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.”