As a matter of fact, the leading merchants and lawyers, and even the churches, derived a profit from the presence of the woolen mill. Then, too, about every man in Griggsby had his own imperishable views, and loved to ridicule those of his neighbor. Indolence, jealousy, and conceit were piled in the path of reform, which was already filled with obstacles.
Now, in those evil days a thing happened which I wish it were not my duty to recall. Unpleasant gossip had gone about concerning Florence and me. As to its source I had my suspicions. Colonel Buckstone had seen us sitting together by the roadside adjoining the meadow where we had gathered flowers. To Colonel Buckstone that was a serious matter, especially in view of the fact that Florence had expressed strong disapproval of his general conduct. Men like him are ever trying to hold the world in leash and to pull it back to the plane of their own morals.
Griggsby was like most country towns. The county fair had passed; the trotters had retired; Colonel Buckstone had not slid off his eminence for some time, and the material for conversation had run low; somebody had to be sacrificed. The inventive talent of the village got busy. It needed a gay Lothario, and I was nominated and elected without opposition, save that of my own face. It ought to have turned the tide, but it did not. My decency was all assumed. At heart I was a base and subtle villain.
Florence naturally turned to me for advice, and I felt the situation bitterly.
“You poor thing!” said she, with a tearful laugh. “I'm sorry for you, but don't worry. Your honor shall be vindicated.”
“I'll fight the Colonel,” I said.
“You shall not fight him,” said she. “Go and fight somebody else. I want to save him for myself.”
That is the way she took it, bravely, calmly. She did not ask any one to be sorry for her. A less courageous spirit would have given up and gone home in disgust; but she stood her ground, with the fatherly encouragement of Appleton Hall, and stored the lightning that by and by was to fall from her hand upon the appalled citizens of Griggsby.
I was at work in my room one evening when Dan'l Webster Smead came to my door.
“Florence Dunbar and a friend have called to see you,” he said. “They are waiting in the parlor.”