The Village Gossip CHAPTER 13.
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On the morning after the reconciliation between Mary Green and the blacksmith's family, Striker went to his shop as sober as he had ever been in his life. The promise of work from Mr. Trueman kept his mind from sinking into a state of despondency, in view of the altered condition of things in Cedardale. After kindling his fires, and making up two or three light articles of domestic use, for which he hoped to find a sale, he took off his apron, and was preparing to go, as promised, to the house of Mr. Trueman, when, no little to his surprise, he saw Mr. White, the miller, approaching from the road, carrying in his hands a crowbar and a small wrench, both of which were broken, and an axe which his practiced eye told him at a glance required "setting."
There was in the manner of Mr. White, as he came up to the blacksmith, a clearly expressed doubt as to his reception. He bowed slightly and said, as he paused at the shop-door —
"Good morning."
"Good morning," returned Striker. He did not smile, nor was there a decided welcome in his countenance. But he was much subdued, and exhibited nothing repellant.
"Are you busy this morning?" asked the miller.
"Not particularly so," replied Striker. "I was about going over to see Mr. Trueman, who had several jobs in my way that he wants done."
"Ah, yes. He'll need a good deal of work done, no doubt," remarked Mr. White. "He seems like a clever man."
The blacksmith made no response to this. There was a moment or two of silence, which was broken by the miller, who said —
"I'd like you to mend this wrench and crowbar for me."
The blacksmith, as ready as he was to make up with the miller, wished to avoid seeming too eager to meet his overtures. Instead of showing at once the real pleasure he felt, and letting his willingness to serve him speak out in fitting words, he merely reached forth his hand and took the wrench and crowbar, which he carefully examined for a few moments, wondering within himself, while doing so, what could be the meaning of this change in the miller.
"We'll soon make these all right again," he remarked at length, in a pleasant voice — more pleasant, in fact, than he had designed it should be; and turning to his forge as he spoke, he thrust the two broken ends of the crowbar into the fire, and grasping the handle of the bellows, sent the sparks and blaze roaring up the chimney.
"How soon shall I call up for them?" now asked the miller.
"In about half an hour," replied Striker.
"You can set this at your leisure," said Mr. White, as he passed his fingers over the worn and battered edge of the old axe, which he had thrown aside more than a year ago, but which was now brought forth to the light, more for the blacksmith's benefit than his own.
"I'll do it for you today or tomorrow," returned Striker.
"That will be fine," was the miller's response.
Both the men felt, during this time, no little embarrassment. The blacksmith was pleased that the miller had come; and the miller was pleased to meet with a reception more gracious than he had expected. The latter was still lingering in the smithy, hurriedly debating with himself as to whether it would be prudent to say certain things that were in his mind, touching their late misunderstanding, when he observed Nancy Wimble passing along the road, with her usual quick step, and air of one who has something of importance to communicate. Striker saw her at the same moment, and he remarked with considerable feeling —
"That woman has done more harm in Cedardale than she will ever repair, if she lives a hundred years!"
"You may well affirm that," was the miller's feeling response. "And now that we have spoken of her, I might as well come out plainly, and say why I called on you in the angry way I did, a few weeks ago. It was in consequence of something that she told me."
"What did she tell you?" said the blacksmith, resting on his bellows, and manifesting considerable interest.
"Why, she told me that Mrs. Striker said I had two spouts running from the millstones, and, in that way, double-tolled every grist I ground."
"Nancy Wimble told you that!" exclaimed the blacksmith, advancing from his forge a pace or two, and exhibiting a good deal of excitement.
"Yes, she did; or, at least, gave me to understand that Mrs. Striker had said something of the kind — and I couldn't stand that, nohow."
Before Striker replied to this, he remembered that his wife had complained, more than once, of light weight, after having been to the mill; and comprehending how readily, in gossiping with Nancy, she might have been betrayed into expressions which the latter could distort and exaggerate, he checked on his lips an indignant denial, and remained silent for some moments. He was struggling for self-possession. At length, he was able to speak calmly, and he said —
"If my wife had thought this, I am sure she would have said so to me."
"And she never did?"
"Never, Mr. White," replied the blacksmith earnestly. "Never, I do assure you."
"Enough. I was wrong, very wrong, to come as I did, in hot blood, on the mere allegation of Nancy Wimble. Oh, she is a desperate mischief-maker!"
"I know it — I know it," said the blacksmith with feeling.
"Did she repeat to you or Mrs. Striker anything that I said?" asked the miller.
"She did; and if you said what she repeated, Mr. White, they were hard words — very hard words."
The blacksmith showed no anger; he spoke rather as one whose feelings had been deeply wounded.
"I did speak harshly and unguardedly, I know," said the miller, with that frankness of acknowledgment usually found in men of hasty temper, "but then, I was dreadfully provoked at what Nancy said. How could I help being so?"
"And I was provoked also, friend White," the blacksmith answered promptly. "When I saw tears in Hannah's eyes, and heard from her lips what you said of us — Nancy had told her — you will not now wonder that I was angry, when you came to me as you did. It wasn't for myself that I cared. But Hannah — poor soul! She had enough to bear as it was. Ah me!"
The blacksmith's feelings partially overcame him; and he stopped suddenly, but not before the miller perceived how much he was disturbed.
"Let us be friends again, Mr. Striker," said the latter, reaching forth his hand.
"With all my heart," replied the blacksmith. "It is always best to forgive and forget."
And the two men joined hands and shook them heartily. A pleasant little chat followed, then they parted, both feeling happier than they had felt for many weeks.
While the blacksmith was wondering within himself as to what had wrought so unexpected a change in the miller, (he did not know that Mr. Trueman had been at the mill with half a dozen bags of grain late on the preceding day,) Wimble, the shoemaker, who had broken a hammer, which he could not dispense with so long a time as it would require to send over to Elderglen, came in with evident reluctance, and a doubt as to the reception he would meet.
Striker had cause enough to be angry toward the shoemaker; but choking down his feelings, and saying — "Let has-beens be has-beens," he received him with at least a show of welcome.
"Can you mend this hammer for me?" asked Wimble.
"I reckon so," replied the blacksmith.
"How soon can you have it done?"
"Some time today," was answered.
"I need it this morning. It's one I am using all the while, and I cannot get along without it."
"I'm sorry," said Striker. "But as soon as I can get this wrench and crowbar mended, I must go over to Mr. Trueman's. I promised to call there this morning, and would have done so before this, if Mr. White hadn't come in with these to mend."
"Humph! White!" The shoemaker's look and tone were most contemptuous. "I thought you'd had enough of him. And this Trueman, too. I suppose you're going to toady to him, like all the rest of Cedardale. Humph! I gave you, at least, credit for more spirit than this."
Striker had taken the broken hammer in his hand, and was already examining the fracture, and calculating the time it would require to mend it.
But the shoemaker's words so roused his indignation, that, on the impulse of the moment, he threw the hammer out into the road, saying as he did so, angrily —
"There's a blacksmith in Elderglen; and he's as good a workman today as he was last week. Take your hammer there. And hark! If, from this day forth, you speak to me an ill word of anybody in Cedardale, I'll get up a cry against you, that will drive you and your mischief-making wife, bag and baggage from the village!"
It may well be supposed that Wimble was no little astonished by so unexpected a rebuff as this. He turned away while yet the blacksmith was speaking, for he was a coward at heart, as all such people are. Still further surprised was he, as he did so, to find himself almost face to face with Mr. Trueman, who had entered the smithy just in time to hear Striker's closing words.
"Softly — softly, good friends," said Mr. Trueman, with a mild dignity that produced an instant pause in the storm. Then he added, "That was a pretty hard saying of yours, neighbor Striker." And he looked at the blacksmith with an expression which said, "I had hoped better things of you."
"You wouldn't much wonder at me, I am sure, Mr. Trueman," replied the blacksmith in a voice now fallen to a subdued and somewhat deprecating tone, "if you knew the cause of my anger against Wimble; you have no doubt learned, before this, he and his wife are at the bottom of nearly all the trouble at Cedardale! And now just as my heart was warming toward you as a real friend, and just as White and myself had shaken hands and forgiven each other — in he comes, and tries to blow up another fire of discord! Do you wonder, after all I have been and suffered, that I was angry?"
There was an honest indignation about Striker that had its effect on Mr. Trueman, as well as on Wimble. The effect on each, however, was very different. While Mr. Trueman's face assumed a grave, almost severe aspect, and his form grew more and more erect, the shoemaker looked abashed and seemed to shrink into himself.
"I am afraid," said Mr. Trueman, addressing Wimble, and speaking with some severity, "that you and your family have been much to blame for the unhappy differences which have for some time existed in Cedardale. This is the testimony I hear borne against you on all sides; and I am only the more surprised that, knowing you as well as they do, your neighbors have ever permitted themselves to be influenced against each other by your tattling and slanderous propensities. I speak to you plainly, because I think plain talk is best in a case like yours; and because I wish you to know in the beginning, that I perfectly understand you and the estimation in which you are held. I am, as you are aware, a new-comer, and I expect to reside in this neighborhood for many years, perhaps for my whole lifetime. I like peace and harmony in my own dwelling, and peace and harmony all around me. I could no more live among quarreling neighbors, than I could live in a quarreling family. If there is discord around me, I can never rest until order is restored. As it is with me, so it is with every member of my family. You and your family, it seems, feel and act differently. Now, the influence of either the one or the other must have sway. Which shall it be? I'm rather a self-willed man, friend Wimble" — Mr. Trueman spoke more pleasantly — "and, when I take my course, am very apt to persevere to the end, no matter what difficulties arise. So, if you mean to contend with me for influence in Cedardale, you must make up your mind for a pretty hard contest. What do you say?" and Mr. Trueman now smiled, and spoke with a kind of soft persuasion, "hadn't you better come over to my side? I would rather, a thousand times, have you for a friend than an enemy."
Wimble, who was rather a weak-minded man, felt completely knocked down, so to speak, by this harangue, so unexpected, so condemnatory, so mortifying. He tried to stammer out some answer, but was unable to utter a coherent sentence.
"Are you doing as well now as you were a few months ago, Mr. Wimble?" asked Mr. Trueman, changing his manner and tone of voice altogether.
"No, sir," replied the shoemaker.
"Why not?"
"More than half the work is going over to Elderglen."
"Indeed! How is that?"
"People think they get better work there, perhaps."
"Didn't I see you at the blacksmith's over there, last week?"
"You did."
"Was the work better done there?"
"I don't say that it was," answered Wimble, a little fretfully.
"You had a bag of grain with you," pursued Mr. Trueman. "Was it better ground than our Cedardale miller can grind it?"
Wimble was silent.
"I don't think you can say so," pursued Mr. Trueman. "I am sure you cannot say so. Then what did you gain? Nothing. But what did you lose? That is a more serious question. There was not only loss of time, but loss of two customers, as well as loss of neighborly interest and good-will. Don't you know that a house divided against itself cannot stand? Neither can a village divided against itself stand. Nobody seems to be doing well in Cedardale. Why? Because almost everyone is at variance with his neighbor; and almost everyone, in consequence, running over to Elderglen. From all I can learn, Mr. Wimble — forgive my exceeding plainness of speech — you and your family are to blame in a great measure for this result; and, not escaping the evil which has fallen upon the rest, you are yourselves now among the sufferers."
The shoemaker looked very much humiliated, and did not attempt to defend himself, for his conscience too surely confirmed the accusations so pointedly brought against him.
"Are you willing to be at peace again with your neighbors?" asked Mr. Trueman.
"Oh, yes, certainly, if they will be at peace with me. But I don't see much chance for that," replied Wimble.
"Why not?"
"Martin has sued me."
"The schoolmaster?"
"Yes."
"Ah! what's the meaning of that?"
"A suit for slander, I believe," said the blacksmith.
"Oh! is that all? A very easy matter to settle," replied Mr. Trueman. "I must see Martin. How is his school now?"
"He hasn't much school left to brag about," said Wimble quickly, and with evident pleasure in his voice.
"Not much to brag about!" And Mr. Trueman fixed his eyes so steadily upon the shoemaker, that the gaze of the latter fell to the ground, while a slight flush of shame came to his face. "Does your son go to him?"
"No, indeed! My boy shall never darken his schoolroom door again," replied Wimble, with considerable warmth.
"Don't say that. Let me ask you a question." There was something so serious in Mr. Trueman's manner, that Wimble felt a momentary concern. The former, after a pause, approached the shoemaker, and stooping to his ear, said —
"Would you rather have your son darken Martin's school-room door, or the door of a county prison?"
There was a significance in the manner of Trueman not to be mistaken. Wimble started, and turning pale, asked hurriedly, yet in a low voice —
"For mercy's sake, sir! what do you mean?"
Taking the shoemaker by the arm, Mr. Trueman passed with him from the shop, and so soon as they were a few paces from the door, said —
"Let me show you the consequence of some of your own acts. You, or your wife, it matters not for our present purpose which, got up a quarrel between the miller and the blacksmith. So the miller takes his work over to Elderglen, and sends his son for it when ready. Your son sees him riding over, and reports, falsely, to the schoolmaster, that young White had played the truant. Martin, believing this story, flogs White severely; at which his father quarrels with Martin, and takes his son from school. The base and cruel falsehood of your boy becoming fully known to the schoolmaster, he punishes him, as he deserves, and you, instead of approving this, also quarrel with Martin, and take your son from under his care. What is the result? Idleness is the parent of vice. Twice during the short period that has gone by since we removed into the neighborhood, have I found your son trespassing on my place; and this morning I caught him in my chicken-house with more than a dozen eggs in his hat, which he had taken from my nests. Nor was this all: he had wrung the neck of one of my choicest breed of hens, and had the dead body under his arm, when I came suddenly upon him. Do you understand my question now, Mr. Wimble? I will repeat it: Would you rather have your son darken Mr. Martin's school-room door — or the door of a county prison? For, unless I am very much mistaken, he will enter either the one or the other."
Just then the shoemaker's wife, who had been on a flying visit to one of the few neighbors with whom she was on good terms, came past on her way home. Wimble was now thoroughly alarmed at the new aspect in which things were presented to him. His mind, never very strong or clear, was all in confusion.
"Nancy! Nancy! here!" he called to his wife, who was going by without stopping.
"Say over to her, Mr. Trueman, will you, what you have just said to me," he added, as soon as Nancy came up.
Mr. Trueman did not hesitate to comply with the shoemaker's wishes. He merely stepped back to say to Mr. Striker that he would like to see him at his house in an hour, and then walked away with John and Nancy Wimble.
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