AN ADVENT AND AN EXIT.
The visit of Elizabeth Drury at Woodburn Grange was a short time
of mutual endearment—one in which true souls and genial natures
recognise and draw near to each other. It would be difficult to say
which of the family came to love her most, or which of them she
came to love most; yet, if there was a deeper, more sympathetic
feeling, it was betwixt their guest and George and Ann. George
Woodburn looked on Elizabeth Drury as the perfect ideal of womanhood.
Her graceful and cheerful form, her bright and enjoying nature,
her clear intelligence and sunny spirits, were his increasing
admiration. Betwixt Ann and Miss Drury close and confidential
conversations revealed the kinship of their tastes, and their deep
aspirations after the same intellectual and sacred objects. They
made discoveries of thought and feeling which created in them a
sisterhood. But scarcely less did Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn and Letty
affectionately estimate their guest, or she them—the warm-heartedness
of Mrs. Woodburn, the sterling character of Mr. Woodburn, the joyous
impulsiveness of Letty.
Miss Drury pressed the two young ladies to pay her a visit of some
weeks in Yorkshire; and as soon as the corn-harvest was got in they
took their flight thither. Their reception was as glowingly kind as
it was possible to be. Elizabeth Drury and her father met them at the
next town, and drove them to Garnside Farm, their home, in one of the
beautiful dales for which that part of Yorkshire is famous. The house
was old but spacious, handsomely furnished, and surrounded by a large
garden. A great extent of barns and out-buildings near it, presented
almost the aspect of a village. A wide prospect along a broad valley,
through which ran a rapid and clear stream, and, over the valley,
of dark woods bounded by long azure hills or fells, was a constant
charm for the eye from the windows. Mr. Trant Drury was a tall,
gentlemanly, rather sparely-built man of middle age, always clad in
a blue lapelled coat with gilt buttons, a pale yellow kerseymere
striped waistcoat, cord small-clothes, and handsome top-boots. He was
energetic and somewhat impetuous in his manner, whilst Mrs. Drury,
a tall, slight woman, had something timid and over-gentle in hers.
Miss Drury was the same natural and loveable person as they had seen
her on her visit. She seemed to form a free and unconstrained medium
betwixt father and mother, where otherwise the mother might have sunk
into a mere automaton, obeying with a certain dread the dominant
temperament of her husband.
Mr. Drury was evidently a man full of the science and business of
his life. His bookcase displayed all the chief works on agriculture
and bucolics, from Virgil and Columella down to Tull, Kames, Arthur
Young, Sinclair, and the rest of the great georgic writers. His sheds
and waggon yards displayed all the varieties of modern machines
for facilitating the operations of rural culture. His barns and
cattle-houses, his stables, with their drainage and ventilations,
his threshing and winnowing, and chaff and turnip-cutting, his oat
and furze-bruising engines, his riding and team horses, herds of
Holderness cattle, and his flocks of mixed Cheviot and Merino sheep,
were all objects of a pride and interest that knew no bounds. The
Misses Woodburn, as the daughters of a gentleman farmer, must turn
out with him and visit them all. He very soon had them on foot all
over his farm, and pointed out his corn and grass lands, the evident
effects of his drainings on his higher lands and sluicings on his
meadows, his already-springing wheat, his exquisitely neat ploughing,
his turnips and beet-root. Elizabeth, ever at their side, endeavoured
to enliven their agricultural survey by, ever and anon, pointing out
some beauty of the landscape, or relating some amusing story of the
country people living around.
She proposed in a few days to make excursions to the celebrated
ruins and lovely scenery of Riveaux and Fountains Abbey; but in
these excursions Mr. Drury gave them his company, and was so zealous
in pointing out all the beauties or curiosities of the place,
that Elizabeth had repeatedly to remind her father that they were
ladies whom he was ciceroning, and could not follow him across
water-meadows, or through rough dingles without wet feet or torn
garments. But Mr. Drury was deaf to all such remonstrances. He
pooh-poohed the idea of people coming to see places of interest and
not seeing them. “Come along, girls,” he would say, seizing each
by an arm, “you must see this,” or “you must see that,” and he bore
them away rapidly over rocks or across brooks, or through meadows up
to the knees in wet grass. Miss Drury protested that he would give
his friends their deaths, and the young ladies themselves, finding
hesitation useless, made the best of the situation, followed, full
of laughter, and glowing with warmth, and on the principle of Walter
Scott, that—
“A summer night in greenwood spent
Is but to-morrow’s merriment.”
Elizabeth Drury had, before starting, however, warned them to take
with them dry stockings and shoes, and on returning to their inn they
found the wisdom of the precaution.
Time flew happily away at Garnside, and our young friends, at the
end of three weeks, returned to Woodburn, in raptures with their
Yorkshire visit; with redoubled attachment to Elizabeth Drury, and
with many amusing anecdotes of the _empressé_ temperament of Mr.
Drury, who was a high authority in the West Riding in all branches
of agricultural life and stock. He attended all meetings on such
topics, made speeches which were received with great respect, and
was consulted by gentlemen and noblemen on all questions of rural
economy. Yet, said they, his lease was on the point of expiring,
and Elizabeth had expressed a zealous wish that he might find a
farm somewhere in Nottinghamshire, not far from her new but beloved
friends. Mr. Drury had fallen in readily with the idea. He liked
the account of the country, as Elizabeth had given it to him, of
the people, and liked the idea of trying his skill on a new kind of
ground, and, perhaps, of introducing some proofs of it amongst a
fresh class and in a fresh field.
“That,” said Mr. Woodburn, “is a thing not so easy of accomplishment.
Farms in a fertile and pleasant neighbourhood like this, are not
easily picked up. There are generally ten candidates for any one farm
that falls out.”
The girls said thoughtfully that this was true.
“Well,” said George, who had listened markedly to this conversation,
“I don’t know that such a project is impracticable. I have been told
by Barrowclouch of Bilts’ Farm, that he would not object to dispose
of his lease to a responsible man who could pay the whole money down.”
“Did he say that?” asked Mr. Woodburn.
“He did,” said George, “for he has another farm in Leicestershire,
which he prefers; and he had no doubt that his landlady, who lives in
London, would accept a good responsible tenant of his recommendation
as direct holder of the lease, so that he might be himself freed from
all responsibility, without which he could not give up the farm.”
“Well, that is a chance, indeed,” said Mr. Woodburn. “I should not
have dreamed of such a thing.”
The ladies were in raptures at the prospect of having Elizabeth Drury
so near them. They proposed to write off at once to her, and tell her
of this opening.
“Not so fast,” said George, “let me see Barrowclouch, and know
whether he remains in the same mind. Men often talk of things when
they are not very definite or near, which they draw out of when the
thing is put nakedly before them.”
George rode up to Bilts’ Farm, made the inquiry, and returned,
saying that Barrowclouch stuck to his expressed intention, and Ann
was authorised to write to Elizabeth with the news. This was done;
a prompt reply brought the joyful assurance that her father was
delighted with the opportunity, and would in another week be at
Woodburn Grange to see the Farm. Great was the exultation in the
Woodburn family. All rejoiced in the prospect of having Elizabeth
so near, and Mr. Woodburn in the prospect of so accomplished an
agriculturist coming amongst them.
In the specified time Mr. Trant Drury made his appearance by coach
at Castleborough, where he was received by George and driven over to
Woodburn. His pleasure in the beauty and fertility of the country
was great. He thought it rather too much encumbered with wood and
hedges, but still it was a fine and, he was sure, a _responding_
country to the cultivator. Mr. Woodburn and George accompanied Mr.
Trant Drury to Bilts’ Farm. This farm lay on the ascending ground
betwixt Woodburn and Hillmartin. It was well cultivated, and all
the fences in good order. It consisted of three hundred acres, one
half in tillage and the other in pasture. The house was a large
red brick house, tall and square, standing at the western end of
a large square garden inclosed in a high brick wall. The house
occupied the greater portion of the western end, and within the
garden was a perfect retirement. Near the house were flower beds, but
the principal part of the garden was occupied with vegetables, with
espalier fruit-trees along the walks, and fruit-trees on the walls.
A summer-house in one corner offered a pleasant place for enjoyment
in fine weather, and, as appeared very common in that part of the
country, an upper room gave a view over the country round, which was
shut out below. There were extensive farm buildings near the house,
and a fine collection of hay and corn ricks, showing the abundant
produce of the land. A few very tall and large oak trees grew about
near the house and farm-yard, but in general the farm was rather
naked of wood, and had unobstructed view of its finely ploughed
lands on its slopes, and flocks and herds tranquilly grazing in its
pastures.
Farmer Barrowclouch received the gentlemen in a straightforward way.
Took them over the house, the garden, the buildings, the land. Showed
the drainage to be good; stated how many quarters of corn it would
produce per acre, how many tons of hay, how many sheep or cattle it
would graze; and detailed the chief principles of his management.
Mr. Drury, like a good man of business, who was about to make a
bargain, did not attempt to depreciate the farm, its situation, or
its produce, but was careful not to express any decided enthusiasm
about it. He said he would candidly avow that he thought it a good
workable farm; and proceeded at once to ask what Mr. Barrowclouch
expected as good-will, and what was the rental, as well as the rates
and taxes. All these particulars being given and entered by him in
his note-book, he took a day or two to reflect on the subject, and
they made their adieus. This day or two was spent at Mr. Drury’s
desire in riding about with George or Mr. Woodburn, or both, to
see the general condition of the farms around. Mr. Drury then paid
a visit alone to Mr. Barrowclouch, where, like an able negotiant,
he battled out the terms with him, and returned saying that he had
agreed to take and enter on the farm at Lady-day. The memorandum
of agreement was drawn up and mutually signed, and a more formal
one would be sent him from Mr. Barrowclouch’s solicitor. In the
meantime Mr. Barrowclouch would endeavour to procure the consent of
his landlady to receive Mr. Drury as sole holder of the lease—the
agreement being contingent on this circumstance. They had, he said,
settled the amount of good-will, and had formed a general idea of the
value of the crops in the ground to be taken at Lady-day, subject to
their then condition: and a valuer for each party and umpire were to
be agreed upon. These contingencies falling out favourably, which
he quite expected, they would see him at Bilts’ Farm at Lady-day.
Much satisfaction was felt and expressed both at Woodburn Grange
and Garnside Farm, and we may leave these affairs thus well and
prospectively arranged, to note one or two other events of the
interim.
During the later autumn months, Henry Clavering said that his father
was far from being right. He had ceased to take interest in his
observatory, had not once gone out with his gun, was busy amongst his
papers, and, though apparently cheerful, had a sort of shadow on his
countenance that he did not like. He had wished him to consult Dr.
Leroy, but he said, “Why should I? nothing ails me.” Henry Clavering
had, however, asked Dr. Leroy to come and dine with them, and then
said, before his father, that he did not think his father was quite
well. He wished he would have a little conversation with Sir Emanuel.
“What nonsense!” said Sir Emanuel; “I never was better. In good
spirits, indeed, I am not. Who can be, in this hangman weather, with
the air charged with vapour, with the heaviest atmospheric pressure,
and the watery clouds lying almost on the ground? In a gloom of
Cimmeria itself—how can one be bright?”
Dr. Leroy, however, talked cheerfully with Sir Emanuel about his
health; felt his pulse,—said it was rather sluggish, but that there
was no organic mischief that he could perceive, but recommended
cheerful society, and everything that exhilarated the spirits. To
Henry he remarked afterwards that he must not say a word to lower
the tone of Sir Emanuel’s spirits, but that he must say to himself
privately that there was a tendency in his father to that mysterious
condition called a breaking-up, which required nothing so much as a
cordial and pleasant tone of life around the patient. His father,
certainly, had no specific disease—but at the same time he certainly
was not well. Mr. Clavering said that was precisely his own idea, and
he engaged Dr. Leroy to come up often, as if coming to see and chat
with himself, so that he might judge of his father’s actual state.
Whenever asked about his father at Woodburn Grange, Henry Clavering
said he could not say that he was well; he could not say, from time
to time, that he was so well as he had been. He perceived in him
a gradual decline of activity and good spirits, yet he would not
confess to any ailment. It made him very melancholy.
In mid-winter, and at midnight, and such a midnight!—the winds
roaring and tearing furiously through the trees, snow driving
thickly before the tyrannous blast, darkness profound adding to the
bewildering effect of the whirling pother of the snow-flakes,—there
was a loud ringing at the lodge-gate of Fair Manor. Sylvanus Crook
looked out of his chamber window, half stifled by the blast that
rushed in upon him, and demanded who was there.
“Mr. Clavering,” said the well known voice of Henry Clavering. “Call
up Mrs. Heritage, I must see her. It is a case of life and death.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Sylvanus, quickly shutting the window.
In a very little time he had the gates open, and told the coachman to
drive in.
“The family have been in bed two hours,” said Sylvanus: “but
they will soon hear,” stoutly pulling a bell at the door which
communicated with the upper storey of the house.
“I am afraid we shall greatly alarm them,” said Henry Clavering, in a
mournful tone.
“No,” said Sylvanus, “no; such calls are not unfrequent here. My
mistress will understand it.”
Very quickly there was a casement open, and a voice asked what was
wanted.
“Henry Clavering desires to see our mistress,” said Sylvanus.
“I will open the door,” said the voice, and in a very little time,
the great front door was thrown open, and a servant appeared with a
light. It was the tall prim form of Sukey Priddo, the housekeeper.
“Oh! do come in, Mr. Clavering!” she said, as she stood guarding the
lamp from the furious wind that swept in the wild surges of the snow.
“What a night for any mortal to be out in.”
“And yet I must ask Mrs. Heritage to venture into it,” said Mr.
Clavering.
“She will soon be ready,” said Mrs. Priddo, as a matter of course,
leading the way into a large but very plainly-furnished room. She
then took Mr. Clavering’s cloak, which in the brief moment of
leaving the carriage, and mounting the stairs, was covered with a
white load. This she gave to another servant to shake out, and then
breaking up a large coal on the fire, called the “raking-coal” in
that part of the country, and which is put on to burn slowly through
the night, she immediately set on a small kettle to boil water for
coffee. In a few minutes a tray with tea-cups was set on the table,
and soon after Mrs. Heritage entered, wrapped in a thick cloak, and
with a black quilted hood on her head. As she advanced to take the
hand of Henry Clavering, he was struck with her resemblance to some
handsome middle-aged abbess, her fine, solemn, but kindly features,
showing with a monastic gravity and grace within her hood.
“I fear thou bringest us but indifferent tidings of thy dear father’s
health,” she said, most sympathetically. Henry found himself unable
to reply, but sat down, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed
violently.
“We must not grieve too much,” said Mrs. Heritage; “all things
are in our Father’s hand, and are surely for the best. He does
not afflict us willingly, and he afflicts us only to instruct and
improve. Let me give thee a cup of coffee; we must not delay.”
She handed a cup of warm coffee to Henry, which he took and held
mechanically. “Drink it, dear friend,” she said, “it will do thee
good on our way,” and ringing the bell, she said, taking up another
cup and handing it to the servant, “give that to the coachman: poor
man, what a night for him.”
“And what a night for you!” said Henry Clavering. “How can I ask you
to brave such a night? and yet your presence would be such a comfort
to my dear father.”
“Dear friend,” said Mrs. Heritage, smiling tenderly, “it is what our
dear Lord expects of us. In life or in death, it is our duty and our
privilege to follow Him. Now, shall we go?”
Henry Clavering had set down his cup of coffee untasted. Mrs.
Heritage, however, compelled him to take it, and having taken one
herself, and tied a warm woollen handkerchief around her throat, she
led the way to the door. Henry Clavering gave her his arm down the
steps, where Sylvanus Crook stood with the carriage-door in his hand
ready to open it and shut them in, looking more like a pillar of snow
than a man, and the coachman on his seat, looking a living snow-pile.
Silently rolled the carriage away through the mass of snow, and with
difficulty hitting the gateway, disappeared beyond. The story of that
drive of only two miles, if related at full, would leave only the
wonder that it was accomplished at all. Darkness, deep snowdrifts,
that blew down across the way, and the blinding, bewildering effect
of the snowstorm, amid the roar and fury of the winds, made every
step one of the highest daring, peril, and difficulty. Repeatedly
Henry Clavering had to get out, and assist the coachman in forcing
his way through some huge track of snow, or in rounding the extremity
of some fallen tree, without overturning into a ditch or down some
steep descent. But through all Mrs. Heritage sate calm and resigned,
expressing no care on her own account, but much concern for Henry
Clavering, the coachman, and the poor horses.
At length the terrible journey was completed, and Mrs. Heritage,
taking off her upper garments, was conducted by Henry Clavering
to his father’s chamber. The whole household was up, and wearing
the solemn aspect, and moving about with the silent steps, of
those who seem to feel that the angel of death is amongst them. As
they ascended the ample staircase, hung with the portraits of the
ancestors of five hundred years, and embellished with steel casques
of rare workmanship, supported on consoles, and suits of ancient,
dusky, or more recent and brightly burnished armour, richly inlaid
with gold—suits borne valiantly by their owners in fields renowned in
English history, the grave Friend said to herself, “No, not all these
things can detain those whom the Lord calls. These all, in their
places, tell the tale of departures.”
The next moment her conductor opened softly a chamber door and
as softly closed it after her. He led her forward through the
dimly-lighted room to the bed in which lay Sir Emanuel Clavering,
pale and wasted, but with a bright eye which turned towards her,
watching earnestly her approach, and as she drew near extending his
hand to grasp hers. Around were several relatives, whom Mrs. Heritage
did not particularly notice.
“How kind, how very kind,” he said, warmly clasping her hand. “I
could not leave, without seeing you. How very kind to come at such an
hour.” His son had fallen on his knees by the bed, and laying his
clasped hands on his father’s arm pressed his face against it. In a
chair close to the bedhead Mrs. Heritage perceived Thomas Clavering,
Sir Emanuel’s brother, the rector, who rose up, took the left hand
of Mrs. Heritage, pressed it to his lips passionately, and sat down
again without a word.
“Give Mrs. Heritage a chair,” said Sir Emanuel; “I want to talk to
her a little.” The rector gave her his chair with a rapid courtesy,
and fell on his knees by his nephew.
“I did so long for you, dear Mrs. Heritage,” said Sir Emanuel. “I
wanted to say that your good wishes for me and labour with me, I
trust, are not quite thrown away. I have thought much and deeply on
all that you have said. Yes, truly this is a world in which gigantic
difficulties present themselves to our reason. I cannot surmount
those difficulties, but I have resolved to leave them. How can I or
any man fathom the depths of the Infinite? It is vain—it is foolish
to expect it—we will leave the illimitable to clear itself up in the
illimitable of existence.”
“Thou dost well,” said Mrs. Heritage.
“It is true, dear madam—it is true that as all visible things are
slipping away—as the foundations of this existence are sinking
beneath me, I feel the want of some hand to lay hold on; some power
to bear me up and save me. My nature calls for a saviour—and it is
only in the Saviour you have so often pointed out to me that I find
what my soul craves. They are the divine assurances which He gives
in the Gospel that alone meet the demands of my inner being. But oh!
my dear friend, can I hope to receive the gracious acceptance of Him
whom I have through the whole of a proud life rejected and refused to
believe necessary.”
Mrs. Heritage took from her pocket a small New Testament, and read
the parable of the Prodigal Son. Then laying down the book on the
bed, she said: “Dear friend—dear brother, thou hast had the divine
answer of our blessed Redeemer. It is only the narrowness of our
conceptions, the coldness of our hearts, that render doubtful the
offer of Almighty Love. He who sent down His only Son to seek and
save sinners; He who came down to convince them by His death of the
infinity of love; He who said, ‘If thy brother sin against thee not
seventy, but seventy times seven, forgive him,’ shall He not forgive
more abundantly? ‘Fear not little flock, for it is the Father’s good
pleasure to give you the kingdom.’” Then laying aside her hood, she
softly sunk on her knees, and in her plain muslin cap, and with an
uplifted, and as it seemed, glorified countenance, as her hand still
retained that of the dying man, she said,—
“Oh, dear Father, receive this dear son to Thy love and Thy eternal
peace. It is Thou who hast raised in his soul the cry for Thy help
and forgiveness. It is Thou who hast winged his soul with fears that
he might the more eagerly fly to Thy divine arms. It is Thou who hast
shown him the emptiness of earth, the fathomless gulf of absence from
Thee—the alone eternal and substantial foundation of all life. All
these are the calls of Thy measureless affection for Thy repentant
creature. And now, O Lord! let the mantle of Thy peace, the living
spirit of Thy consolation, fall on his heart. Into the mansions of
the glorified, into the assembly of the spirits of just men made
perfect, receive his tendered and regenerated soul. Amen!”
“Amen!” said the quivering voice of the rector. “Amen!” said the
faint voice of the dying man. The ministering Friend, as she still
continued on her knees, felt a short, quick tremor of the hand still
in hers. She arose, stood calm and stately, and said, “All is well
with our dear brother, he has entered into peace, now and for ever.
Blessed be the Lord!”
The two relatives knew the meaning of those words, and the tears
gushed forth in fresh torrents. Mrs. Heritage sat still and prayerful
by them. She knew that words were useless, but that the sympathy of a
loving friend was felt in such an hour. She did not leave the house
of mourning till the next morning, but assisted Mrs. Thomas Clavering
in making all the arrangements necessary on so solemn an occasion.
“I knew he would not be long,” said Mrs. Clavering, “for a few weeks
ago he said one Sunday morning, ‘Let everybody go to church.’ Such a
thing he had never said in his life before.”
As Mrs. Heritage drove home, the storm had spent itself. The covering
of snow lay deep over the landscape, and glittered in the pale
sunbeams falling from a sky of deep and cloudless blue. There were
tremendous drifts of snow which lay across her way, and fantastic
wreaths swept down from the hedges which formed caves and twisted
pillars of the radiant substance. But Mr. Heritage had despatched men
with spades to cut a way for the carriage through the drifts, and had
thus made the return easy through the hushed and reposing scene, in
keeping with the solemn tone of Mrs. Heritage’s feelings.