CHAPTER I.
THE MURDER AT THE FERRY.
The circumstances related in our last chapter fearfully aggravated the state of things which had now continued two years: a year after the unfortunate visit of Miss Heritage to London, and nearly ten months after the embarkation of Dr. Leroy for India. The breach between Mr. Trant Drury and Mr. Leonard Woodburn, as well as that between different members of the community, had steadily grown wider and more irrevocable. The irritation of Mr. Woodburn against Mr. Drury had become thus more deeply intensified. As to Mr. Drury himself, he would never seem to recognise any cause of offence between them. He would always accost Mr. Woodburn, when they met, in a somewhat brusque manner, intended to be friendly, though he seldom obtained more than a “good day” from him, and a steady passing on. These occasions of cursory speech, in fact, generally added some fresh touch of irritation to Mr. Woodburn. He regarded this nonchalant and unabashed manner of Mr. Drury’s, when he knew the many offences he had given him, as fresh offence, and proof of a hard and impudent character of mind. Yet, in truth, they were only the result of Mr. Drury’s peculiar temperament, who meant no offence, but only the assertion of what, to him, were unimpeachable truths, that people ought to accept, and, sooner or later, must accept. To Mr. Woodburn, however, the position of Mr. Drury, as a man in much intercourse with the class of gentry round who were so antagonistic to all the political views of himself and most highly esteemed friends, added a deeper feeling to his dislike.
A more painful state of things cannot be conceived. To George Woodburn and Elizabeth Drury it was a state of perpetual torture. Mr. Woodburn wished George to take a house somewhere not far off, get married, and manage the paternal property. He named to him a handsome income, which he would appropriate to him; but George knew that at such a wedding his father would never meet Mr. Drury, and to such a scandal neither he nor Elizabeth would consent. George proposed to take a farm in some distant county, and to be married at some distant place quietly, but he saw that this caused his parents great pain, and though Mr. Drury was quite ready to acquiesce in this plan, George hesitated to take this only possible step for peace.
Such was the state of things when hay-harvest came round again. Every one thought of that hay-field fête three years ago, at which Mrs. Heritage had foreseen such glooms. And greatly had these fallen. On Fair Manor itself they had fallen. Dr. Leroy had been enveloped by them, and was on the other side the globe, all his fair prospects blighted. Thorsby was away in the wilds of America. Letters to both Mr. Barnsdale and his wife had informed them that he had succeeded in putting his goods in New York into the hands of the house which apprised him of his agent’s elopement; a house with which he had had considerable and satisfactory transaction; that he was starting on the trail of the delinquent, who had gone away in company with a lady, and that he meant to pursue him to the utmost. Since then, only one or two letters had been received from him from the far interior, detailing his still hopeless pursuit, but undiminished determination to persevere to the last. Letty was bravely working on with the business in Castleborough. Mrs. Thorsby was dead: and little Leonard, growing every day more interesting, was the great consolation of Letty’s life. Over Woodburn Grange lay a dark cloud of care and mortification, only relieved by the marriage of Ann and Sir Henry Clavering, which was at last fixed for the commencement of August, and was to be followed by a tour on the continent.
Once more July brought hay-time. The weather had been cloudy and still, and thus unfavourable to the drying of the hay. One morning Mr. Woodburn was with his work-people in the very hill-field in which the memorable hay-field fête had been held. He was standing, leaning on a rake, just above the hollow road leading down to the river ferry. The wild roses and eglantine flower-bunches were breathing sweetly from one of those luxuriant fences which Mr. Drury desired to see cut down to a short and rigid ugliness. The hay-makers were driving the hay from beneath the large shadow of hedgerow trees up the side of the field, into the middle, to give it more air and sun, if the sun should look out. At this moment Mr. Drury himself came riding down the lane. “Ah! my friend,” he said; “now you see the nuisance of these tall hedges and trees. You cannot get an atom of sun or breeze to your hay, and you must, with much extra labour, force it into the centre of the field. Even there it will still feel the effect of these barriers against free circulation of air and light.”
Mr. Woodburn showed instantly his great irritation. The blood rushed into his face, and with a dark, stern expression he said, “Mr. Drury, this is insolence—this is intolerable. When I need your advice I will ask for it;” and with that he turned away. Mr. Drury rode on, only saying, with a sort of half laugh of triumph, “Well, good morning, Woodburn.”
“Is there no good fortune,” said Mr. Woodburn, unguardedly, as he turned away, “which will turn up to rid this country of that nuisance of a man, of his cursed pride, and conceited meddling with everybody’s business?” He began working away with his rake, and it might be seen for a long time after that he was still thinking on this mal-à-propos salutation of Mr. Drury.