WHO DID IT?
If, on that memorable occasion at the hayfield fête, when Mrs.
Heritage was impressed with a sense of impending calamities, she
had gone a little further and asserted that within three years
Sir Emanuel Clavering, then in full health and spirits, should be
gathered to his fathers; that a severe dispensation should fall on
the family at Fair Manor; that Dr. Leroy should suddenly abandon his
practice and his native place, and go to the far East; that Thorsby
should alternately turn reprobate, preacher, and again reprobate;
that he should marry Letty Woodburn, doat on her and leave her; that
one of the friends of the Woodburns should be killed in a most
mysterious manner at Wink’s Ferry; and that, as the climax of all,
Mr. Leonard Woodburn should be charged with a wilful murder, and
be put in jeopardy of a public and ignominious death,—the effect
of her vaticinations would have been lost, and she would have been
pronounced extravagantly insane. But now, as all these things had
taken place, there was scarcely a person who was present on that
occasion, who did not recall the fact with astonishment.
On the morning following the arrest of Mr. Woodburn, he was brought
before the assembled bench of county magistrates. The throng
collected showed the importance attached to the case. A number of
men had been suddenly summoned from Woodburn, and brought up in
post-chaises. George Woodburn, assisted by Sir Henry Clavering, had
also collected a number of men and women who had been engaged in both
hayfields at the time, and had also brought Mrs. and Miss Woodburn,
overwhelmed with grief as they were.
There was a formidable array of the Rockville, Bullockshed and
Tenterhook section of the magistracy on the bench, for Sir Benjamin
Bullockshed, whose steward Mr. Drury had become, had taken up the
matter as a personal one, and had not hesitated to say amongst his
particular friends, that he would make an example of Mr. Woodburn,
who was a stiff, impracticable man, and a stout adherent of the Degge
and pauper clique. Had this speech reached Sir Henry Clavering, he
and Simon Degge would have insisted that Sir Benjamin should not
occupy a place on the bench on this occasion. Able lawyers were
engaged on each side. To make a short story of the proceedings, some
of Mr. Woodburn’s own men were brought forward to prove that he had
expressed a wish that Mr. Drury were removed from the neighbourhood,
and that he was a nuisance. These men, who had talked this matter,
as they did every matter over at the Grey Goose public-house, without
noticing a stranger amongst them, were astonished and confounded to
be brought against their own respected master. At first they refused
to speak, but they were assured that if they did not they would be
sent to prison; and Mr. Woodburn, who had no wish to deny those
imprudent words, told them he wished them to speak out all that they
knew, and said that it was true that he had said such words, but
of course, with no evil intent. The men, thus having their tongues
loosed, gave evidence, but never having been in a witness-box before,
and being badgered by the opposing lawyer and by the magistrates,
made a confused mess of it. It was taken down, as admitted evidence
on their part, that Mr. Woodburn had uttered words of the sort
evincing a strong feeling against Mr. Drury.
Evidence was brought from the hay-makers in the meadows to prove
that Mr. Woodburn and Mr. Drury were in the meadows at the same time;
that they both returned home by the ferry, Mr. Drury soon after Mr.
Woodburn; that they had observed no other person about the ferry
between the passing of Mr. Woodburn and Mr. Drury. It was also given
in evidence by various persons summoned, amongst whom, to their
inexpressible mortification, were Howell Crusoe and Job Latter, the
blacksmith, that there was a sort of misunderstanding betwixt the two
gentlemen. As for Crusoe and Latter, they added at the same time that
they would sooner believe the moon would fall than that Mr. Woodburn
would hurt a hair of any man alive.
On the other hand, evidence was brought on Mr. Woodburn’s side, that
his having anything to do with the death of Mr. Drury was impossible,
even if such a matter was in any way likely, because Mr. Woodburn
was seen to leave the meadows half an hour before Mr. Drury, and
was seen coming up the hollow road from the ferry as immediately
following his quitting the meadows as it was possible in time. It was
not possible that he could have waited to waylay Mr. Drury. He was on
foot, Mr. Drury on horseback. He was seen walking up the hollow road
by a dozen people in the hill-field, in his usual quiet way, without
any evidence of excitement about him. George Woodburn, Betty Trapps
and the other maid-servants, gave evidence that Mr. Woodburn returned
home just at six, in his ordinarily quiet manner. He took his tea
with his family in the garden, showing no excitement, no exhaustion,
not a single trace on his clothes or on his person, of any unusual
disturbance of mind or exertion of body, which could not have been
the case had a man of his piety, his benevolence, his feeling and
whole character been engaged in a murder. The horse of Mr. Drury was
seen galloping up the village at half-past six, clearly under the
effect of sudden fright. Whatever was the cause of Mr. Drury’s death,
it had plainly taken place when Mr. Woodburn was tranquilly taking
tea with his family in his garden.
But what produced the greatest sensation was to see Mrs. Woodburn
and her daughter Ann successively appear and, though sinking under
their grief, as a matter of social duty substantiate these latter
facts. The evidence being closed, Mr. Woodburn was allowed to make
a few observations. He said that such an accusation as this, and
the situation in which he stood, appeared to him a dream,—seemed
to his sober senses impossibilities. Yet, he so highly reverenced
human life and those laws of his country which were established to
protect it, that he did not object to stand there to answer to any
charge of the nature which circumstances might make in the least
degree colourable against him. All that wounded him was that any man
or men who had known his general character, tone of mind and life
for half a century, should suppose him capable of lifting his hand,
under any circumstances, against any human being. Now he was ready
to confess that there was that in the manner and dogmatism of Mr.
Drury which grated on his own feelings, and of late had held him at a
distance from him, and he admitted that he had uttered a wish in the
hearing of his workpeople, that some _fortunate_ circumstance would
take Mr. Drury out of the neighbourhood. “It was some _fortunate_
circumstance, gentlemen, that I especially spoke of,” said Mr.
Woodburn, “and sincerely wished, namely, that from Mr. Drury’s
eminent abilities in agricultural science, knowledge of stock, and
other things, he might obtain a stewardship from some nobleman or
great landed gentleman at a distance, which would remove him out
of my immediate neighbourhood. But that I should have wished any
evil, much less that I should personally attempt any evil against
Mr. Drury, to whose only daughter my only son was engaged, or that
I should wish, or try to enact evil against any human creature
whatever, I am sure can never enter the mind of any one of my
neighbours who know my character and habits. As the circumstances
given in evidence show, moreover, that so far as I was concerned, the
murder of Mr. Drury, if murder it shall be proved, was an absolute
impossibility, I contend that there is no case against me. At the
same time I trust that no exertions will be omitted to obtain some
clue to the real causes and perpetrators, if such there be, of this,
by me most deeply deplored event.”
Numbers of gentlemen, as well as neighbours of Mr. Woodburn, of
different classes, came forward to bear testimony to the uniformly
high moral character of Mr. Woodburn; amongst them Mr. Heritage,
Mr. William Fairfax, Mr. Simon Degge, the Rev. Thomas Clavering,
&c.; whilst Sir Henry Clavering and Mr. Degge gave their opinion
that there was not an atom of a case against him, and voted for
his instant discharge. A long and warm discussion took place; the
friends of Sir Benjamin Bullockshed were strong on the bench, and a
majority was obtained for the committal of Mr. Woodburn for trial at
the March Assizes. It was not a bailable offence, and Mr. Woodburn
was committed to the felons’ side of the county prison. Sir Henry
Clavering and Simon Degge, however, exerted their influence so far as
to procure him comfortable apartments in the gaol, and the privilege
of admittance to his immediate connections and intimate friends.
The Rockville faction having so far obtained their desire for his
incarceration and trial, were willing to make a grace of affording
him all alleviations consistent with his security.
The sensation in Woodburn and the country round on the news of
this extraordinary fact exceeded anything known in the memory of
man. Bins’ Farm, deserted by its afflicted inhabitants, was not so
melancholy a place as Woodburn Grange, whence Mrs. and Miss Woodburn
had fled to be near the beloved husband and father in Castleborough.
George only was seen occasionally there, giving orders, and returning
hastily to the town. Sir Henry Clavering was nearly as little at
Cotmanhaye, but in turn occupied with all sorts of thoughts and
plans for the comfort of Mr. Woodburn, for supporting the dreadfully
oppressed minds of his family, and for prosecuting inquiries in the
country if possible to catch some small thread, if it were only that
of a gossamer, to lead to a solution of the mystery of Wink’s Ferry.
He inclined to the belief in its being murder, and that some cause
might yet lead to the detection of the murderer. The only thing which
puzzled him and others was the absence of any evidence of robbery.
Poor Letty Thorsby! This frightful turn of affairs had once more
broken down the few supports which she had found in her own prior
affliction to her resolute determination to work for her husband’s
reform. She fell into violent convulsions on the first news of the
astounding charge, and, when admitted to see her father, she rushed
to his neck with a wild cry and fainted in his arms. It was many
days before she could rally in her that strong part of her soul
which had borne her so bravely through so much before. The whole
sorrowful family were at Letty’s, where also Sir Henry Clavering
was almost always. Horrible fears assailed them lest, after all,
the most terrible result might take place—the did condemnation of
Mr. Woodburn. In vain Sir Henry scout any such idea, declaring
that there was not a single iota of ground to go upon against Mr.
Woodburn. That, independent of his character, there was no proof
whatever of his or indeed, yet, of any one’s participation in this
catastrophe; but, on the contrary, he had positive proof against it.
But the unhappy sufferers were haunted by cases of conviction under
circumstantial evidence, and of persons suffering whose innocence was
too late made manifest.
Sad and agonising were the days which passed over them—Sir Henry
and other friends exerting all their ingenuity to inspire them with
hope. It was only when they were with Mr. Woodburn that they forced
themselves to appear cheerful and hopeful. For himself, he was
calm and resigned. He would not believe that any sentence could be
obtained against him upon such an utter absence of proof. He begged
to have his favourite books, his Theocritus and Virgil, whose Idyls
and Georgics carried him into the country; his Plato and Epictetus,
whose philosophy and morals raised him above despondency; his Homer
and Euripides, whose heroic narratives and dramatic life made him
forget his actual solitude. Above all, his Bible and his favourite
religious authors. These were brought, and various articles of
furniture to make his rooms more agreeable, or to accommodate his
friends who came to cheer him. Amongst these were often Mr. and Mrs.
Heritage, Mr. William Fairfax, and the different members of the Degge
family. The gaoler, Mr. Wright, was a man noted for his intelligence
and kindness, and stretched Mr. Woodburn’s privileges to the utmost
limit of his own responsibility. He contrived to allow Mr. Woodburn
the range of the prison-yard when the other prisoners were in their
cells, so that he could enjoy sufficient exercise without being
exposed to unwelcome notice.
So passed on that long and miserable autumn, that long and melancholy
winter. During this time Letty received a letter from her husband,
which informed her and Mr. Barnsdale that he had followed on the
trail of the flying miscreant, through New Jersey, Pennsylvania,
Virginia, and into Ohio. The man seemed possessed by a spirit
of unrest, or of fear of pursuit, which kept him constantly in
motion. Sometimes he had been on his very heels; sometimes he lost
his trail for weeks. In his lonely journeys he had met with some
strange occurrences, too numerous to detail; but everywhere he
carried in his pocket-book the severe letter of Mrs. Heritage, and
inflicted a proper penance on himself by looking at his past image
in it, as in a glass. “Ah!” he said, “it is in these long, solitary
journeys, through deep woods and through swampy jungles, or amid
total strangers, that the brightness and beauty of his once heavenly
but abused home came over him with a force which made him curse his
now inconceivable folly. And yet,” added he, “that will-o’-the-wisp
nature in me is not yet extinct. One day I came upon a great
camp-meeting in the midst of the woods, and after witnessing the
strange scene for some time I was seized by a spirit of fire, and
sprung up into a waggon, and poured forth a harangue on sin and its
sorrow; on the strength of weakness in some souls carrying them like
maniacs into the whirlwinds of crime and woe; on repentance and
backsliding; on heaven and damnation, in such a rush and hurricane
of passionate speech, such cries of despair and shouts of ‘Help!
help!’ within me to God and Christ, as drew the scattered thousands
around me, and flung them into the wildest commotion and shrieks
and ejaculations; which seemed more like the riot of a raging ocean
tempest than the tumult of human creatures. Suddenly I dropped down,
and disappeared amongst the trees; but for days and weeks afterwards
I heard of what they called ‘The Wild-fire Preacher,’ who came and
went so mysteriously.”
Thorsby related that one evening having made his camp for the night,
and cut down boughs of the hemlock pine for his bed, an old Friend
rode up, and asked leave to pass the night by his fire. He was a
small, light man in sober home-spun clothes, who having hobbled out
his horse, came and sat down, and drew from his wallet bread and
dried venison, and invited Thorsby to partake. He said his name was
Jesse Kersey, and that he was on a religious journey into the back
settlements. After they had conversed till rather late, the stranger
informed Thorsby that his father had left him a good property.
Thorsby asked him in what it consisted,—in land? No. In houses? No.
In money? No. In teaching him to live on a little. “He who has that
fortune,” said Jesse Kersey, “can never want. I would give thee this
as a safe rule of life—
‘Keep within compass, and thou wilt be sure
To shun many evils that others endure.’”
The old man having said this, tied his handkerchief round his
head for a nightcap, drew his rug over him, and saying, “Farewell,
friend!” dropped instantly to sleep, and slept like a child till
morning. Thorsby himself lay long, and thought on the truth of the
old man’s simple philosophy. In the morning, as they rode on through
the deep forests together, Jesse Kersey dropped gradually into a
silence. Thorsby addressed to him some remark, but receiving no
reply, he cast a glance at his companion, and observed that he was
deep sunk in reverie. At length the old man said—
“Stranger and yet friend, I am drawn by that life which wells up in
the heart like the spring in the desert, and the soft breeze on the
solitary plain, in tenderness and loving concern towards thee. Of
thy past life or outward circumstances I know nothing but what thou
hast said, that thou art from the old country; I am, however, made
inwardly sensible that there are two natures striving in thee for
the mastery. There is the spirit and life of good, and the spirit
and life of vanity, and the word to thee which arises in me is—Be
prayerful and bewareful. Oh, I see a fire in thee which might be that
of which I have lately heard in the so-called ‘Wild-fire Preacher,’
Oh, it is a quick, leaping, overleaping, perilous fire, capable of
causing thee to spring out of the cool soberness of peace and wisdom,
as it were, into the very pit of perdition. Friend! beware! beware!
beware! Put thy heart into the hand of Almighty God. Oh, pray Him
fervently, most fervently to chastise it, and press it down, and
crush out of it this high-leaping and unruly fire! And the answer
in my spirit is—Yes. God shall so press down the life within thee;
so crush and control thy spirit by severe labour and discipline, by
passing the waters of affliction over thy had and by awaking deep
searching thoughts in thy own solitary heart, that this fire shall
be extinguished, and the solid ground of peaceful wisdom shall be
laid within thee, and thou shalt be made to experience the beauty of
holiness and the thoughts of him whose heart is stayed on God.”
Thorsby added that he himself had here broken down, and had wept
like a child, wept long and silently as they travelled on, and he
had prayed that every affliction might befall him which should arm
him with this blessed strength. His heart had been drawn to this old
Friend as to a father, and he had travelled on with him a fortnight,
attended his meetings, and seen with daily increasing wonder the
loving and single childlike simplicity and faith of this apostle of
the woods. It was with a violent effort that he had torn himself away
from him, and that he was now about to penetrate into the woods and
hills of Indiana.
It may be imagined what a consolation this letter was to Letty
Thorsby amid the dark days now lowering over her and her whole
family, and she, too, prayed that God would spare no correction to
her husband which would leave him sobered and strengthened into
permanent stability.
Spring was once more advancing, but to the afflicted family and
the prisoner at Castleborough it came only with anxious fears and
dreadfully depressed spirits. The Woodburns, collected together at
Letty’s, were very very low in heart; and Mr. Woodburn himself, as
time drew on, became very restless and desponding. He had borne up
well, and said very little about his case, except that it would be
all right. But as the time of trial approached and no new light
whatever had been cast on the mystery of Mr. Drury’s death, he began
to be very low too.
Sometimes, after sitting long in silence, he would suddenly seem to
wake out of a reverie, and say, “It is strange, very strange that
nothing turns up.” His family would say, “Very strange, indeed; but
we must trust in God.” And once or twice lately he had startled them
by saying, as if angrily, “Yes, trust in God, that is always the
word; but is there a God at all?”
The shock this gave them was dreadful. Ann exclaimed, “Oh, dear
father, don’t, don’t let go your faith in God! Think what mercies
He has shed on your whole life. Think on the love by which you
are surrounded, on the influential friends ready to do everything
possible for your defence.”
“If anything,” said Mr. Woodburn, “would make me doubt the truth
of Christianity, it is those very ready, flourishing promises that
it abounds in. ‘Whatever ye ask in my name, believing, ye shall
receive.’ ‘Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened;
ask, and it shall be given you.’ Now, have I not asked day after
day, in the name of Christ, that the truth might be revealed in
this case? Have I not sought, and knocked, and asked, and all to no
purpose?”
“But, dear father,” said Ann, in the greatest perturbation, “the time
is not yet over and past. Our time is not God’s time. He may wish to
try us all, and may solve the enigma even at the last moment.”
“It may be so,” said Mr. Woodburn, gloomily; “but what does it mean
where it says that if any man lose houses or land or wife or children
for Christ’s sake, he shall receive tenfold more in this world of
houses, land, and the rest of it, and in the world to come life
everlasting? Now, Ann, I have heard of thousands being ruined, and
even burnt and killed for Christ’s sake, but I never yet heard of one
who received tenfold property for what he lost. These things make one
believe the whole to be a cunningly devised fable. If the Gospels are
not true altogether, they may not be true at all.”
Ann sat and wept bitterly for a long time; then getting up and
throwing her arms round her father’s neck, and looking with her
streaming eyes into his face, she said, “Oh, father, if you let go
your faith in our dear Redeemer, you let go everything, and make us
all miserable beyond words. Wait, wait a little, and I feel sure all
will be well. For myself, I would rather lose life, liberty, fame,
everything, than my trust in God.”
“But why should God,” added Mr. Woodburn, “treat his servants worse
than the devil and the world treat theirs? I see continually those
who neither think nor care about religion flourishing like green bay
trees, and the good left to all sorts of troubles.”
“Oh, don’t talk in that manner!” exclaimed Ann. “Shall we expect
an eternity of good, and shall we shrink from a trial for a few
years? Shall we serve and trust in God only for selfish ends? Oh,
no, indeed; we do need refining by fire. But, dear father, your mind
and health are hurt by this confinement and suspense. But, I say,
and ever will say, ‘Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s
good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’ Remember God has an eternal
recompense to offer for all our sorrows here, but the devil and the
world have nothing to offer us after this little life.”
These moments of despair in Mr. Woodburn were the severest trial
of all to his disconsolate family. But the March assizes were at
hand, and the preparations which his friends were making for his
defence tended to occupy his mind and relieve his spirits. Sir Henry
Clavering never for a moment doubted of his instant and complete
acquittal, and his steady, cheerful views and active exertions acted
as a great solace to the Woodburns. He and George, assisted most
zealously by Simon Degge, Mr. Heritage, and Mr. Fairfax, had arranged
a considerable amount of evidence, which though it brought no nearer
to the light the real perpetrator of the murder, if it were one,
showed, they thought, sufficiently that no suspicion could fall on
Mr. Woodburn.
The assizes had at length arrived. Mr. Baron Garrow had arrived
and opened his commission. Mr. Woodburn’s case, as it occurred
immediately after the midsummer assizes, was the first on the
calendar. Vast was the excitement connected with it. The singular
mystery of the affair, the character and position of the prisoner,
were circumstances sure to awake a most lively interest. The town
was crowded by people from all parts of the country round, and the
county court was filled in a few minutes to repletion. Most of the
families of distinction of the county and town were in the galleries.
We will not go at great length into the details of the trial. Mr.
Sergeant Giffard was the counsel for the crown against Mr. Woodburn,
and he was defended by his old friend, Mr. Balguy of Derbyshire. Sir
Henry Clavering had entreated him to have other and very celebrated
counsel from London, but Mr. Woodburn steadily refused. He said, “No,
he had perfect reliance on his friend Balguy; though he practised
only as a provincial barrister, he was a man of the soundest
judgment, one who had known him all his life, and could speak
personally to his character. Besides, he would not have it imagined
for a moment that his case required the subtle lights and arts of a
brilliant oratory. He wanted merely a plain statement of plain facts.”
When Mr. Woodburn was brought in and placed in the dock, there was a
silence like death throughout the court. The sensation was profound.
He was attended by his son and Sir Henry Clavering, who were
accommodated at each side of the dock; so that they could encourage
him, and communicate for him with his counsel, seated just under him.
Mr. Woodburn looked calm, but somewhat pale, and his intelligent,
thoughtful, and amiable aspect was anything but that of a murderer.
“That man,” said many a lady to her friend near her, “never committed
a murder.” “No,” some gentleman replied, “one would not think it; but
one cannot tell what a growing animosity may stir a man to, in some
unguarded moment.”
The case was opened, the indictment read, and Mr. Serjeant Giffard
rose. He called first witnesses to show that there had been a
considerable and, as he termed it, a bitter feud betwixt the prisoner
and Mr. Drury; he proved the unguarded expressions of Mr. Woodburn
in the hay-field, and that the prisoner was the last man seen coming
from the ferry where Mr. Drury was found, as he said, in his blood.
In his address, which followed, he dwelt on these proofs of an animus
in Mr. Woodburn’s mind against Mr. Drury, and treated his words only
four days before the catastrophe as words of menace, or at least
of a wish to have Mr. Drury put away. The catastrophe following
on the immediate heels of these words, what could it be deemed but
the direct result of them? Then the fact that no amount of inquiry,
nor the offered reward of 300_l._, had been able to elicit a single
atom of evidence implicating any other person, must be held, in his
opinion, as most decisive. Why had no such evidence transpired? The
answer in his own mind, said the counsel, was that no such evidence
existed; and that the fair and damning inference was that the man,
who was known to have a standing feud with the murdered man; who had
uttered words of a vindictive and even minatory character; the man
who was last seen coming from the fatal spot, and that only just
before the discovery of the horrible circumstance, was the person
guilty of that deadly crime. He had wished the country might be
fortunately rid of the person so offensive to him, and there was the
finale. He dwelt especially on the fact, that no robbery had been
committed; it was clearly a case of vengeance in a mind where money
offered no temptation.
It was with a deep and breathless feeling that the spectators saw the
counsel for the defence rise. He observed that his learned friend
had galloped to a conclusion, for which there was not a single atom
of foundation. He had talked of a murder, yet there was no proof of
a murder. An unhappy accident in crossing the ferry; a fright on the
part of the horse, and a kick on the head of the unfortunate owner
as he stooped to pull the chain, would probably explain it all. Now
he had known Mr. Woodburn all his life from his school-days, and he
would pledge his whole character, conscience, and existence to the
jury, that Mr. Woodburn was as incapable of a murder as he was of
flying. No, he would not tread on a worm if he knew it. He would
call evidence to show that it was as improbable as it was, in fact,
impossible. His learned friend had talked of a feud betwixt Mr.
Woodburn and Mr. Drury. Why, this feud was of so mild a kind that
the only son of Mr. Woodburn was on the point at the moment of the
catastrophe of being married to the only daughter of Mr. Drury. His
learned friend had left it to be inferred that Mr. Woodburn was the
only man in the neighbourhood who felt any antagonism to Mr. Drury.
He would bring forward proofs that Mr. Drury had made many bitter
enemies, he would not say justly, but simply by the introduction
of new machines, and new fashions of farming, and by his active,
energetic, and, perhaps, somewhat peremptory and exacting character;
he had made those enemies amongst the lower and more ignorant class,
who were far more likely to commit an outrage in their revenge than
a gentleman of Mr. Woodburn’s well-known character—than a gentleman
whose family was on the very point of forming the most intimate ties
with the family of Mr. Drury. As to the question of crossing the
ferry, he would show that it was impossible that Mr. Woodburn could
have been present at the catastrophe, for he had witnesses to prove
that Mr. Drury did not leave the hay-meadow beyond the river till
nearly half an hour after Mr. Woodburn was seated quietly with his
family at tea in his own garden.
This last assertion produced an instant and evident sensation
throughout the whole place. The judge on the bench, with whom were
seated several noblemen and gentlemen of the county, the counsel
at the bar, the people throughout the court, were engaged in
conversation on it. There was a general buzz and murmur of voices
in the court, when the clerk of the arraigns called, “Silence!” and
Mr. Balguy began with his witnesses. He produced a number of farmers
of the neighbourhood, who declared that they had heard the severest
language of hatred used by their labourers against Mr. Drury, adding
they would not be in his shoes for a trifle. They said this was
not only on account of his using so much machinery, but on account
of his timing them, and docking their wages, and his slave-driving
way, as they called it. Many labourers were called who gave the same
evidence. Mr. Balguy then called several haymakers to show that Mr.
Woodburn’s words were, not that he wished something would fortunately
rid the country of Mr. Drury, but that some fortunate circumstance
would take him somewhere else. He next showed by the evidence of Mr.
Drury’s own bailiff, who was in the meadows when Mr. Drury left, that
it was half-past six o’clock by his watch, and then by the evidence
of George Woodburn and Betty Trapps that Mr. Woodburn entered the
house exactly as the old cuckoo clock in the hall struck six. That
the time of the bailiff and of the clock at Woodburn Grange agreed,
was also proved by the people of both farms going to and returning
from work at exactly the same hour, morning, noon and evening.
This evidence having been gone through, Mr. Balguy said that little
more was required. He would only remark that it was shown that there
were many persons in the neighbourhood hostile to Mr. Drury. That
Mr. Woodburn’s words in the hay-field were meant by him to express a
wish that some stewardship, such as his eminent agricultural talents
warranted, might call Mr. Drury from a neighbourhood where his views
were not favourably received. That was the “fortunate” circumstance
which Mr. Woodburn alluded to. Then, as he had shown by a complete
_alibi_ that Mr. Woodburn could not possibly be at Wink’s Ferry when
Mr. Drury lost his life, he contended first, that if that catastrophe
were a murder, it could not have been perpetrated by Mr. Woodburn;
and secondly, that it had yet to be shown that it was a murder at
all. He was, therefore, sure that the jury would acquit his client
instantly and entirely.
The judge in summing up, came to the same conclusion. It was,
he said, for the jury to decide, whether what had been shown to
be impossible, if the respectable evidence of Mr. Drury’s own
bailiff, and of the family of the prisoner as to time, was to be
believed, could be possible: for his own part he did not believe in
impossibilities. The jury consulted for a moment, and the foreman
arose and declared the unanimous verdict to be—NOT GUILTY!
The effect of these words was an instant burst of uproarious applause
throughout the court. Hats were waved violently; white handkerchiefs
were waved as actively; the friends of the prisoner were shaking
hands with one another, and rushing to shake hands with him, and all
the time the judge was looking half-menacingly, half-laughingly, and
saying something that nobody could hear, and the clerk of arraigns
was shouting “Order! order!” with all his might. Of course the judge
was trying to tell the offenders that if they did not keep quiet he
must order them into custody, which was such an excellent joke, the
offenders being the whole assembly, except a few of the Rockville and
Bullockshed clan, who looked dark and significant of dissent, that
old Baron Garrow, who dearly loved a joke, enjoyed the uproar as much
as any of them.
Sir Henry Clavering had slipped away by a private door from the
court, and run to carry the news to the family of Mr. Woodburn,
who were awaiting in direst anxiety the result of the trial. They
were standing at the window ready to catch the first sign of an
approaching messenger, when a triumphant wave of his hat made them
aware that all was right, and he rushed into the house to find
himself caught and embraced and kissed and wet all over with tears
of joy by every one there. Quickly came Sir Henry’s carriage,
bringing Mr. Woodburn and George. We must leave the reader to imagine
the scenes that followed. The husband and father stood amongst
them once more, freed from every charge or shadow of suspicion of
the odious crime imputed to him. That same evening a long train of
carriages was seen driving from Mrs. Thorsby’s house out of the town,
and taking the way towards Woodburn. There were those of Mr. Degge,
of Mr. Heritage, Mr. Fairfax, Sir Henry Clavering, and the worthy
Counsellor Balguy, as he was commonly called all through the Midland
Counties. The bells were ringing in the steeples of Castleborough,
and they were ringing at Cotmanhaye—Woodburn had no church—for Sir
Henry Clavering had previously arranged all that in a most liberal
manner, and that evening Mr. Woodburn stood once more under his own
roof a free and unblemished man. All through Woodburn flags and
garlands of evergreens, and shouting men, and women all tears and
smiles, had made the drive a triumph. When these accompanying friends
had taken their leave, and the happy family were left to themselves
as in some strange dream, Ann came and softly dropped on her knees by
her father, and taking his hand said, amidst tears of gladness—“Well,
dearest father, God’s time is come!”
Mr. Woodburn stooped and kissed her affectionately, and said, “True,
dear child, true—let us forget the hour and the power of darkness.
You are far wiser than I am.”
“No, dear father,” said Ann. “No—the truth is, you have been tried
far more than I have. But thank God that all this is over!”