LETTY’S WEDDING.
The wild, tempestuous weather, which attended the death of Sir
Emanuel Clavering, renewed itself at his funeral. In the interval
betwixt these events there had been calm, clear days. The snow
lay white and dazzling over the whole landscape; the nights were
brilliant with stars, which seemed to derive double lustre from the
frost. The funeral of Sir Emanuel took place in the little church
just by, and was conducted by a neighbouring clergyman, a friend of
the rector’s. None were invited but the immediate relatives, and the
tenants, who received a notice that their presence at the church
would be regarded as a mark of respect. But in the middle of the
night preceding the day of the funeral, the wind again rose, snow
began to fall, and the two elements seemed as if they had concerted
to make the scene as miserable as possible. The winds raged, the
snow fell, and drove as in a riotous madness. A stupendous ash-tree
on the lawn, under which Sir Emanuel had been fond of sitting and
reading, was blown down; the windows of his observatory on the hill,
on the north side were driven in, and a small turret on the house, in
which he kept piles of papers, fell inwards, and buried them. It was
necessary to cut a way from the hall door to the church door, through
the deep snows, amidst which six stout yeomen bore the coffin,
staggering in the howling, tossing winds. Such was the war of the
storm in the trees about the church and the rector’s house, that the
voice of the clergyman could scarcely be heard as he read the burial
service. The tenants, who came from some distance, gained their homes
with much difficulty. For three or four days the weather continued
its riotous character, and a winter of unremittent severity followed.
The snows covered the hedges of the fields so completely that, when
hard frozen, people walked over them as on a highway. Great numbers
of sheep were lost in the mountain districts, and many people in
different parts of the kingdom perished on heaths and moors amid the
snows. Farmers were at their wits’-end for food for their cattle,
which had all to be kept up. Alternate thaws and frosts hung from the
eaves of buildings icicles a yard or more long, and a sudden frost
following on driving rain, froze the wings of birds to their bodies,
and in that condition incalculable numbers were seized and destroyed.
The spring was late in coming, and was attended by floods, doing
immense damage in their headlong course.
Such an outburst of weather at the death and funeral of Sir Emanuel
Clavering was certain to excite in the imagination of the country
people round the most awful ideas of the mortal exit of a man who
had acquired so mysterious a reputation. It is a favourite idea that
tempests of a fearful character often attend the departure of men
remarkable for their daring deeds in life—deeds not very scrupulous
regarding the rights or lives of men. Such was the case at the
deaths of Cromwell and many other great innovators or troublers of
the earth. The people believe that the great enemy of mankind thus
comes to signalise the departure of those who have been his devoted
servants on a large scale. The country people about Cotmanhaye,
and far around, did Sir Emanuel the honour of classing him with
this satanically distinguished tribe, though they could point to no
actions but such as were kindly and benevolent.
But the black art was ample enough, in their opinions, for any
disturbances of nature, and this they firmly believed that he had
practised. The driving in of his observatory windows, the fall of
the little turret where he kept his mysterious papers, were facts
of a significance not to be withstood. They did not take into their
consideration that this tempestuous and severe winter extended far
beyond any influence or knowledge of Sir Emanuel—that it extended,
indeed, not only over the whole kingdom, but over the whole of
Europe. _Their_ knowledge and experience lay only within a very
minute circle; but then Sir Emanuel died, and those furious elements
battled over his dying head. That was enough. Many were the stories,
by the cottage and the village inn firesides, of the horrors of that
night at Cotmanhaye Manor. Of the strange sights, strange sounds,
burning blue of the fire-flames, the howling of dogs, and the strange
neighing of horses in the turmoil of the winds.
It was said that all the clergy had been collected for miles round
to endeavour to lay the devil, and prevent him seizing on his
victim—the only clergyman present being poor, dear Thomas Clavering,
who was too much overwhelmed with grief to be able to articulate more
than a few words of affection, and of confidence in the love and
merits of the Saviour. It was said that Mrs. Heritage had been sent
for when all the efforts of the clergy failed, and that in the midst
of her prayers the turret fell, the observatory windows flew shivered
to atoms, and then all was still. The devil had thus gone off in a
fury of disappointment. All remembered the calm, clear weather that
attended this good woman back, and which lasted till the funeral,
when it broke out again, and raged on for days and weeks. Not all
the reasonings of a Bacon, or the eloquence of a Chatham, could have
driven from the minds of the rural population the fixed idea that
Sir Emanuel had been accustomed to practices of an awful character,
or that the pre-eminent piety of Mrs. Heritage had most signally
triumphed over the Prince of Darkness. For twenty years after, the
grand epoch of all relative dates was the hard winter when Sir
Emanuel Clavering died.
In the little circle of Woodburn his departure left another gap. Of
late years Sir Emanuel had lived more and come out more amongst his
neighbours; and, where he had been known intimately, he was greatly
beloved. In the families of Woodburn, Heritage, and Degge, he left a
deep and lasting regret.
During the winter Henry Clavering, now Sir Henry, was for the most
part in London, attending to family affairs. He had not ventured to
call at Woodburn Grange before leaving, being much affected by the
death of his father, the Claverings having strong family attachments;
but he wrote a very kind farewell through a letter to Ann, and to
her expressed a hope of a more cheerful prospect as regarded their
relationship to each other. Ann herself could not help cherishing an
idea that the change of sentiment in his father at last would operate
a change in his own mind. Several times in the course of the winter
he wrote more and more happily, and promised himself much of her
society in spring.
As for other matters at Woodburn Grange, they were by no means dull.
The wedding of Letty with Thorsby was to take place in May, and
Thorsby was there every few days overflowing with fun and animal
spirits. Since Betty Trapps knew that this marriage was inevitable,
though she continued privately to shake her head over it, she
_endeavoured_ to be more respectful to Thorsby, out of respect to
Letty; but Thorsby’s ebullient temperament sometimes tried her very
hard, especially when he indulged himself with making merry over
the Methodists, which he was very apt to do when Betty was waiting
at table. Betty said “some people were hetter and some were heeler
(that is, irritable or calm in disposition). For her part, she did
not pretend to be ower heeler—tread on a worm, and it would turn—and
if people would pinch her, she was pretty sure, she said, to cry
out.” One day Thorsby was very merry over a master manufacturer
in Castleborough, who was a great leader amongst the Methodists,
and kept a horse for the use of the preachers who went into the
country round, and rather irreverently called it God’s horse. Betty
defended the title, and thought the profanity was in laughing at the
manufacturer who kept it. The next time that Thorsby was obliged by
the weather to stay all night at the Grange, he found that Betty had
made him an “apple-pie bed;” that is, she had turned up the upper
sheet to the pillow, so that, on getting into bed, he found himself
stopped half-way. This, however, was nothing to the expression of
her indignation conveyed to him by a frog, a bit of furze, or even a
wasp, being put into his bed.
Thorsby, on another occasion, excited Betty’s wrath by asserting
that he thought he could preach better than a favourite preacher
of Betty’s. “Preach, i’ faith!” said Betty, as she shifted Thorsby
plate—“Ay, may be, as well as old Parson Markham, of Rockville, who
buzzes like a dumbledore[1] in a pitcher.” The conversation turning
on somebody who had been unfortunate, Thorsby remarked that people
ought not to expect to get on who did not exert themselves. “Oh,
beleddy”—a great word of Betty’s, meaning, by-lady, from the old
phrase, “By our lady”—Betty remarked, “I always see folks run to help
a lazy duck that lies on its back and quackles, while stirring ducks
may take care of themselves as they can.”
Such little skirmishes, however, only served to enliven the
dinner-table; but Thorsby was quite as fond of quizzing his Quaker
acquaintance, which was nearly as repugnant to Betty’s feelings, who
had a profound admiration of Mrs. Heritage; and who said she did
not like to hear any religious people fleered at. Thorsby was very
merry one day at the expense of Sylvanus Crook, who, on hearing some
one say that he could find any text in the Bible that any one could
mention, had asked him where was the text which spoke of twenty-nine
knives and never a fork. The man, who was a Methodist too, had
stoutly declared that there was no such text, and Thorsby was of his
opinion. Betty Trapps said Mr. Thorsby had something to learn yet,
before he began to preach, for there was such a text, and it was
in the first chapter and ninth verse of the book of Ezra. Thorsby
jumped up and got a Bible, and found in the list of the vessels and
other apparatus of the Temple nine-and-twenty knives.
“But,” said Thorsby, “it does not say ‘and never a fork.’”
“It need not,” said Betty, “because there was never a fork.”
“Ah!” said Thorsby, “I see now—that was Crook’s way of putting it.
But they are not always so sharp, these Quakers,” added Thorsby.
“There is Solomon Jordan, the draper, you should have seen him one
fine evening last summer; he is one of the plainest of the plain in
his attire. Slipping on his warehouse stairs, he had dislocated his
collar-bone and had his left arm in a sling. Sitting at his desk
near his shop window, he observed an old militia officer, who had
been at a festive dinner with the officers of his regiment, drop
his spectacles in the middle of the street. Being well charged
with wine, he made many vain attempts to stoop and take up the
spectacles. Every time he staggered past them, and turned round to
make an attempt equally hopeless. Solomon Jordan, believing the
officer to lodge at a house just opposite, hastened out, picked up
the spectacles, and offered his right arm to conduct the officer
to his lodgings. The old captain was full of the most grateful
acknowledgments of this politeness; but, on arriving at the door,
he looked up and exclaimed,—‘But, my dear sir, these are not my
lodgings; mine are away ever so far up the street.’
“They began to march on, but the officer perceiving that Mr. Jordan
was without his hat, suddenly stopped, took off his cap and feather,
and put them on the head of the astonished Friend.
“‘Take it off!’ exclaimed Solomon; ‘take it off, friend!’
“‘No, no’, replied the officer, energetically, ‘I could not think
of such a thing as your going bare-headed up the street, and you so
extremely kind to me.’
“‘Take off thy cap!’ exclaimed Solomon, more loudly, ‘or I’ll not go
another step with thee.’
“As Solomon would not move, notwithstanding all the protestations
of the officer, and could not get away, the officer holding his
arm as in a vice; and as he could not raise the other arm, which
was lamed, to take the cap off, the scene became highly ludicrous.
The people in the street, and there were many, saw the dilemma and
began to laugh, and the boys to run from all sides, crying, ‘Mr.
Jordan is ’listed for a soldier,—Mr. Jordan is ’listed!’ There was
a great running, and soon a great crowd, in the midst of which the
Friend was angrily demanding the officer to take off the offensive
cap; and the officer, with equal zeal, protesting against the Friend
proceeding bareheaded. Sometimes the officer, for a moment, would
concede the point to Solomon and replace his cap on his own head,
but almost directly would whip it off again and put it on Solomon’s,
which was the signal for a fresh roar of laughter from the people.
Thus they advanced, now stopping and parleying—now moving on again;
the cap sometimes on the soldier’s head, sometimes on the Friend’s,
till they reached the officer’s lodgings with half the idle people
of Castleborough at their heels. I think,” added Thorsby, “Friend
Jordan will never again take compassion on a disabled soldier.”
“More’s the pity that he did,” said Betty Trapps. “I’d have left the
intossicated old fellow to plough the street up with his nose afore
I’d ha’ helped him; but such things are just egg and milk for some
folks:” meaning that such satirical stories were delicious to Thorsby.
In March a great excitement was occasioned at Woodburn by the
arrival of the Drurys to take possession of their farm. Mr. Drury
took up his quarters at the Grange during the transfer of the farm
with its crops and stock to him, for he had disposed of his own
stock to his successor, and took to that on Bilts’ farm, as the most
suitable to the country; for, with all Mr. Trant Drury’s theoretical
notions, he had great faith in the fact, that experience of the
character of a particular country and of the stock most suitable to
it, was a guide not to be lightly neglected. He brought with him,
however, a variety of new apparatus, and some teams and waggons,
which excited the curiosity of his agricultural neighbours. The
Woodburns, as friends of Mr. Drury’s, declined being engaged for
him, or either of them, as his valuer, but recommended Mr. Norton,
of Peafield. All seemed to go on well in the valuation, till one day
Mr. Drury came home very pale and ill, saying he had had a fall down
Mr. Barrowclouch’s cellar-steps as they descended to examine those
regions, and Mr. Drury blamed Mr. Barrowclouch extremely for having
his cellar-steps where there was a sudden turn in them unguarded by a
handrail. Mr. Drury had evidently received a great shake, though no
bones were broken, and was under the doctor’s hands for a fortnight,
greatly to his chagrin at such a crisis. He continually murmured to
himself that it was “most unfortunate—most unfortunate.” Mr. Woodburn
and George, however, assured him that in the hands of Mr. Norton all
would go as well as in his own. Mr. Drury looked rather astonished
at such an opinion, and shook his head incredulously. It was evident
that he thought his absence on the occasion, although all was left
in the hands of two most competent and honourable men, a grand
misfortune.
All, however, came to an end as everything does; the valuation was
brought in, examined by Mr. Drury, and the amount paid with the
remark, that it might have been worse. Before Mr. Barrowclouch left,
and before Mr. Drury had got out again, Mr. Woodburn went up to say
good-bye to his neighbour of many years, the worthy old farmer.
“I hope all has gone off satisfactorily,” said Mr. Woodburn, “in the
valuation. Mr. Drury seems satisfied.”
“Oh, is he?” said the farmer; “then I am sure I ought to be. They say
it is an ill wind as blows nobody any profit, and bless me, if Mr.
Drury had not fallen down those cellar-steps, I don’t think I should
be worth so much by a thousand pound as I am. Pray God that he gets
all right soon, and then I’m sure we shall both be right.”
“But how do you mean?” asked Mr. Woodburn. “Mr. Drury, of course,
could not interfere with the valuers.”
“Well, no,” said Mr. Barrowclouch, laughing, “if valuers were always
as stiff and peremptory as they should be. But my man was rather a
soft one, and Mr. Drury is such a hurrying sort of man; bless me! he
seemed as though he would ride rough shod right over us all. ‘Oh!’ he
would say, ‘that is but a poor affair—that is not worth more than so
and so, and that’s hardly worth valuing at all;’ and he kept hurrying
along, saying time was precious, and had the valuers here and there
and yonder, quick as lightning. ‘Mr. Drury,’ said I, ‘let you and me
go away, and leave the gentlemen to their cool judgment, _we_ have no
business to say a word.’ ‘Oh no!’ he would say, ‘he must see how all
was done, and the gentlemen could settle all afterwards.’ But I could
see my man began to be quite flabbergasted, and to get a wonderful
opinion of your Mr. Drury, and my heart began to sink in me. I felt
that my effects would go very cheap, when, all at once, some taters
were mentioned in the cellar. ‘Let’s see ’em,’ says Mr. Drury, and
off he goes to the house, and calls for a candle. ‘Hold hard!’ said
I, ‘hold hard! have a care! the cellar steps are dangerous to a
stranger. Let me go first with a light.’ ‘Dangerous,’ said he, in his
off-hand way, ‘how can cellar steps in a decent house be dangerous?’
Up he catches the light and hurries on. ‘For God’s sake,’ said I,
‘keep back;’ but it was no use, on he goes, holding up his light, and
down he goes bang to the bottom. Oh Lors! oh Lors! I made sure he
were killed, and I heard a dreadful groan, and there he lay as dead.”
“You had no handrail, Mr. Drury says.”
“No, that’s true,” said the farmer; “nor there’s been none since
it was a house, but I never heard of anybody afore tumbling down.
Everybody is warned when they come fresh, and they awllis tak’ a
light, and look where they goon’. But Mr. Drury is such a hurrying,
driving sort of a man; he seems as if he’d drive sun and moon, and
th’ seven stars afore him. However, I hope he’ll be no worse for it.
I am sure I’m not.”
Mr. Woodburn thought there was something very characteristic of
his new neighbour in Mr. Barrowclouch’s remarks; he thought he saw
symptoms of the same on-driving, overweening temperament in him, even
in conversation. He was destined to see this only too fully confirmed.
A few weeks saw the Drurys settled at Bilts’ Farm. The furniture had
arrived, and was all arranged—the house had become the fit residence
for a gentleman. Elizabeth Drury, to her great delight and theirs,
was living permanently amid her new friends. The reader can imagine
the joy of the young people,—the Woodburns and Miss Heritage: the
visitings and re-visitings at the Grange, at Fair Manor, at Bilts’
Farm. Elizabeth Drury had her own handsome horse, and joined her
friends in their rides. The spring was advancing in light and daily
growth of beauty and sweetness. May, and the marriage of Thorsby and
Letty were approaching. Busy was the time at Woodburn Grange in the
various preparations for it. Thorsby was all life and jollity. His
house in Castleborough had been put into the most perfect order for
the great event.
At length May sent forth one of her fairest, most lovely, and odorous
mornings for the occasion. There was an unusual bustle in every house
and cottage in Woodburn. All was expectation in every dwelling to
see the carriages driving up from the Grange, and there they came!
But why need we particularise the persons and details of the scene?
There, however, were three charming bridesmaids, Miss Woodburn,
Miss Degge, and Miss Drury, in their white dresses and white veils,
in the first carriage, followed by Sir Simon and Lady Degge, in
their most splendid equipage, then Mr. and Mrs. Drury, accompanied
by George Woodburn, and lastly, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, with the
lovely, blushing Letty, with somewhat flushed cheeks, and eyes in
which joy and tears stood together. Every creature was out as they
passed through the village, and bows and curtseys, and women with
apron corners to their eyes, and yet with the most beaming delight on
their faces. At the church appeared already, Harry Thorsby, in superb
costume, and his best man, Sir Henry Clavering, his mother, and two
or three other friends. The ceremony was performed by the worthy
old Thomas Clavering, assisted by Mr. Markham. All went off well.
You, dear readers, may see the carriages dashing away again down to
the Grange, and the streaming eyes, noddings, and waving hands of
the villagers, and dancings and skippings of the children; you may
imagine the _déjeuner_, and all the speeches, and—away the happy pair
are gone to the Highlands of Scotland, where, no doubt, they will
enjoy themselves amid the rocks, and hills, and lakes, and heather.
Meantime a certain blank and another degree of shade, have fallen
on Woodburn Grange. When Letty, that sunbeam which was ever darting
here and there, yet always making bright the house, returns, it will
be to Castleborough. Not far off, to be sure, but still not exactly
at Woodburn. Meantime, Ann and George, too, have their friend, Miss
Drury, to enliven them by her genial and ever lively society. There
are frequent passings between the Grange and Bilts’ Farm, where Mr.
Trant Drury is always busy, though there really, just now, seems
little to do, but for the dews to fall, and the crops to grow in the
sunshine.
A month after the wedding Mr. and Mrs. Thorsby returned, full of
happiness and health, to commence their new life in Castleborough—to
receive Letty’s new circle of friends. That over, things resumed
something of their old routine. Though Letty was no longer a
resident at Woodburn Grange, but of Castleborough, greatly admired
by a wide circle of new friends, yet she was frequently taking that
way in her drives, and bringing in floods of sunshine and life with
her; and she and Thorsby generally spent their Sundays there. Visits
to the town were more attractive to the Woodburns, and more frequent.
George always dined at his sister’s on market-day, and Mrs. Woodburn
and Ann found a considerable number of shoppings and bargainings to
make in town. Every one saw, and every one approved, the growing
regard of George Woodburn and Elizabeth Drury. No formal engagement
was yet made, but both at the Grange and at Bilts’ Farm it was looked
on as a settled affair, and that with mutual pride and satisfaction.
Then there was a little loving intercourse going on at Fair Manor.
Dr. Frank Leroy seemed to have found perfect favour with Miss
Heritage, and with her parents. Every one thought him a fortunate
fellow with such a lovely and amiable wife, and such a fortune
in view: and every one thought that he deserved both, for he was
extremely admired for the modesty which clothed so gracefully great
knowledge and talent, and esteemed for his good and generous nature.
Dr. Leroy was a member of the Society of Friends, though the orthodox
did not class him as a “consistent member;” for he dressed and spoke
as any other gentleman, having seen a great deal of the world at home
and abroad, and learned that religion does not consist of caps and
coats, but of great and ennobling principles.
Taking a sober view of the facts just stated, a not very sanguine
calculation would conclude that in much less than two years there
would be a succession of weddings in this quarter; that Frank Leroy
and Millicent Heritage, George Woodburn and Elizabeth Drury, and,
perhaps, Sir Henry Clavering and Ann Woodburn, would have each and
all passed into the holy state of matrimony, and that all the romance
of that transitive epoch, that young elective life of love merging
into sober domestic union, would be passed and gone. Let us see.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Humble-bee.