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.