Transcriber’s Note
Italic text is displayed as: _italic_
WOODBURN GRANGE.
WOODBURN GRANGE.
A Story of English Country Life.
BY
WILLIAM HOWITT.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
CHARLES W. WOOD, 13, TAVISTOCK ST., STRAND.
1867.
[_Right of Translation reserved._]
LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.—THE MURDER AT THE FERRY 1
II.—WHO DID IT? 34
III.—A WONDERFUL DREAM 72
IV.—SCAMMEL’S DEATH 121
V.—THE SKY BRIGHTENS 168
VI.—THE TRIAL, AND TALK AT WOODBURN 217
VII.—A QUAKER WEDDING, AND ANOTHER WEDDING 242
VIII.—IT IS ALL OWING TO LETTY 269
IX.—THE LONG LINE AND THIS BOOK END 292
WOODBURN GRANGE.
CHAPTER I.
THE MURDER AT THE FERRY.
The circumstances related in our last chapter fearfully aggravated
the state of things which had now continued two years: a year after
the unfortunate visit of Miss Heritage to London, and nearly ten
months after the embarkation of Dr. Leroy for India. The breach
between Mr. Trant Drury and Mr. Leonard Woodburn, as well as that
between different members of the community, had steadily grown
wider and more irrevocable. The irritation of Mr. Woodburn against
Mr. Drury had become thus more deeply intensified. As to Mr. Drury
himself, he would never seem to recognise any cause of offence
between them. He would always accost Mr. Woodburn, when they met,
in a somewhat brusque manner, intended to be friendly, though he
seldom obtained more than a “good day” from him, and a steady passing
on. These occasions of cursory speech, in fact, generally added
some fresh touch of irritation to Mr. Woodburn. He regarded this
nonchalant and unabashed manner of Mr. Drury’s, when he knew the many
offences he had given him, as fresh offence, and proof of a hard and
impudent character of mind. Yet, in truth, they were only the result
of Mr. Drury’s peculiar temperament, who meant no offence, but only
the assertion of what, to him, were unimpeachable truths, that people
ought to accept, and, sooner or later, must accept. To Mr. Woodburn,
however, the position of Mr. Drury, as a man in much intercourse
with the class of gentry round who were so antagonistic to all the
political views of himself and most highly esteemed friends, added a
deeper feeling to his dislike.
A more painful state of things cannot be conceived. To George
Woodburn and Elizabeth Drury it was a state of perpetual torture. Mr.
Woodburn wished George to take a house somewhere not far off, get
married, and manage the paternal property. He named to him a handsome
income, which he would appropriate to him; but George knew that at
such a wedding his father would never meet Mr. Drury, and to such a
scandal neither he nor Elizabeth would consent. George proposed to
take a farm in some distant county, and to be married at some distant
place quietly, but he saw that this caused his parents great pain,
and though Mr. Drury was quite ready to acquiesce in this plan,
George hesitated to take this only possible step for peace.
Such was the state of things when hay-harvest came round again.
Every one thought of that hay-field fête three years ago, at which
Mrs. Heritage had foreseen such glooms. And greatly had these fallen.
On Fair Manor itself they had fallen. Dr. Leroy had been enveloped
by them, and was on the other side the globe, all his fair prospects
blighted. Thorsby was away in the wilds of America. Letters to both
Mr. Barnsdale and his wife had informed them that he had succeeded
in putting his goods in New York into the hands of the house which
apprised him of his agent’s elopement; a house with which he had
had considerable and satisfactory transaction; that he was starting
on the trail of the delinquent, who had gone away in company with a
lady, and that he meant to pursue him to the utmost. Since then, only
one or two letters had been received from him from the far interior,
detailing his still hopeless pursuit, but undiminished determination
to persevere to the last. Letty was bravely working on with the
business in Castleborough. Mrs. Thorsby was dead: and little Leonard,
growing every day more interesting, was the great consolation of
Letty’s life. Over Woodburn Grange lay a dark cloud of care and
mortification, only relieved by the marriage of Ann and Sir Henry
Clavering, which was at last fixed for the commencement of August,
and was to be followed by a tour on the continent.
Once more July brought hay-time. The weather had been cloudy and
still, and thus unfavourable to the drying of the hay. One morning
Mr. Woodburn was with his work-people in the very hill-field in which
the memorable hay-field fête had been held. He was standing, leaning
on a rake, just above the hollow road leading down to the river
ferry. The wild roses and eglantine flower-bunches were breathing
sweetly from one of those luxuriant fences which Mr. Drury desired
to see cut down to a short and rigid ugliness. The hay-makers were
driving the hay from beneath the large shadow of hedgerow trees up
the side of the field, into the middle, to give it more air and sun,
if the sun should look out. At this moment Mr. Drury himself came
riding down the lane. “Ah! my friend,” he said; “now you see the
nuisance of these tall hedges and trees. You cannot get an atom of
sun or breeze to your hay, and you must, with much extra labour,
force it into the centre of the field. Even there it will still feel
the effect of these barriers against free circulation of air and
light.”
Mr. Woodburn showed instantly his great irritation. The blood rushed
into his face, and with a dark, stern expression he said, “Mr. Drury,
this is insolence—this is intolerable. When I need your advice I will
ask for it;” and with that he turned away. Mr. Drury rode on, only
saying, with a sort of half laugh of triumph, “Well, good morning,
Woodburn.”
“Is there no good fortune,” said Mr. Woodburn, unguardedly, as
he turned away, “which will turn up to rid this country of that
nuisance of a man, of his cursed pride, and conceited meddling with
everybody’s business?” He began working away with his rake, and it
might be seen for a long time after that he was still thinking on
this _mal-à-propos_ salutation of Mr. Drury.
Four days later Mr. Woodburn returned home to tea. He had been across
Wink’s Ferry, to his hay meadows on the other side the river, where
he had many people at work. The weather had cleared up, and a more
lovely evening never lay calmly shining over the summer earth. Mrs.
Woodburn had the tea set out in the arbour in the garden, and she
and her husband, George and Ann, were quietly enjoying it, and the
sweetness of the garden around. The bees were humming on the sunlit
flowers, the sulphur and red butterflies were wavering here and there
in the clear air; the roses and wallflowers, after the late shadowy
weather and occasional showers, were pouring forth their delicious
odours, which came wafted in at door and window of the summer-house.
George and his father were talking of the harvest, and of the
arrangements for carrying the hay on the morrow, and the number of
people who should be at work in the home fields, and the number in
the meadows over the river, when, at once, came Betty Trapps, running
like a maniac, from the house. Her face was a face of death in hue
and terror. Her eyes seemed starting from her head.
“Mester! Mester! George!” she cried, wildly, shriekingly. “There’s
Mester Drury’s horse gone up the village, all over wet and sludge,
with his saddle turned, the reins under his feet; and there’s a cry
Mr. Drury’s drowned!”
“Oh, Mercy!” exclaimed the ladies, starting up in horror. “Oh! God
have mercy, and send it be not so!”
George ran headlong from the place, and Mr. Woodburn followed him,
saying, “Be quiet, women! be quiet! it is only a fancy. I saw Mr.
Drury but half an hour ago, at a distance, among his haymakers. He
may be thrown, but not drowned.”
George meantime was out in front of the house, and saw several men
trying to stop the horse, which was evidently much excited. “Stop
him!” cried George. “Don’t let the horse run to the farm, it will
cause the ladies such fright!”
He was glad to see that the men had succeeded in seizing the fallen
reins. They patted and soothed the alarmed horse, and brought him
back. George saw that he had evidently had a violent struggle in
the river. He was covered with mud and gravel. The saddle was
turned under his chest, and was torn and scratched. The poor horse
trembled with terror in every limb. George bade the man put it into
the stable, and wash and clean it well; and he sent another man up
the road to prevent anyone carrying the news to Bilts’ Farm till the
reality was known. He then ran down to the Ferry. There were already
several men and women there as well as Mr. Woodburn. The ferry-boat
was drawn to this side of the river, but it betrayed no marks of any
kind which could clear up the mystery. Mr. Drury was nowhere to be
seen; but on searching down the bank to a little distance, the place
was found where the horse had reached it, evidently from the river,
and had struggled his way up it to the land.
“Did no one see what took place at the boat when Mr. Drury came
over?” said Mr. Woodburn. “I came over myself only half an hour ago,
and then Mr. Drury was with his people in the meadow on horseback.”
No one had seen it. The people present were his own people, who had
seen the horse come galloping up the lane by the hill-field from the
ferry, and some had gone to stop the horse, and some ran down here.
Soon there were many other people assembled. Those in the meadow had
caught the rumour, and there was a general running to the ferry. The
river was hunted down on both sides to some distance, but without
effect. The ferry-boat was then loosed from the chain, poles were cut
to steer it by, and a careful search was made down the stream, George
Woodburn assisting most anxiously in the exploration, whilst the
rest of the crowd accompanied the boat along each bank. Long was the
search, but in vain; but, on pushing the boat up the stream again,
and within five yards of the ferry, it struck on something soft,
and, on looking into the clear water, it was seen to be the body of
Mr. Drury. Great was the horror at the discovery. Several men jumped
into the stream, which was shallow, and drew forth the corpse, and
laid it streaming on the boat. What a sight was that! The well-known
tall figure of Mr. Drury, in his well-known blue lapelled coat, pale
yellow waistcoat, kerseymere small-clothes, and smart top-boots. His
riding-whip was still clenched in his right hand.
“Is it possible, then,” asked Mr. Woodburn, “that no one saw anything
of this sad catastrophe? Was no one about when Mr. Drury came to the
ferry?” Not a soul had seen him at the ferry; not a soul had been
seen about it at the time. “They saw Mr. Woodburn go to the ferry,”
the haymakers said, “and in awhile after, Mr. Drury ride towards the
ferry, too. That was all that they knew.”
“It is very strange,” said Mr. Woodburn. “The question is, how it
can have happened? Can the horse have taken alarm as Mr. Drury was
pulling at the chain, and kicked him, or pushed him in by backing? A
doctor must be fetched in all haste. He cannot revive him, but he
may throw some light on the mysterious occurrence. The body must not
be moved till he comes, nor anything about him touched.”
A guard of trusty men was set over the body and boat, and George
Woodburn went off to fetch the doctor. The character of the men set
over the body on the boat, which was put off to midstream, and the
number of spectators on each bank, was sufficient guarantee that
no interference with the corpse would take place. Mr. Woodburn,
therefore, slowly returned homewards. George, meantime, had
ordered his horse, and, with a heart overwhelmed with grief and
consternation, had gone to his mother and sister, who were in a
condition not to be described.
“But,” said George, “there is a duty that some one must perform—a—a
terrible duty; it is to break this awful event to the Drurys. I
confess that I am unequal to it, and I must away for the doctor.
You, dear mother and sister, cannot bear it.” Both the ladies shook
their heads and groaned in agony. “No, no,” said Ann, “impossible.”
There was but one person whom George could think of to perform this
awful duty, and it must be done at once, or it would reach Bilts’
Farm by a side way—it was Betty Trapps. But Betty at first stoutly
refused; she was herself lost in tears and prayers, and said she
would sooner be drowned too than carry such ill-tidings. But when she
saw George’s distress she said, “Well, what must be, must be,” and
at once put on her bonnet and shawl and set out. Betty walked on,
wrapped up in her trouble, and making one long prayer the whole way;
but how she did it and how she bore it she said afterwards she did
not know, but one thing she did know, that nothing should ever induce
her to do such an errand, and see such a stunning misery burst upon
innocent, loving heads again.
The news of such an event flies fast, and when the doctor came with
George from Castleborough, for there was none nearer, there was a
great crowd of men, women, and children surrounding the ferry, and a
hundred different speculations were passing from mouth to mouth as to
the catastrophe George Woodburn’s horse showed, by his reeking skin
and panting flanks, at what a rate he had ridden, and the doctor’s
smoking horse at what a rate they had returned.
A solemn silence fell over the crowd as the doctor and George walked
through it, and beckoning the boat to the shore, entered upon it, and
then had it put back a little from the bank again. The doctor had the
drowned man’s vest opened; no wound or bruise was apparent; he drew
off his hat, which still, though battered down, was upon his head. A
gush of congealing blood followed it, and the hair was matted with
gore.
“There is the mischief,” said the surgeon. He had a large basin of
water brought, washed the head well, and examined it.
“By whatever done,” he said, “the blow is behind. Can it be a
kick from his horse? I think not. It does not show the cut of the
sharp edge of a horse-shoe, but looks like the blow of some blunt
instrument, or of a cudgel. Can he have struck his head in falling on
the edge of the boat?” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I think not:
but let us examine his pockets; that may indicate whether there has
been any robbery in the case.”
That the watch of the deceased had not been taken was evident to them
all. It was still attached to its gold chain, and in the fob of his
small-clothes waistband, as watches were then worn. From his coat
pockets were produced his handkerchief, his spectacles, a knife of
many blades, comb, and other things. There was found gold and silver
untouched in his purse, and in the breast-pocket his pocket-book,
containing some bank-notes of high value, and two or three
acceptances just coming due, as if he had put them in his pocket to
go to the bank to receive their contents.
“Nothing here,” said the doctor, “warrants the suspicion of any
robbery; the thing is a mystery which time and inquiry may clear
up. The body must be conveyed to the Grey Goose public-house for
the inspection of the inquest to-morrow; let an exact list of
the articles found upon the body be made, and kept by Mr. George
Woodburn, and I will produce these, the money, purse, pocket-book,
watch, &c., to the coroner to-morrow.”
With that the doctor and George Woodburn returned to the village. The
doctor took his leave, and the body, laid on a door and covered with
a bed-quilt, was carried to the public-house, followed by the silent
crowd.
It may be imagined what a sensation this event created, not only in
Woodburn but in the country far round, and also in Castleborough.
Mr. Trant Drury had made himself a man of too much mark to pass out
of the world in this sudden and mysterious manner without producing
a great shock in the public mind, and the circumstances of his death
were too peculiar not to excite the faculties of wonder and curiosity
in an extreme degree.
The coroner and doctor duly appeared at the Grey Goose about eleven
o’clock the next day. A jury was got together from amongst the
neighbouring farmers, including Mr. Howell Crusoe, the schoolmaster,
as a man of superior intelligence. All the circumstances already
related were reviewed, the doctor produced the purse, watch,
pocket-book, &c., and gave his view as to the wound on the back
of the head not being made by a kick of the horse; a thorough
examination of the corpse showed no other injury. The jury then
adjourned to the ferry, examined the boat, the bank where the horse
had got out of the river, and had the spot pointed out to them where
the body was found in it, which was still marked by a pole which one
of the men thrust down at the time.
On the return to the Grey Goose, the evidence of Mr. Woodburn, of
George Woodburn, and a number of the hay-makers, both from the
hill-field and from beyond the river, was taken, all of which went
only to show that nothing more was known than that Mr. Drury was seen
alive and quite well in the hay-fields till about half an hour after
Mr. Woodburn left the same meadow and passed over the same ferry. No
one had witnessed the crossing, at least no one who could be found
or heard of, and there were no evidences of any robbery having been
perpetrated. The occurrence had taken place on a fine, bright, calm
evening of July. The coroner asked whether any one was known to
have any feud or had evinced any spirit of resentment towards Mr.
Drury. Perhaps not a man there who was of the neighbourhood into
whose mind did not flash at that question the fact that Mr. Woodburn
was known to have a great dislike to Mr. Drury, and the labourers
in the hill-field thought of the words of Mr. Woodburn but four
days previously, namely, querying why some good fortune did not
remove that troublesome man from the neighbourhood, attended with
expressions of great vexation; but that Mr. Woodburn, that man of
ancient honour and quiet virtues, should have had any hand in such
an atrocity was an idea too wild to be dwelt upon. All were silent
on that head. The jury continued in discussion on the cause of Mr.
Drury’s death, and yet, at length, swayed by the words used by the
surgeon, came to a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown.”
It is impossible for any pen to describe the deep and strange feeling
which rested on the people, both gentle and simple, in the country
round and in Castleborough on this sad and mysterious event. The
violent death of so strong and active a man as Mr. Trant Drury, in
passing that quiet ferry, never before stained by any human blood
or witness to any human crime, on one of the loveliest evenings of
summer, in brightest sunshine, and within a few hundred yards of
Woodburn village. It would be equally impossible to express the
great distress which existed within Woodburn Grange—the still more
agonising and horrified affliction of the wife and daughter of the
deceased. Vast crowds assembled to witness the funeral of the man so
lately in fullest life, and a strange shiver of mysterious awe and
wonder seemed to hang over the whole assembly, and as these crowds
dispersed, to fall more profoundly on Woodburn and its neighbouring
fields. Immediately after the funeral, Elizabeth Drury and her
mother left Bilts’ Farm, and went to reside amongst their relatives
in Yorkshire. Sad and silent was their departure. Elizabeth wrote
short and most affecting notes of adieu to her dear friends—the
Woodburns and the Heritages—saying that they could not bear to see
any whom they loved so much. Yet George and Elizabeth had had a most
heartrending interview, and he had begged earnestly and passionately
that they would not give up the idea of some day, when their feelings
were more calm, coming once more amongst them. He offered to overlook
the farm, left in the hands of the bailiff, till they should
determine ultimately what to do; and so it was left.
After this, a calm seemed to fall on the neighbourhood and over this
event; but this calm was only apparent. The subject was discussed
everywhere,—in the Grey Goose amongst its evening circle; in the
fields and woods by the workmen; in the cottages amongst the women;
at the smithy, at Job Latter’s, where the patriarchs of the village
often congregated to talk with him whilst he modelled a horse-shoe,
or sharpened a ploughshare or a pick. But no inquiries, nor all the
talk on the affair, had thrown, after many weeks, a single ray of
light upon it. The doctor’s opinion that there had been foul play in
the matter seemed to be finally that of every one, but no one had
seen any person or persons about the ferry at that time. The subject
was agitated in the neighbourhood, and a reward of two hundred pounds
was offered by the family for the discovery of the supposed murderer
or murderers. To this the Government, at the representation of the
lord-lieutenant of the county, added another hundred. The constables,
and many another person fond of gain, urged inquiries far and wide.
Repeated visits to the ferry were made, and conjectures there thrown
out of how the event might have happened accidentally or otherwise,
but they produced nothing like a ray of elucidation.
As these things and discussions went on, Mr. Woodburn began to
manifest considerable uneasiness, and he suddenly said one day, as
the matter was spoken of:—“You will see, they will say at last that
it was I who did it.”
“Oh, God forbid!” exclaimed both Mrs. Woodburn and Ann. “What are you
saying? For heaven’s sake do not utter so horrid, so ridiculous an
idea.”
“Well, you will see,” continued Mr. Woodburn, “that they will lay
the crime on me; and I would have you prepare for it. I was the last
man who passed that way before Mr. Drury that evening; and not long
before him; no mortal can be found to have witnessed how Mr. Drury
came to his death; and as the public mind, following the doctor,
insists on a murder—well then, I am the man who stands in closest
proximity to the event.”
Mr. Woodburn might have added the unfortunate words which he used in
the hayfield in the hearing of at least half a dozen men and women;
but he would not add to the horror of the idea he had started to his
wife and children. Their alarm was great, though they treated any
imputation on such a man as their father and husband as the most
impossible and ridiculous of suppositions. George said thoughtfully,
but yet with a tone of melancholy, “Your character, dear father, is
enough to protect you from a dozen of such charges. It will never
be made; if it were, it can never be proved; because it is clear no
mortal saw the transaction, and it is still more certain that _you_
never did it.”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Woodburn; “I am not such a fool, if I were
even such a villain.”
But not many weeks elapsed, before the worst fears of Mr. Woodburn
were realised. The “Castleborough Chronicle,” the conservative
journal of the county, and in which the influence of the Bullockshed,
Tenterhook, and Swagsides class, and that of a much higher and
nobler, the influence of the best aristocracy of the county,
prevailed, had a startling article. It observed that the continued
absence of any evidence of the perpetration of the crime of murder
at Wink’s Ferry, after much and vigorous inquiry, led them to
revert to that mysterious fact, by which a man of much eminence and
activity in the county had somehow lost his life. An event of so much
importance to the security of society, demanded that it should not be
suffered to drift away into oblivion, without the turning of every
stone which might possibly elicit the hidden and gloomy truth: and
however painful it might be to prosecute the inquiries on the subject
into quarters otherwise most respectable, and, therefore, unlikely,
impartial justice, and the dearest interests of the public, made it
imperative to endeavour to fathom the mystery, even though in the
process some most estimable minds might be intensely pained.
After this preamble, the article went on to say that it was well
known that the late Mr. Trant Drury, by his bold innovations
and novel theories of agriculture, and it might be added, by an
enthusiasm which led him sometimes to be a little too unceremonious
to the long-cherished ideas of others, had made a number of enemies;
or, if that term were too strong, of persons animated by no concealed
resentment towards him. His introduction of machinery and other
causes had made him unpopular amongst the class of agricultural
labourers; but the inquiries of the police had resulted in the
clearest and most positive demonstration that every man and woman of
that class, for many miles round, could be shown to have been at some
particular place at the hour of this catastrophe, and nearly all of
them at work in the presence of numerous others.
Now, this well ascertained fact compelled them to acquit this class
of the community; and to look whether there might be any member
or members of Mr. Drury’s own class who might have an ill-feeling
towards him, or a motive to wish him out of the way. They were very
sensible of the delicate ground on which they were entering; but the
paramount interests of truth and humanity required that they should
wave all considerations of delicacy or respect; and they were bound
to declare that there was a gentleman and near neighbour of the late
Mr. Drury, who had shown a strong antagonism to him, which was well
known to have gone on strengthening through a lengthened period; and
who, only a few days before this lamentable event took place, had
publicly, and with signs of much feeling, expressed a wish that some
cause could remove Mr. Drury from the neighbourhood. The gentleman
referred to was a man of wealth and position, a man of old family,
of great classical attainments, it was said, and of a character
against which, hitherto, not a shadow of a shade of suspicion of any
kind could be brought. On the contrary, he had always borne the most
honourable and admirable reputation. Yet such were the anomalies of
life and human nature, that it was not impossible but that to such
a man, some sudden contact and words of disagreement might have
occurred, and that in a moment of sudden anger, he might have raised
his hand and done, what even to himself an hour before, would have
seemed utterly impossible.
They did not presume to say that any such thing had taken place;
this gentleman, honoured and beloved as he was, must be regarded as
innocent till he was fully proved to be otherwise; but they would
submit that had any poor man lain under the same complication of
circumstances, had long entertained unfriendly feelings against the
deceased—they did not yet say murdered gentleman—had he expressed an
angry wish for the removal of the deceased only a few days previous,
and were he the last person seen near the scene of the catastrophe,
nothing could have prevented him long ago being summoned to a legal
examination on that head. They thought the gentleman, if innocent, as
they sincerely hoped he was, must himself desire such an inquiry for
the vindication of his fair fame.
It may be imagined that the sensation created by this article was
intense. What its effect was on the inhabitants of Woodburn Grange,
lies not within the compass of human language. Terror, grief,
distraction, astonishment, were blended into one crushing and
prostrating feeling. It was now that Mrs. Woodburn and her daughters
for the first time learned that Mr. Woodburn, in the hay-field,
had used those unfortunate words towards Mr. Drury in a moment of
irritation. George had heard of them before, and they had lain
on his heart with a deadly weight. Of his father’s incapability
of committing such a crime, under any circumstances, he had the
same assurance as he had of his own. He cast it away from him as
ridiculous: but he foresaw that they would excite much prejudice,
and occasion much trouble under the circumstances. He received a
letter from Elizabeth Drury, expressing her horror and indignation at
such a frightful imputation or even suspicion on his father. “Never!
never! never! would she believe it. She would answer for Mr. Woodburn
with her own existence; but the cruel aspersions, and the misery
and trouble that must arise out of it, had,” she said, “added fresh
poignancy to her former grief.”
Words of indignation and of tender sympathy poured in from friends
all around, and assurances of any aid that could in any way be given
in defence against such a charge. Sir Henry Clavering came in haste
to express his unbounded grief and resentment of such an impossible
and unsupportable accusation. But instant steps, he said, must be
taken to change the current of public opinion. He was on his way to
secure an able refutation of the article in the paper of opposite
politics. This article appeared the following week, and denounced
so abominable a libel on the character of a man of the highest and
most unimpeachable reputation for all that was good and kind, and
against whom there was not a particle of evidence to support such a
foul charge. Words of petty difference of opinion between gentlemen
might, and did, frequently arise, but none but fools, considering the
character of the speaker, would attach any serious import to them.
Sir Henry did not wait for the issue of the paper, but that very day
had the walls of the town placarded by bills, expressing the same
energetic sentiments in different words.
But the intention sufficiently manifested in the “Chronicle” article,
was, notwithstanding, carried out, and in a few days afterwards a
couple of constables presented themselves at Woodburn Grange, with
a mission no less astounding than that of the apprehension of Mr.
Leonard Woodburn, on a suspicion of murder; and amid a scene of
distress only to be imagined, he was conveyed in his own carriage
to the county court justice-room in Castleborough, to answer under
warrant to this charge.