah, very well. That will do. You have work in the morning?"
"Work!" There was bitterness in the blacksmith's tones. "Yes; and a precious job it is — more profit to the lawyers than to anyone else, by a great deal."
"Oh! That matter with Mrs. Green?"
"Yes. The trial takes place tomorrow morning."
Without making answer to this, Mr. Trueman rode off. He, too, had work to do, and he must be at it right early.
After Mr. Trueman left, Striker lingered at his shop for a short period, and then went home. Strongly was he tempted to turn aside into the tavern of Joe Parker; but his better resolution prevailed for the time, and he kept on his way. As he passed up the garden walk, he saw, through an open window, the back of a woman who appeared to be engaged in ironing. It was not his wife, and a momentary wonder as to who it could be passed through his mind. He caught a glimpse of the same figure as he entered the door, and went into the little sitting-room, where he found his wife at work, mending a garment for one of the children. There was a singular expression on her face; and the light which flashed over it as he entered, showed that something of more than common interest had occurred.
"Who is that?" Striker asked, in a low voice, pointing toward the door of the next room — for, with this woman, at whose figure he had merely glanced, he now connected the change in his wife's state of feelings.
"Mary Green," was answered, and with a smile that could not be repressed.
"What!" The voice of the blacksmith was stern, and a cloud fell instantly on his brow.
"Hush!" Mrs. Striker raised her finger. "You wouldn't guess what has happened," she said in a low, earnest voice. "But let me tell you. I was standing, about an hour ago, at the table in the kitchen, trying to iron a few things; but so weak and faint that it seemed as if every moment I would sink to the floor. Hearing someone open the gate, I looked out of the window, and you may believe that I was surprised when I saw Mary Green coming quickly up the walk. I began to tremble all over, and grew so much weaker, that I sunk down upon a chair, and remained in this way, with my hand still on the iron, when she came in. The moment she saw me she stood right still, and remained looking at me so long that I began to feel strange. At last she said —
"Oh, Mrs. Striker! can you ever forgive me for my cruelty and wicked neglect? What did come over me! I have surely not been myself!"
"I saw, now, that her eyes were red and her cheeks wet. I tried to answer, but could not. All was bewilderment. I wondered if I was not dreaming. But I did not wonder long. Mary came and sat down by me, and taking my hand, said, in that kind way she has —
"I have acted very wrong, Hannah, toward your husband, and very wrong toward you. Him I have persecuted, and you neglected. But I was not myself. I opened my heart for wicked thoughts to come in, and they have ruled me. I was badly advised, and weak and foolish enough to act from my bad advisers. I repent now, Hannah, from my very heart, and I have come not only to ask forgiveness, but to do all in my power to repair the wrong. Will you, can you, forgive me?"
"If so weak before, John, that I could not stand, my strength was all gone now. I tried again to speak, but could not. I looked earnestly into Mary's face — looked my forgiveness, and then fell forward with my face upon her bosom. I had no further power to hold myself up. Tenderly she kissed me, and then drew her arms lovingly around me. The short time I lay thus, was a happy time, John."
The blacksmith had been for some moments, struggling with his feelings. Now he caught his breath several times, quickly, and dashed his hand across his eyes. But he made no reply.
"She had come," resumed Mrs. Striker, "so she said, not only to ask our forgiveness and to tell us that the suit should be stopped immediately, but to see if there was anything which, as a neighbor, she could do for me. The ironing-table, with its pile of clothes at which I was standing when she came in, soon attracted her notice.
"Ah, yes; I see what I can do for you," said she — "you haven't the strength for this." And so she went to work at the ironing, and insists on doing the whole of it for me before going home. It is indeed kind of her, John. And I'm sure you will forgive her, and I do, and let has-beens be has-beens. Won't you, John? You know she hasn't a bad heart. She was always so kind to me, before this, in sickness and in all times, John. Don't you know she was? And you always liked her. She's been badly advised, as she says. Won't you forgive her, John? Oh, I know you will."
"I am sure he will," said Mary Green, who had entered unperceived.
Both started and turned toward the door.
"John Striker, I have done you wrong, and repent; will you not forgive me?" said Mrs. Green, in a low, firm voice, and at the same time, she extended her hand toward the blacksmith.
"From my heart, Mary — from my heart!" replied the latter, with an emotion that he tried in vain to conceal.
"I forgive you as I hope to be forgiven for the many wrongs I have myself done."
There was light again in the blacksmith's humble dwelling; and a new hope in the heart of his longsuffering wife.
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