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WOODBURN GRANGE.
WOODBURN GRANGE.
A Story of English Country Life.
BY
WILLIAM HOWITT.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
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 CLAVERINGS AND HERITAGES 1
II.—A WILD GALLOP 21
III.—AN ADVENT AND AN EXIT 50
IV.—LETTY’S WEDDING 77
V.—MILLICENT HERITAGE AT THE YEARLY MEETING 106
VI.—WHAT CAME OF MILLICENT’S VISIT 144
VII.—THORSBY’S FALL AND CONVERSION 182
VIII.—WORSE AND WORSE WITH HARRY THORSBY 219
IX.—ALL WRONG AT WOODBURN 255
X.—WOODBURN AND ROCKVILLE AT WAR 291
WOODBURN GRANGE.
CHAPTER I.
THE CLAVERINGS AND HERITAGES.
On the morning after the frolic on the island, as the young friends
called it, when the breakfast was over, where the merriment of the
affair, and the return of Henry Clavering had been discussed, and the
ladies were left to themselves, topics were introduced which belonged
only to the initiated, that is, to the womenkind.
“How well Mr. Clavering looks,” said Mrs. Woodburn, “and how kind and
amiable he is. What a joy it is to George to have him back again, and
you, Ann?”
“Oh! I am very glad indeed that he is come back; poor Sir Emanuel
must have been so lonely by himself up in that great house.”
“True,” said Mrs. Woodburn. “But you, Ann? Has he altered his
opinions at all?”
Ann shook her head, the tears started to her eyes, and she said, “No,
dear mother, he is just the same; it is very sad.”
“It is sad,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “but let us wait God’s time, my dear
child; I will still hope that so excellent a young man, with such
sense and such a heart, must come right at last.”
Ann again shook her head, and said, sorrowfully, “I don’t know; pray
God it may be so,” and went on with her sewing.
As a conversation between Mr. Clavering and Miss Woodburn happened
to come to my ear, as it does so often come, by means of the
little bird which carries so many arcana to authorly ears, I may
throw a little light on the mysterious words of Mrs. Woodburn and
her daughter. For a long time there had been a strong and tender
attachment betwixt Henry Clavering and Ann Woodburn. Mr. Clavering,
George’s old schoolfellow, and almost constant companion since, had
been most intimate at Woodburn Grange. The whole family loved and
admired him, for his sound sense, high moral feeling, and unassuming
kindly disposition. The attachment betwixt Ann and him had grown
up almost insensibly. He made a direct offer to Ann, and this was
warmly seconded by every one of her family. Independently of the
splendid fortune and title which Mr. Clavering would inherit, and the
fortunate nearness of his abode, no woman could expect to find in a
husband a more agreeable person, a more rich possessor of moral and
intellectual endowments and qualities. What, then, stood in the way?
There was an obstacle, to Ann’s religious and conscientious nature,
which in her opinion was insurmountable. Mr. Clavering had no faith
in Christianity: he had but a doubtful one in the existence of man
after death.
Sir Emanuel Clavering, as we have seen, was accredited in the mind
of the common people round with the practice of the black art. For
that, of course, there was no foundation; but as there cannot well be
smoke where there is no fire, there was a certain foundation for this
notion. Sir Emanuel, in the ardent pursuit of astronomical science,
had acquired the most profound idea of the wondrous construction and
illimitable extent of the universe. That it was produced and upheld
in such beautiful order by some great invisible power co-extensive
with itself, he could not doubt; but he felt an invincible difficulty
in imagining that this could be any living being. He believed
it rather to be an intelligent principle or force producing all
things—the soul, as it were, of all visible creation. In a word,
he was what we understand by a Pantheist. If there were a God, he
conceived it must be a sentient principle rather than a concentrated
mind, inhabiting some localised vehicle perceptible even to spiritual
beings, if there were such. It was to him something illimitable,
unapproachable, incomprehensible: the infinite, impossible to be
conceived of, or perceived by the finite. For these reasons, he
disbelieved the whole narrative of God taking a human form and coming
down and dying for mankind.
Mrs. Heritage, deeply grieved at such notions in a man otherwise
excellent and so agreeable, had felt herself drawn to meet him, and
reason with him on this head. Admitting that the infinite must be
incomprehensible to the finite, she asked him if he could understand
his own existence? Yet he did exist, and so did God. Had no such
scheme as this earth, and of human beings living in so complicated a
machine of flesh, blood, nerves, and their sensations, supported by
vegetables converted by digestive process into this flesh and blood;
of the growth of all animals, and of man himself; of all vegetables,
of the mightiest trees, with all their varied and delicious fruits
and essences—not been exhibited to intellectual beings capable of
observing it, she urged that such beings could by no possibility have
conceived the idea of so marvellous a creation.
Sir Emanuel admitted the force of her arguments, and thanked her
most warmly for presenting them to his mind, but he could by no
means bring himself to believe, amidst the myriads of worlds which
the telescope revealed to the eye—far as its powers could open up
the inconceivable distances of the heavens—that God could condescend
to come down to this one little planet, and take upon himself the
weaknesses and inconveniences of humanity, and be insulted and killed
by his own creatures. It revolted, he said, the totality of his
reason.
Mrs. Heritage reminded him that he had just admitted that everything
around him was beyond the grasp of reason, and he ought to content
himself with the unquestionable facts of a thoroughly authenticated
history.
Sir Emanuel smiled, and said that he must think of that part of the
subject, and concluded the conversation by thanking Mrs. Heritage,
and asking her to go and look at some American deer that he had just
received from the United States. Mrs. Heritage often afterwards
renewed the conversation with Sir Emanuel, and he had always received
her remarks in the kindest and most courteous manner, but remained
apparently as fixed in his old views as ever. In these views Henry
Clavering, his only son, had grown up. They had never been expressly
taught him by his father, but he had listened to conversations on
these topics so often, and had such respect for the talents and
honourable nature of his father, whilst his mother had been lost to
him when very young, that these ideas were to him as part of his
mental constitution.
It was this knowledge that had been Ann Woodburn’s stumbling-block
and most painful trial. Loving Mr. Clavering with all the strength of
her deeply-feeling nature, she could not bring herself to contemplate
an alliance with a man who was not a Christian, whatever else he
might be. Oh, many a long and deep struggle it had occasioned her;
many a restless and sleepless night; many a sorrowful, miserable
day. Sometimes her agony rose to such desperation that she had
locked herself in her bedroom and flung herself on the floor, and
rolled there in a frenzy of grief. All her eloquence had been used
to induce Henry Clavering to read works of our great divines on the
subject; all the arguments with which they had furnished her she had
zealously urged on him; but without any effect but that of making him
as wretched as herself. He told her that most gladly would he be
convinced, most earnestly he wished that he could think as she did;
but he could not, and would not conceal from her the truth. After
long endeavours and waitings on the part of Ann, and a state of mind
most wearing to Mr. Clavering himself, Ann had told him that she felt
that she never could consent to a union whilst their opinion on so
vital a point remained as they were and though to her it was like
dividing soul and body, she would not remain a tie upon him; she left
him free as the winds to choose some more fortunate and, as he might
think, more reasonable woman.
To this proposal Henry Clavering would not listen. “No,” said he, “my
dearest Ann, I cannot change my heart and soul at pleasure. With you
or with no one must I unite my life. I feel the greatness of your
self-sacrifice, but it is not in your power to set me free. I am what
I am, and must be. My love for you is rooted into the deepest region
of my heart—neither you nor I can tear it out at will. I will wait
for you as long as you like—and you or I may change.”
Sir Emanuel Clavering had seconded the proposal of his son with the
most zealous advocacy. He said he rejoiced at the idea of seeing
Cotmanhaye Manor lit up and warmed and graced by such a mistress. He
told Ann that she must not make herself and Henry wretched by silly
scruples. They were both as good as they could be, and they might
well leave all the rest to the winding-up of time. But then Sir
Emanuel let slip a word which would have spoiled all had there been
any chance of Ann’s acquiescence.
“Come,” said he, “dismiss any more girlish fancies; let me see you my
dear daughter-in-law, and at Cotmanhaye we will make you as pretty a
little infidel as can be wished.”
“God forbid!” said Ann, shuddering; and these words sunk deep into
her soul. She travelled on in thought to the time when she might be
the mother of precious children, and the idea of their growing up in
such an atmosphere of infidelity made her resolve irrevocable. In
vain had Henry Clavering assured her that in the event of a family,
she should indoctrinate the children as she pleased. Not a word from
him, and he thought he might answer for his father, should ever be
let fall to mar her maternal counsels.
“But,” said Ann, “you would not even say one word which should accord
with my teachings, and what a predicament for the quick sagacity of
childhood!”
Such was the state of things which had induced Henry Clavering to go
abroad, and had made him a wanderer through far countries for two
years. It was this which had made Ann Woodburn, however outwardly
calm and occasionally smiling, inwardly sad and anxious, and had
deepened with a proportionate force her religious feelings. As the
party of young people walked home in the evening of yesterday through
the woods, Mr. Clavering had gradually fallen behind with Ann,
and, taking her hand affectionately, had said, with a tone full of
feeling:—
“What news, my dear Ann? Have your scruples vanished? May we hope for
better days?”
“No, dear Henry,” replied Ann, sorrowfully. “My scruples, as you call
them, can never leave me; and I fear from your question that your
views have undergone no change.”
“I must confess,” said Mr. Clavering, “that they have not.”
“Then,” said Ann, after a long silence, “let us not renew that
subject. Let us leave it to God. But I say again, Henry, why should
you waste your existence in useless regrets and unrequited affections
for such a simple country maiden as me, when a brilliant world is
open to you, and so many fitter and livelier companions within the
scope of your choice? I do not say, forget me—let us be friends; but,
be free from all thought of me.”
Henry Clavering held affectionately her hand, and they walked on in
silence; but he felt that hand quiver, and saw that she trembled
violently.
“Well, let us leave this topic,” he said, “at least for the present.
I shall not make you miserable. We will still look onward, and hope.”
Ann Woodburn gave him a look of most loving thankfulness, wiped her
tears from her face, and they went on, hand in hand, in silence
till they came up with their companions. Let us now return to the
conversation of the mother and daughters at the Grange.
“I think,” said Letty, looking rather knowingly, “that ‘the course of
true love’ really seldom does run smooth.”
“Yours, Letty, I think, runs smooth enough,” said Ann, brightening
up. “Really, it is not for you to say that, with Mr. Thorsby’s
declaration and your worthy parents’ consent given but yesterday.”
“Oh!” said Letty, blushing and looking very happy, “I was not
thinking of myself, but of Millicent Heritage.”
“Of Millicent Heritage!” exclaimed her mother and sister; “why, what
of her?”
“I am sure,” continued Ann, “Dr. Leroy is over head and ears in love
with her. Never did I see a young man’s eyes always resting with
such affectionate expression on any one as his do on Miss Heritage;
and really she seems very fond of him; and a most accomplished and
amiable man he is.”
“True, all true,” said Letty, taking a folded paper from her pocket.
“I told you I would read you a bit of Miss Heritage’s poetry; and
when you have heard it—well, then you can judge. This poem was given
to Miss Drury by Millicent, and she has allowed me to copy it.”
“Oh, let us have it!” said both the ladies, “we never heard a line of
Quaker poetry—not even that Mr. Moon’s you mentioned.”
“Moon James,” said Letty; “but now—” she began—
COME TO ME.
Come to me, loved one, from thy heaven descending,
Come to me softly, with the falling dews;
Come when the shadows and the lights are blending,
And the heart fondly all its past renews.
Come to me, loved one,
As I sit and muse.
Come to me in the hushed, dark midnight hour,
Fall with thy spirit gladness on my heart,
Let me embrace thee in the deathless power
Of that which once cemented cannot part.
Come to me, loved one,—
Spirit though thou art.
Come to me, loved one, when the breeze is sighing,
And the far sky shines with a lonely light;
Where loving lips to loving words replying,
Make even this cloudy world divinely light.
Come to me, loved one,
Let our souls unite!
For I would live, and love, and ever be
A part of that, and those, the sacred few,
With whom my heart has grown in such degree
Of deep endearment as the heavens renew.
Come to me, loved one,
Say—the dead are true.
Come, when the days are dark, the storms are raving,
When friends are passing, and the heart is low,
Come, when the soul is sick, and inly craving
For what it hopes and dreams and fain would know.
Come to me, loved one,
In thy star-like glow.
Come in God’s freedom of the souls set free;
No startling touch, no vision dread be mine—
Enfold me in thy presence—let me be
Soul of thy soul in all its life divine.
Come to me, loved one,
Whisper—thine, still thine!
“Is that Miss Heritage’s?” asked Mrs. Woodburn. “Is it really? I did
not think so much was in her. It is rather lugubrious; but for so
young a girl, there is stuff in it.”
“But you know, father says these Quakers are extraordinary people,”
said Letty. “You don’t know all at once what is in them.”
“It is very good,” said Ann. “I should like a copy of it. It is much
better, I undertake to say, than that Mr. Moon’s.”
“Moon James,” reiterated Letty, “but, as mother says, a little
lugubrious, and reminds me of that ‘sentimental’ Miss Bailey, who
says she does so love melancholy subjects.”
“And who,” asked Mrs. Woodburn, “can this apostrophised beloved one
be? A mere girl’s fancy, I expect.”
“No,” said Letty; “Miss Drury says it was some young fellow of a
cousin who got drowned in the Trent when he was about eighteen,
bathing. I wonder what Dr. Leroy would say to this poem?”
“He would not mind,” said Mrs. Woodburn. “Miss Heritage is not
likely to pine in reality after a youth drowned years ago, with such
a good-looking and clever lover as Dr. Frank Leroy. Perhaps it was
a good thing the lad did get drowned. These Friends make too many
cousin-marriages.”
“Dear mother!” exclaimed both the daughters, “would you drown off the
young Friends who were in danger of marrying cousins?”
“No, no,” replied Mrs. Woodburn, laughing, “not so bad as that; I
would only send such mischievous young fellows to Botany Bay.”
With a burst of good-natured merriment at Mrs. Woodburn’s proposal
for curing Quaker cousin-marriages, the conversation ended, Mrs.
Woodburn going away to her household duties, and Letty to copy her
poem.
We have now given a pretty full picture of the life at Woodburn
Grange, and a few glimpses into Friend life, as it was then. The
reader, no doubt, thinks with us, that it is about time that our
story marched at something more than a goose-step, with which I
fully accord, and shall set forward with it accordingly after one
more observation. Many readers, accustomed only to the measured
manners betwixt masters and mistresses and domestic servants of
to-day, and especially in towns, will probably think the free and
often very personal speech of Betty Trapps out of nature, or, at
least, out of place. Those who lived then in the country, perhaps
some living there now, will recollect female servants who were
quite as free-spoken and as brusquely-unflattering as Betty Trapps,
and who, nevertheless, lived their twenty and thirty years in a
family. Their industry, fidelity, and attachment to the family
which they served, made a grand set-off against their unceremonious
freedom. Such servants were not only tolerated but greatly valued,
and it would have been a severe trial to part with them. A sort of
relationship, approaching to kinship, seemed to grow up with such
long and free service, and many of the old servants came to be
called by the name of the family they lived in. Very probably Betty
Trapps was often called in the village and neighbourhood, Betty at
Woodburns’, and, at length, Betty Woodburn. One such Betty I knew,
who used to hunt us children up, wash us, and pack us off to the
village school. I should never forget her, were it only for rubbing
my nose so hardly and crumplingly with the napkin after washing me.
But I remember her still more for many a kind office, many a token
of affection, many an absorbing story as we sate round the great
blazing wood fire in the house-place of a winter’s evening, and Betty
travelled back amongst the days and acquaintance of her youth, and
found things that were to her still “very cutting,” and which we yet
called for again and again.