The Village Gossip CHAPTER 8.
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As Mr. White was leaving Elderglen, a horseman drew up to his side, and he instantly recognized the stranger who had called at his mill on the day previous, and to whom he had spoken so freely of the blacksmith.
"The miller of Cedardale, if I'm not mistaken?" said the stranger familiarly.
"That is my vocation," replied Mr. White. "And you are the person who stopped at my mill yesterday."
"The same. But what errand has brought you so far away from home, on a bright day like this, when there will be many grists to grind?"
"Business," replied the miller, while a slight shadow flitted across his face. Then he added, "So much for having a drunken blacksmith in Cedardale."
"What's the matter now?" said the stranger. "Striker is not so intoxicated today, that he cannot work, I hope."
"Not that I know of." The miller tossed his head — "But he's done his last job for me!"
"How is this, friend White? I don't like to hear you say so. If the blacksmith isn't all you could wish him to be, personally, still, as a workman, he should be regarded. Remember, that he has a wife and family, and that, in taking work from him, you take the bread from them."
"Oh, as to his wife, she's no better than he is, if the truth must be told."
"What! Does she drink also?"
"Oh no. I don't accuse her of that. But she's got an ill tongue in her head, and says of her neighbors a great deal she ought not to say. And I'm sure this is bad enough."
"Bad enough, no doubt," replied the stranger. "In fact, we are all bad enough. Still, we must have bread to eat. If God were to remove bread from the mouth of every one who sinned against him — we would all, it strikes me, be in rather a bad way."
The miller was silent at this. It was rather a new view of the case to his mind.
"Now, what is all your trouble with the blacksmith?" resumed the stranger. "It occurs to me that there must be wrong on both sides. When I was at his shop yesterday, I could see that he was dreadfully fretted about something."
"I should think he was, from all I saw myself, and from all I have since heard."
"There must have been a cause for this," said the stranger. "What was it? I would like to hear, if you can tell me."
"The cause, I presume, was mostly in himself. Drunkenness and ill-nature will account for a good deal of bad conduct in a man. He abused me shamefully, and threatened to pitch me out of his shop, just because I ventured to ask him upon what authority his wife had reported that I double-charged every grist that came to my mill."
"And did she report this?"
"Certainly she did. And I'm not the man to stand anything of that kind, you see. No — no; Stephen White never wronged a neighbor out of a dollar, willingly, and no one shall report such slanderous things of him."
"Who informed you of this?"
"The shoemaker's wife."
"Is she a woman of veracity?"
"Humph! She's the tattler and busybody of the village — always meddling with other people's concerns."
The miller spoke out, warmly, his real appreciation of Nancy Wimble, without thinking of the very natural inference the stranger would draw from his words.
"If that is the case," said the latter, pointedly, "is it not very possible that Nancy Wimble may have exaggerated, or entirely misconstrued the blacksmith's wife? And, moreover, wasn't it rather hasty in you to go to Mr. Striker, knowing as you do, so well, his habits and temperament, and complain against his wife? Make the case your own, and ask yourself, if he had come to you, just as you went to him — using precisely the same language, in the same tone of voice — how would you have felt and acted?"
This was putting the case in rather a home way, and the miller felt rebuked. However, he was in no degree inclined to acknowledge his fault, even if convinced of error. So he answered —
"There was nothing to justify his conduct — nothing in the world. But what he did to me was a trifle, compared to the way he treated Mary Green."
"Ah! How did he treat her?"
The story of the lamed mare, and all the consequences growing therefrom, even to the commencement of a suit against the blacksmith, were all related by the miller. The stranger listened with marked interest, and when the narrative was completed, said —
"This is a very bad business, indeed. Who could have incited Mrs. Green to such a course? She will gain little or nothing, and do great harm."
"Striker crippled her mare, and insulted and maltreated her into the bargain," replied the miller. "And he ought to be made to pay for it. I don't blame Mary Green in the least."
"Well, I do then. This going to law for mere trifles is always wrong. Who's her lawyer?"
"Sharp, I believe."
"So much the worse," replied the stranger, speaking partly to himself. "All wrong — all wrong," he added musingly, as he reined up his horse, where a road turned off from the one leading to Cedardale.
"My friend," said the stranger, after a pause, "I don't like all this trouble you are getting into very foolishly. This quarreling among neighbors seems to me very dreadful. Now, why can't you, instead of helping to fan these coals of discord into a consuming flame, act the part of a peacemaker? The matter is very simple. The easiest thing, believe me, imaginable."
"Peacemaker! Goodness!" The miller was taken altogether by surprise. "I'd like to see the man who could harmonize things in Cedardale. He'd be the eighth wonder of the world, to my thinking."
"It requires but one thing, friend White," said the stranger.
"And what is that, please?"
"A sincere desire for the happiness and well-being of your neighbors."
The miller shrugged his shoulders, and said —
"Something hard to find in this world, as far as my experience goes."
"Yet every man should possess it."
"But suppose he does not."
"Let him, then, seek for it earnestly, for, without it, he is no true man," said the stranger. He spoke earnestly, fixing his penetrating eyes upon the miller. The latter felt rebuked and uncomfortable. A word or two, with little significance, he uttered in reply, and then, as he touched the reins of his horse, said —
"But I must bid you good day, sir. Time passes, and my customers will be waiting my return." And bowing, he spoke sharply to the animal he rode, and was quickly beyond the sound of the stranger's voice. The latter gazed after him for some moments, and then moved on his way.
The miller, on entering Cedardale, could not refrain from taking the road which led past the shop of Striker. He was very curious to learn the effect which the serving of the writ had produced. He was not greatly surprised to find the smith absent. He paused and looked narrowly into the shop. Things had a deserted air; the more particularly, as there was no red sign of industry on the forge. The fire had gone out.
"I rather think he's come to his senses by this time," said the miller to himself, as he rode by. There was a sense of pleasure in his heart.
On arriving at his mill, "White found three or four people waiting for him, and all of them exceedingly impatient at the delay they had experienced.
"What's the meaning of all this?" said one.
"Where in the world have you been?" asked another.
"You have lost two new customers," remarked a third, "and good ones they would have been, I take it."
"How so! who were they?" inquired the miller to this last remark.
"Why, Glenn, who lives over Beech Hill, and Mr. Weaver, the large farmer. Mr. Weaver brought ten bags of rye to chop, and two bags of wheat to grind; and Glenn had, I would think, as much more."
"Have they gone away?"
"Yes, indeed. And they both said they'd not take the trouble to come over to your mill again. They were here when I came, and said they'd been waiting over an hour. But where in the world have you been, this terrible long while?"
"Over to Elderglen, to the blacksmith's," replied the miller, who felt rather bad at the probable loss of two new customers, whose work would have been of no inconsiderable importance.
"To the blacksmith's!" echoed two or three at once. "What's the matter with Striker?"
"Oh, I'm done with him," replied White. "He's got too drunken, worthless, and ill-natured for anything."
"Aren't you a little mistaken?" was replied by one of those present. "I stopped, as I came past this morning, to get a shoe on my horse, and found him perfectly sober, and in quite a good state of mind."
"Lucky for you that he was," said the miller, "or your horse might now be in the condition of Mary Green's mare. And, by the way, do you know that Mrs. Green has sued him for damages?"
"No," "No," "No," came from several voices at once.
"It's a fact, let me tell you; and I guess he'll come to his senses before he's much older. I met Barker with the writ as I was on my way to Elderglen this morning."
"You don't say so!" "Possible!" "I declare!" and such like exclamations passed round the group of listeners.
"Well, all I've got to say," remarked White, and he spoke with a good deal of feeling, "is, that I hope she'll make him smart. If I was in her place, he'd find himself in trouble, I can assure him."
"All this isn't going to grind my grist," now spoke out one of the miller's customers, who had stood a little aside from the beginning, and taken no part in the conversation. Both in voice and manner, he showed a good deal of impatience. "As to these quarrels among neighbors, I don't like them at all. Here are six of us, who have each lost an hour — that makes six hours — just because you and the blacksmith are at loggerheads. If you've got to tramp or ride away over to Elderglen every time you want a bit of smith's work done, I'm thinking you'll find it a business that won't pay. I'm sure I shall not come a third time to your mill, if I find nobody to grind my grist at the second visit."
The miller was rather struck down, as they say, by this speech. So he hurried into the mill, and emptied a bag of wheat into one hopper and a bag of corn into another. Then lifting the gate, he let the water flow down upon the wheel, the buckets of which soon filled, the weight of water setting the wheel in motion. For about five minutes the process of grinding went on, when, suddenly, there was a crash of something among the machinery, and then all became still. The miller, after hastily shutting off the water, went below, in much perturbation, to examine into the nature and extent of the disaster. Greatly to his relief of mind, he found the damage but small, yet of a nature requiring the services of a millwright or some skillful worker in iron.
"I'll go for-Striker. He'll soon make all right again," said one of the people present. The miller had it on his tongue's end to object — but prudently forbore. So the man started off for the blacksmith. In about a quarter of an hour he returned, looking serious and disappointed.
"Where's Striker?"
"Wouldn't he come?" asked one and another.
The man shook his head, and seemed reluctant to answer in words.
"He won't work for me, I suppose," suggested White. "That's about the truth of it."
"No," said the other; "the truth of it is, he's in no condition to work for anybody."
"He was sober enough when he shod my horse this morning," remarked one.
"And would have kept sober, no doubt, but for the serving of that writ," said the man who had, a little while before, expressed his disapprobation of neighbors' quarrels. "I wouldn't have Mary Green's responsibility in this matter for a dozen horses. I'm out of all patience with her. I gave her credit for being a better woman. But she's among bad advisers, I suppose. Ah, well! It's sad to think on. However, finding fault won't mend things; and as there is no more grinding to be done here today, I must be off in the direction of Elderglen, for there is no meal in the barrel, and my wife will hardly look pleasant if I return as I left."
Saying this, the man lifted his bag of grain, and throwing it over his horse, mounted, and rode away. His example was soon followed by all the rest, and the miller was left alone with his silent mill and his no very pleasant reflections. The way before him was apparent enough, but not very pleasant to walk in. He must return to Elderglen, and get the blacksmith there to come or send over and see his broken machinery. Then there would be delay in taking the portions needing repairs a distance of two miles, and afterwards bringing them back to the mill.
As no time was to be lost in musing over his troubles, Mr. White started forthwith on his second journey to Elderglen. But he found the smith there too busy to attend to him on that day. A promise to call over on the next morning was all he could obtain. As it turned out, two entire days were lost by the miller, before he was able to set his great wheel to moving again; when, if the aid of Striker could have been secured at once, scarcely two hours would have been consumed in the work of repairs.
"I wonder where Ben White is, this afternoon?" said Martin, the schoolmaster, on the day after the mill went into operation again. He spoke to Dick Wimble, who had been kept in for bad conduct, after the other scholars were dismissed, and was now alone with his teacher.
"I guess he's played truant," answered Dick.
"Why do you think so?" asked the schoolmaster, pricking up his ears, and showing sufficient interest to prompt the shoemaker's son to make as good a story as possible.
"I saw him on my way to school, and he said he wasn't going to come."
"Why not?"
"He said he was going to Elderglen, and wanted me to go along."
"To Elderglen?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you think he meant to play truant?" said the schoolmaster.
"I'm most sure he did," replied Dick.
Taking rather too much for granted, the schoolmaster, on the next morning, as soon as Ben White appeared, called him up, and in a tone of voice which plainly indicated a foregone conclusion, said —
"And so you went over to Elderglen, yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes, sir," replied Ben, the blood mounting to his face; for the tone and manner of the schoolmaster startled him with some undefined apprehension.
"Very well, sir!" The master's voice was stern, and his eyes full of fire and accusation. "And what were you doing over there?"
By this time Ben was so borne down by a sudden fear and confusion, occasioned by this unexpected arraignment, that guilt, or what Martin interpreted as guilt, was written all over his countenance.
"Father sent me there," he replied in a faltering voice, his eyes falling under those of the schoolmaster.
"Your father sent you, ha?"
"Yes, sir."
"What for?"
"I went to the blacksmith's for him."
"To the blacksmith's, indeed!" rejoined the schoolmaster, incredulously. "That's a likely story, when there's a blacksmith in Cedardale. And what was your business at the blacksmith's? Now, take care how you answer, boy, for, remember, you can't deceive me; and if I'm satisfied that you're lying, I'll take the very skin off you."
"I went after father's picks and facing-hammers," said the frightened boy, in a troubled manner, and looking still more confused — or guilty, as the schoolmaster thought.
"That'll do," rejoined Martin. "That'll do! Picks and facing-hammers, indeed! You should have tried a better story. To my own knowledge, Mr. Striker always does that work for your father. Doesn't he, Bill?"
"Yes, sir," faintly and reluctantly replied the blacksmith's son.
"There, you see! you're convicted at once," said the now morally blind schoolmaster. "Picks and facing-hammers, indeed! You were playing truant — that's what you were doing!"
And as he spoke, he laid his hand with a strong grip on the lad's arm, at the same time reaching over to his desk for a stout hickory rod.
"Oh, indeed, sir, I didn't play truant! It's all just as I said," pleaded the miller's son. "Father did send me over to Elderglen; indeed he did, Mr. Martin! Oh! don't whip me, sir. Send down to father, and he'll tell you all about it."
But, in the schoolmaster's mind, the question was settled. He was no longer judge, but executioner. Before the last words trembled from the lips of young White, the hand of Martin had fallen, and the sharp strokes of his rod were thrilling on the ears of his scholars, sending the quick blood to the faces of some, and blanching the cheeks of others.
"Now, sir, go to your seat! Playing truant may be all very fine, but there's something not so pleasant to come afterward," said the schoolmaster, after having flogged the poor boy until his arm was tired. As he spoke, he thrust him toward the row of benches and desks in front of him, with so strong an arm, that Ben came near falling upon his face. Quickly recovering himself, however, he darted from the school-room, and sped away for home with almost lightning feet.
This act on the part of young White rather disturbed the schoolmaster, as soon as his thoughts ran a little clear. If it should really be true that the miller had sent his son over to Elderglen, there would be trouble. Not very long was Martin in doubt. Barely sufficient time had elapsed for Ben — who had suffered innocently — to reach the mill, where he exhibited his bruised and swollen back, and for the miller to walk to the school-house, before Martin's growing apprehensions were realized.
Of the scene that ensued we will not venture a description. But for the appearance of the stranger before mentioned, who happened to be riding past the schoolhouse most opportunely, and who, hearing angry voices within, dismounted and entered, the terribly excited miller would have punished the schoolmaster with blows.
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