Mr. Henry, or as he was more commonly called, Harry Thorsby, was the son of a great hosier, who had led a very free and bon vivant life; had been a fearful sufferer from the gout; and had died recently from an attack of it which had been driven to the stomach. He had left only his widow and this one son, who was regarded as one of the most substantial burghers of the place. He had large warehouses, a large and handsome house, in which his mother presided, and to whom he was the apple of her eye. In her eyes her son Harry was one in a thousand; never was such a handsome, good-hearted fellow; he was, she said, as good as twenty daughters to her, and always had been.
In fact, Harry Thorsby was a very good-looking and pleasant young man. He was something above the middle height, rather broadly built, but extremely active. He had a handsome, somewhat large face, of what is called the oval contour, well-defined features, a bushy head of black hair, a rather dark complexion, and well-shaped black whiskers. Thorsby, like his father, had a very sociable and rather jovial turn—that was the rock in his path. His mother, indeed, had often with tears shown him that danger, and implored him to take warning by his father’s example, who had shortened his life by indulgence in wine, and what he called good company; and who might have possessed double the wealth, and the first place in the town,—yes, not even second to Mr. Simon Degge,—had he avoided the snare of good fellowship. Harry would not hurt his mother’s feelings for the world, and he always said,—“Oh, mother, you need not have any anxiety on my account. I am not by any means fond of wine, though I do like a little pleasant company; but I shall not forget what I have seen, and I shall not forget you, mother.”
Harry Thorsby was fond of his horse, and followed the hunt. He might often be seen during the season, in his scarlet coat riding out of town on a fine morning to the meet of the day, looking very gallant and happy; and grave fellow-manufacturers as they passed to their warehouses, while they nodded and smiled in passing, said to themselves,—“Thorsby will be Thorsby; what is bred in the bone will never be out of the flesh. Harry, like his father, finds something pleasanter than his counting-house.”
But, exclusive of this taste for hunting, and for shooting, which was equally a passion of his, Harry Thorsby was a good tradesman, and a steady attendant on his counting-house and warehouse and business altogether. Business over, however, he was much in the company of the young men of position in the town. He was an extremely merry, amusing fellow in company; told an anecdote well, and sung fairly. His nature seemed to demand life and variety. He was extremely excitable, but not to anger,—for he was extremely forbearing under provocation; his tendency was to pleasure, fun—what is termed larking—and to all the jollity of youth.
One of these larks he often was very merry over amongst his intimate friends. He and his mother often breakfasted at a small round table, and the breakfast was brought in on a circular-turned mahogany tray, which had grown rather rotund at the bottom so that it would easily turn round on the table. His mother being very fond of a gossip, and having always a great deal to tell him in his tête-à-tête, had scarcely began her coffee when Harry had despatched his first cup; unperceived, therefore, he would gently turn the tray round, finish her cup too, and then remind her that both were empty. This process went on to the end of Harry’s three cups, when he would spring up and say he must be off to business. “I hope you’ve made a good breakfast, Harry,” his mother would say, rising at the same time; “as for me, I don’t know how it is, but I feel neither fuller nor fatter.”
Harry went laughing slily to himself away, saying, “Well, mother, you have been amusing me with your talk so much, you don’t know whether you have breakfasted or not. Get some more. You’re never wrong if you eat till you are satisfied.” And the old lady would say, “Well, my lad, I think I must, for I feel quite sinking.” And he would leave her wondering how it was, but pouring comfortably out another cup.
Another manœuvre was not quite so innocent. Being sent, as a boy, on his father’s Arab mare, on a disagreeable journey, he dismounted outside of the town, daubed the poor mare’s face and knees with mud, and led her back home, saying that she had fallen and thrown him, and hurt him so much, that he could not go. His clothes being smeared plentifully, too, added to the probability of the story. But if Harry had any feeling, he was severely punished for his ruse, for his father, in a great rage, took the riding-whip and gave the innocent mare, who never made a false step in her life, a most unmerciful beating, and soon after sold her. This fact had reached Betty Trapps through Sylvanus Crook, and she prognosticated something awful of so cruelly artful a lad. Cruelty, however, was far from one of Harry Thorsby’s sins of manhood. He showed often very humane feeling.
Thorsby was frequently at Hillmartin; and there was a belief that he aspired to the hand of a rich Miss Mountain, of Castleborough. However that might be, he soon had occasion to accompany Ann and Letty home one evening, and from that day was as frequent and familiar a visitor at the Grange. George Woodburn had seen something of him at different times in Castleborough and in the hunting-field, and there soon grew up a great friendship. They made appointments to go to the hunt together. George invited him to come and shoot with him; for, besides the game on Woodburn Farm, Sir Emanuel Clavering had given George free range on his lands; and in a while Thorsby was on the most familiar terms at the Grange. Everybody liked him. He was so intelligent and so full of the spirit of good nature and of life enjoyment. He often came and passed the night there, that he might talk with Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, and sing a variety of popular airs with Letty, which Ann accompanied on the piano.
George Woodburn was a young man of very pleasing person, but considered, by young men in general, peculiar. He had been educated at Repton, the great Derbyshire grammar school, where he had made the acquaintance of the sons of the principal nobles and gentry of the county. Henry Clavering, the son of Sir Emanuel, their near neighbour, had been one of his schoolfellows, and they had ever since been great friends. They had enjoyed together all the pleasures and sports of country life. Clavering was now away, and Thorsby was a very acceptable companion for George. It was in the country and at home, however, that this companionship was enjoyed, for George could never be persuaded to join Thorsby’s social circles in town. George had a steadfast dislike of towns and great companies. From a boy there had been a certain gravity in his character, combined with the utmost kindliness of disposition. He loved above everything the country and country life. His heart and soul were in his profession of agriculturist. In everything connected with farming and with the objects of nature lay his whole happiness. He knew every creature, great and small, that inhabited the fields; their haunts and habits were as familiar to him as the doings in his own family. Every species of insect was known to him, and might be said to be loved by him. As a boy he could tell you not only of every bird that built in the hedges, the orchard-trees, the cart-sheds, and the eaves, but the mason-bees that built in the old garden-wall he could show you passing in and out, and name them by names of his own, knowing every one individually.
He had from a mere lad accustomed himself to exposure to all kinds of weather, hot or cold, to battle with the wildest snows in looking after the sheep, to the most drenching rains, following the plough, or carting out compost for the land. There was no kind of manual labour on the farm in which he was not as expert as any labourer or farm-servant of them all. No one could beat him in mowing, reaping, ploughing, threshing, or in any kind of work. He could plash a hedge, cut a ditch or a drain, or fell a tree with any of them. His strength was prodigious, from constant exercise, and from absence of any enfeebling indulgence, for he had an innate aversion to much wine or beer, preferring what he called the mother and staple of all drinks—the crystal daughter of the rock.