CHAPTER III.
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.