Woodburn Grange: A story of English country life; Vol. 3 of 3

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.

Four days later Mr. Woodburn returned home to tea. He had been across Wink’s Ferry, to his hay meadows on the other side the river, where he had many people at work. The weather had cleared up, and a more lovely evening never lay calmly shining over the summer earth. Mrs. Woodburn had the tea set out in the arbour in the garden, and she and her husband, George and Ann, were quietly enjoying it, and the sweetness of the garden around. The bees were humming on the sunlit flowers, the sulphur and red butterflies were wavering here and there in the clear air; the roses and wallflowers, after the late shadowy weather and occasional showers, were pouring forth their delicious odours, which came wafted in at door and window of the summer-house.

George and his father were talking of the harvest, and of the arrangements for carrying the hay on the morrow, and the number of people who should be at work in the home fields, and the number in the meadows over the river, when, at once, came Betty Trapps, running like a maniac, from the house. Her face was a face of death in hue and terror. Her eyes seemed starting from her head.

“Mester! Mester! George!” she cried, wildly, shriekingly. “There’s Mester Drury’s horse gone up the village, all over wet and sludge, with his saddle turned, the reins under his feet; and there’s a cry Mr. Drury’s drowned!”

“Oh, Mercy!” exclaimed the ladies, starting up in horror. “Oh! God have mercy, and send it be not so!”

George ran headlong from the place, and Mr. Woodburn followed him, saying, “Be quiet, women! be quiet! it is only a fancy. I saw Mr. Drury but half an hour ago, at a distance, among his haymakers. He may be thrown, but not drowned.”

George meantime was out in front of the house, and saw several men trying to stop the horse, which was evidently much excited. “Stop him!” cried George. “Don’t let the horse run to the farm, it will cause the ladies such fright!”

He was glad to see that the men had succeeded in seizing the fallen reins. They patted and soothed the alarmed horse, and brought him back. George saw that he had evidently had a violent struggle in the river. He was covered with mud and gravel. The saddle was turned under his chest, and was torn and scratched. The poor horse trembled with terror in every limb. George bade the man put it into the stable, and wash and clean it well; and he sent another man up the road to prevent anyone carrying the news to Bilts’ Farm till the reality was known. He then ran down to the Ferry. There were already several men and women there as well as Mr. Woodburn. The ferry-boat was drawn to this side of the river, but it betrayed no marks of any kind which could clear up the mystery. Mr. Drury was nowhere to be seen; but on searching down the bank to a little distance, the place was found where the horse had reached it, evidently from the river, and had struggled his way up it to the land.

“Did no one see what took place at the boat when Mr. Drury came over?” said Mr. Woodburn. “I came over myself only half an hour ago, and then Mr. Drury was with his people in the meadow on horseback.”

No one had seen it. The people present were his own people, who had seen the horse come galloping up the lane by the hill-field from the ferry, and some had gone to stop the horse, and some ran down here. Soon there were many other people assembled. Those in the meadow had caught the rumour, and there was a general running to the ferry. The river was hunted down on both sides to some distance, but without effect. The ferry-boat was then loosed from the chain, poles were cut to steer it by, and a careful search was made down the stream, George Woodburn assisting most anxiously in the exploration, whilst the rest of the crowd accompanied the boat along each bank. Long was the search, but in vain; but, on pushing the boat up the stream again, and within five yards of the ferry, it struck on something soft, and, on looking into the clear water, it was seen to be the body of Mr. Drury. Great was the horror at the discovery. Several men jumped into the stream, which was shallow, and drew forth the corpse, and laid it streaming on the boat. What a sight was that! The well-known tall figure of Mr. Drury, in his well-known blue lapelled coat, pale yellow waistcoat, kerseymere small-clothes, and smart top-boots. His riding-whip was still clenched in his right hand.

“Is it possible, then,” asked Mr. Woodburn, “that no one saw anything of this sad catastrophe? Was no one about when Mr. Drury came to the ferry?” Not a soul had seen him at the ferry; not a soul had been seen about it at the time. “They saw Mr. Woodburn go to the ferry,” the haymakers said, “and in awhile after, Mr. Drury ride towards the ferry, too. That was all that they knew.”

“It is very strange,” said Mr. Woodburn. “The question is, how it can have happened? Can the horse have taken alarm as Mr. Drury was pulling at the chain, and kicked him, or pushed him in by backing? A doctor must be fetched in all haste. He cannot revive him, but he may throw some light on the mysterious occurrence. The body must not be moved till he comes, nor anything about him touched.”

A guard of trusty men was set over the body and boat, and George Woodburn went off to fetch the doctor. The character of the men set over the body on the boat, which was put off to midstream, and the number of spectators on each bank, was sufficient guarantee that no interference with the corpse would take place. Mr. Woodburn, therefore, slowly returned homewards. George, meantime, had ordered his horse, and, with a heart overwhelmed with grief and consternation, had gone to his mother and sister, who were in a condition not to be described.