“There was nothing to forgive,” said one clear-headed village woman. “But there are things, no doubt, which can never be forgotten; and Miss Drury must have a stout heart to come back after what has passed here.”
“There’s that in the case,” said an old, grey-headed fellow, “that has the stoutest heart of all—and that is, true love for a true man; and if there be a true man, it is our sober, steady, sensible George Woodburn. May God bless him as he deserves; and He has surely begun it in giving him such a sweet, brave-hearted wife as Elizabeth Drury. You may see it in her face, the very first time you look in it, that she’s one of nature’s true women—loving, and kind, and sensible. Thank God, for sending another such a lady here.”
The event was a holiday in Woodburn, and Hillmartin, and Cotmanhaye, though nobody stopped their work for it; but there was a talking, and a burst of good wishes, and a flush of pleasure in the women’s eyes, and a bright, hearty look about the men, that showed that by everybody’s consent George Woodburn had made the right choice.
Soon there were seen horsemen, and carriages full of ladies, driving up towards Bilts’ Farm—Claverings and Woodburns, Heritages and Thorsbys, Degges and Fairfaxes. Coming and going they were, and all looking as if some good thing had happened to them all. “Who could have thought it,” said the villagers, “only two years ago?” Soon were seen George Woodburn and his tall, buxom, cheery-looking wife, walking soberly down towards the Grange, and all the heads of Woodburn Green put out to have a look after the handsome couple. And to see Letty Thorsby spring out of the porch of the Grange, and fly half down towards the garden-gate to meet her new sister, and such an embracing and kissing. And then, little Leonard Thorsby, with his flaxen locks, like a little burst of sunshine, scampering after his mother, and snatched up and kissed, and held out at arm’s-length, and admired, heavy as he was, by George! And then, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn hurrying out, and then such hugging and kissing again, and all hurrying into the house, for George says, laughing, “Do just look! all the Green is out watching you!” So in they pop in a crowd. “Well!” say the villagers, “there never was a woman welcome to a house, if that one is not.”
But in the midst of Elizabeth Woodburn’s joy, there was a dark spot from which she shrunk, as it ever and anon came into her mind. There was somewhere down below the Grange a dreadful place, called Wink’s Ferry, which she and everyone wished could be obliterated from the country. All that could be done, George Woodburn had done. He had had put up a board by the river, with the large words Woodburn Ferry upon it; and all the people both there and at Rockville and at Cotmanhaye were requested never more to utter the hateful word Wink’s. It was to be buried in deepest oblivion, so that it should never fall like a sudden knell on the heart of his beloved bride.
Yet mighty as is the power which says in the heart of woman, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me,”—yet it was many a long day, yea, long year, before Elizabeth Woodburn could descend to the river-side below the Grange. There was a spot of horror there that made her whole nature shrink. There was a dark shadow which hung over that spot, which was a spectre lurking beneath the otherwise sunny pleasantness of her fate, which she would have given some years of her life to have banished.
Her mother remained in Yorkshire, and would never come near the fatal neighbourhood.
But one fine summer’s evening, as Elizabeth and George were wandering in the orchard of the Grange, Elizabeth said, with a sad seriousness, to him, “George, I have a mind to go down to the ferry—it haunts me continually. I cannot get rid of it. I dream of it as dark and dreadful; and I think, if I could see it on such an evening as this, I should be less affected by it afterwards.”
George looked anxiously at her, and then said—“My dear Elizabeth, weigh well your strength; if you could bear it, I think, too, it might have a good effect.” He gave her his arm, and they proceeded down the orchard; he opened the little gate, of which each member of the family carried a key, and they passed out to the river side. Without a word, they walked down to the ferry; a more tranquil scene it was impossible for the human eye to look upon; the river ran full and peacefully, gliding on, the clear gravel seen through its translucent waters. On all sides green meadows, and peaceful banks, overhung with the verdurous trees, the thrush and blackbird chanting as if the whole were ground hallowed to repose, presented anything but a revolting aspect.
Notwithstanding George saw Elizabeth’s eye run excitedly from object to object, he knew she was calculating where everything had occurred that she had read of. He felt her shudder by his side; and he said,—“Let us go back, my dear Elizabeth.”