WOODBURN GRANGE.

WOODBURN GRANGE.

A Story of English Country Life.

BY

WILLIAM HOWITT.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
CHARLES W. WOOD, 13, TAVISTOCK ST., STRAND.
1867.
[Right of Translation reserved.]

LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

CONTENTS.

WOODBURN GRANGE.

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.

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.

“But,” said George, “there is a duty that some one must perform—a—a terrible duty; it is to break this awful event to the Drurys. I confess that I am unequal to it, and I must away for the doctor. You, dear mother and sister, cannot bear it.” Both the ladies shook their heads and groaned in agony. “No, no,” said Ann, “impossible.” There was but one person whom George could think of to perform this awful duty, and it must be done at once, or it would reach Bilts’ Farm by a side way—it was Betty Trapps. But Betty at first stoutly refused; she was herself lost in tears and prayers, and said she would sooner be drowned too than carry such ill-tidings. But when she saw George’s distress she said, “Well, what must be, must be,” and at once put on her bonnet and shawl and set out. Betty walked on, wrapped up in her trouble, and making one long prayer the whole way; but how she did it and how she bore it she said afterwards she did not know, but one thing she did know, that nothing should ever induce her to do such an errand, and see such a stunning misery burst upon innocent, loving heads again.

The news of such an event flies fast, and when the doctor came with George from Castleborough, for there was none nearer, there was a great crowd of men, women, and children surrounding the ferry, and a hundred different speculations were passing from mouth to mouth as to the catastrophe George Woodburn’s horse showed, by his reeking skin and panting flanks, at what a rate he had ridden, and the doctor’s smoking horse at what a rate they had returned.

A solemn silence fell over the crowd as the doctor and George walked through it, and beckoning the boat to the shore, entered upon it, and then had it put back a little from the bank again. The doctor had the drowned man’s vest opened; no wound or bruise was apparent; he drew off his hat, which still, though battered down, was upon his head. A gush of congealing blood followed it, and the hair was matted with gore.

“There is the mischief,” said the surgeon. He had a large basin of water brought, washed the head well, and examined it.

“By whatever done,” he said, “the blow is behind. Can it be a kick from his horse? I think not. It does not show the cut of the sharp edge of a horse-shoe, but looks like the blow of some blunt instrument, or of a cudgel. Can he have struck his head in falling on the edge of the boat?” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I think not: but let us examine his pockets; that may indicate whether there has been any robbery in the case.”

That the watch of the deceased had not been taken was evident to them all. It was still attached to its gold chain, and in the fob of his small-clothes waistband, as watches were then worn. From his coat pockets were produced his handkerchief, his spectacles, a knife of many blades, comb, and other things. There was found gold and silver untouched in his purse, and in the breast-pocket his pocket-book, containing some bank-notes of high value, and two or three acceptances just coming due, as if he had put them in his pocket to go to the bank to receive their contents.

“Nothing here,” said the doctor, “warrants the suspicion of any robbery; the thing is a mystery which time and inquiry may clear up. The body must be conveyed to the Grey Goose public-house for the inspection of the inquest to-morrow; let an exact list of the articles found upon the body be made, and kept by Mr. George Woodburn, and I will produce these, the money, purse, pocket-book, watch, &c., to the coroner to-morrow.”

With that the doctor and George Woodburn returned to the village. The doctor took his leave, and the body, laid on a door and covered with a bed-quilt, was carried to the public-house, followed by the silent crowd.

It may be imagined what a sensation this event created, not only in Woodburn but in the country far round, and also in Castleborough. Mr. Trant Drury had made himself a man of too much mark to pass out of the world in this sudden and mysterious manner without producing a great shock in the public mind, and the circumstances of his death were too peculiar not to excite the faculties of wonder and curiosity in an extreme degree.

The coroner and doctor duly appeared at the Grey Goose about eleven o’clock the next day. A jury was got together from amongst the neighbouring farmers, including Mr. Howell Crusoe, the schoolmaster, as a man of superior intelligence. All the circumstances already related were reviewed, the doctor produced the purse, watch, pocket-book, &c., and gave his view as to the wound on the back of the head not being made by a kick of the horse; a thorough examination of the corpse showed no other injury. The jury then adjourned to the ferry, examined the boat, the bank where the horse had got out of the river, and had the spot pointed out to them where the body was found in it, which was still marked by a pole which one of the men thrust down at the time.

On the return to the Grey Goose, the evidence of Mr. Woodburn, of George Woodburn, and a number of the hay-makers, both from the hill-field and from beyond the river, was taken, all of which went only to show that nothing more was known than that Mr. Drury was seen alive and quite well in the hay-fields till about half an hour after Mr. Woodburn left the same meadow and passed over the same ferry. No one had witnessed the crossing, at least no one who could be found or heard of, and there were no evidences of any robbery having been perpetrated. The occurrence had taken place on a fine, bright, calm evening of July. The coroner asked whether any one was known to have any feud or had evinced any spirit of resentment towards Mr. Drury. Perhaps not a man there who was of the neighbourhood into whose mind did not flash at that question the fact that Mr. Woodburn was known to have a great dislike to Mr. Drury, and the labourers in the hill-field thought of the words of Mr. Woodburn but four days previously, namely, querying why some good fortune did not remove that troublesome man from the neighbourhood, attended with expressions of great vexation; but that Mr. Woodburn, that man of ancient honour and quiet virtues, should have had any hand in such an atrocity was an idea too wild to be dwelt upon. All were silent on that head. The jury continued in discussion on the cause of Mr. Drury’s death, and yet, at length, swayed by the words used by the surgeon, came to a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

It is impossible for any pen to describe the deep and strange feeling which rested on the people, both gentle and simple, in the country round and in Castleborough on this sad and mysterious event. The violent death of so strong and active a man as Mr. Trant Drury, in passing that quiet ferry, never before stained by any human blood or witness to any human crime, on one of the loveliest evenings of summer, in brightest sunshine, and within a few hundred yards of Woodburn village. It would be equally impossible to express the great distress which existed within Woodburn Grange—the still more agonising and horrified affliction of the wife and daughter of the deceased. Vast crowds assembled to witness the funeral of the man so lately in fullest life, and a strange shiver of mysterious awe and wonder seemed to hang over the whole assembly, and as these crowds dispersed, to fall more profoundly on Woodburn and its neighbouring fields. Immediately after the funeral, Elizabeth Drury and her mother left Bilts’ Farm, and went to reside amongst their relatives in Yorkshire. Sad and silent was their departure. Elizabeth wrote short and most affecting notes of adieu to her dear friends—the Woodburns and the Heritages—saying that they could not bear to see any whom they loved so much. Yet George and Elizabeth had had a most heartrending interview, and he had begged earnestly and passionately that they would not give up the idea of some day, when their feelings were more calm, coming once more amongst them. He offered to overlook the farm, left in the hands of the bailiff, till they should determine ultimately what to do; and so it was left.

After this, a calm seemed to fall on the neighbourhood and over this event; but this calm was only apparent. The subject was discussed everywhere,—in the Grey Goose amongst its evening circle; in the fields and woods by the workmen; in the cottages amongst the women; at the smithy, at Job Latter’s, where the patriarchs of the village often congregated to talk with him whilst he modelled a horse-shoe, or sharpened a ploughshare or a pick. But no inquiries, nor all the talk on the affair, had thrown, after many weeks, a single ray of light upon it. The doctor’s opinion that there had been foul play in the matter seemed to be finally that of every one, but no one had seen any person or persons about the ferry at that time. The subject was agitated in the neighbourhood, and a reward of two hundred pounds was offered by the family for the discovery of the supposed murderer or murderers. To this the Government, at the representation of the lord-lieutenant of the county, added another hundred. The constables, and many another person fond of gain, urged inquiries far and wide. Repeated visits to the ferry were made, and conjectures there thrown out of how the event might have happened accidentally or otherwise, but they produced nothing like a ray of elucidation.

As these things and discussions went on, Mr. Woodburn began to manifest considerable uneasiness, and he suddenly said one day, as the matter was spoken of:—“You will see, they will say at last that it was I who did it.”

“Oh, God forbid!” exclaimed both Mrs. Woodburn and Ann. “What are you saying? For heaven’s sake do not utter so horrid, so ridiculous an idea.”

“Well, you will see,” continued Mr. Woodburn, “that they will lay the crime on me; and I would have you prepare for it. I was the last man who passed that way before Mr. Drury that evening; and not long before him; no mortal can be found to have witnessed how Mr. Drury came to his death; and as the public mind, following the doctor, insists on a murder—well then, I am the man who stands in closest proximity to the event.”

Mr. Woodburn might have added the unfortunate words which he used in the hayfield in the hearing of at least half a dozen men and women; but he would not add to the horror of the idea he had started to his wife and children. Their alarm was great, though they treated any imputation on such a man as their father and husband as the most impossible and ridiculous of suppositions. George said thoughtfully, but yet with a tone of melancholy, “Your character, dear father, is enough to protect you from a dozen of such charges. It will never be made; if it were, it can never be proved; because it is clear no mortal saw the transaction, and it is still more certain that you never did it.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Woodburn; “I am not such a fool, if I were even such a villain.”

But not many weeks elapsed, before the worst fears of Mr. Woodburn were realised. The “Castleborough Chronicle,” the conservative journal of the county, and in which the influence of the Bullockshed, Tenterhook, and Swagsides class, and that of a much higher and nobler, the influence of the best aristocracy of the county, prevailed, had a startling article. It observed that the continued absence of any evidence of the perpetration of the crime of murder at Wink’s Ferry, after much and vigorous inquiry, led them to revert to that mysterious fact, by which a man of much eminence and activity in the county had somehow lost his life. An event of so much importance to the security of society, demanded that it should not be suffered to drift away into oblivion, without the turning of every stone which might possibly elicit the hidden and gloomy truth: and however painful it might be to prosecute the inquiries on the subject into quarters otherwise most respectable, and, therefore, unlikely, impartial justice, and the dearest interests of the public, made it imperative to endeavour to fathom the mystery, even though in the process some most estimable minds might be intensely pained.

After this preamble, the article went on to say that it was well known that the late Mr. Trant Drury, by his bold innovations and novel theories of agriculture, and it might be added, by an enthusiasm which led him sometimes to be a little too unceremonious to the long-cherished ideas of others, had made a number of enemies; or, if that term were too strong, of persons animated by no concealed resentment towards him. His introduction of machinery and other causes had made him unpopular amongst the class of agricultural labourers; but the inquiries of the police had resulted in the clearest and most positive demonstration that every man and woman of that class, for many miles round, could be shown to have been at some particular place at the hour of this catastrophe, and nearly all of them at work in the presence of numerous others.

Now, this well ascertained fact compelled them to acquit this class of the community; and to look whether there might be any member or members of Mr. Drury’s own class who might have an ill-feeling towards him, or a motive to wish him out of the way. They were very sensible of the delicate ground on which they were entering; but the paramount interests of truth and humanity required that they should wave all considerations of delicacy or respect; and they were bound to declare that there was a gentleman and near neighbour of the late Mr. Drury, who had shown a strong antagonism to him, which was well known to have gone on strengthening through a lengthened period; and who, only a few days before this lamentable event took place, had publicly, and with signs of much feeling, expressed a wish that some cause could remove Mr. Drury from the neighbourhood. The gentleman referred to was a man of wealth and position, a man of old family, of great classical attainments, it was said, and of a character against which, hitherto, not a shadow of a shade of suspicion of any kind could be brought. On the contrary, he had always borne the most honourable and admirable reputation. Yet such were the anomalies of life and human nature, that it was not impossible but that to such a man, some sudden contact and words of disagreement might have occurred, and that in a moment of sudden anger, he might have raised his hand and done, what even to himself an hour before, would have seemed utterly impossible.

They did not presume to say that any such thing had taken place; this gentleman, honoured and beloved as he was, must be regarded as innocent till he was fully proved to be otherwise; but they would submit that had any poor man lain under the same complication of circumstances, had long entertained unfriendly feelings against the deceased—they did not yet say murdered gentleman—had he expressed an angry wish for the removal of the deceased only a few days previous, and were he the last person seen near the scene of the catastrophe, nothing could have prevented him long ago being summoned to a legal examination on that head. They thought the gentleman, if innocent, as they sincerely hoped he was, must himself desire such an inquiry for the vindication of his fair fame.

It may be imagined that the sensation created by this article was intense. What its effect was on the inhabitants of Woodburn Grange, lies not within the compass of human language. Terror, grief, distraction, astonishment, were blended into one crushing and prostrating feeling. It was now that Mrs. Woodburn and her daughters for the first time learned that Mr. Woodburn, in the hay-field, had used those unfortunate words towards Mr. Drury in a moment of irritation. George had heard of them before, and they had lain on his heart with a deadly weight. Of his father’s incapability of committing such a crime, under any circumstances, he had the same assurance as he had of his own. He cast it away from him as ridiculous: but he foresaw that they would excite much prejudice, and occasion much trouble under the circumstances. He received a letter from Elizabeth Drury, expressing her horror and indignation at such a frightful imputation or even suspicion on his father. “Never! never! never! would she believe it. She would answer for Mr. Woodburn with her own existence; but the cruel aspersions, and the misery and trouble that must arise out of it, had,” she said, “added fresh poignancy to her former grief.”

Words of indignation and of tender sympathy poured in from friends all around, and assurances of any aid that could in any way be given in defence against such a charge. Sir Henry Clavering came in haste to express his unbounded grief and resentment of such an impossible and unsupportable accusation. But instant steps, he said, must be taken to change the current of public opinion. He was on his way to secure an able refutation of the article in the paper of opposite politics. This article appeared the following week, and denounced so abominable a libel on the character of a man of the highest and most unimpeachable reputation for all that was good and kind, and against whom there was not a particle of evidence to support such a foul charge. Words of petty difference of opinion between gentlemen might, and did, frequently arise, but none but fools, considering the character of the speaker, would attach any serious import to them. Sir Henry did not wait for the issue of the paper, but that very day had the walls of the town placarded by bills, expressing the same energetic sentiments in different words.

But the intention sufficiently manifested in the “Chronicle” article, was, notwithstanding, carried out, and in a few days afterwards a couple of constables presented themselves at Woodburn Grange, with a mission no less astounding than that of the apprehension of Mr. Leonard Woodburn, on a suspicion of murder; and amid a scene of distress only to be imagined, he was conveyed in his own carriage to the county court justice-room in Castleborough, to answer under warrant to this charge.

CHAPTER II.

WHO DID IT?

If, on that memorable occasion at the hayfield fête, when Mrs. Heritage was impressed with a sense of impending calamities, she had gone a little further and asserted that within three years Sir Emanuel Clavering, then in full health and spirits, should be gathered to his fathers; that a severe dispensation should fall on the family at Fair Manor; that Dr. Leroy should suddenly abandon his practice and his native place, and go to the far East; that Thorsby should alternately turn reprobate, preacher, and again reprobate; that he should marry Letty Woodburn, doat on her and leave her; that one of the friends of the Woodburns should be killed in a most mysterious manner at Wink’s Ferry; and that, as the climax of all, Mr. Leonard Woodburn should be charged with a wilful murder, and be put in jeopardy of a public and ignominious death,—the effect of her vaticinations would have been lost, and she would have been pronounced extravagantly insane. But now, as all these things had taken place, there was scarcely a person who was present on that occasion, who did not recall the fact with astonishment.

On the morning following the arrest of Mr. Woodburn, he was brought before the assembled bench of county magistrates. The throng collected showed the importance attached to the case. A number of men had been suddenly summoned from Woodburn, and brought up in post-chaises. George Woodburn, assisted by Sir Henry Clavering, had also collected a number of men and women who had been engaged in both hayfields at the time, and had also brought Mrs. and Miss Woodburn, overwhelmed with grief as they were.

There was a formidable array of the Rockville, Bullockshed and Tenterhook section of the magistracy on the bench, for Sir Benjamin Bullockshed, whose steward Mr. Drury had become, had taken up the matter as a personal one, and had not hesitated to say amongst his particular friends, that he would make an example of Mr. Woodburn, who was a stiff, impracticable man, and a stout adherent of the Degge and pauper clique. Had this speech reached Sir Henry Clavering, he and Simon Degge would have insisted that Sir Benjamin should not occupy a place on the bench on this occasion. Able lawyers were engaged on each side. To make a short story of the proceedings, some of Mr. Woodburn’s own men were brought forward to prove that he had expressed a wish that Mr. Drury were removed from the neighbourhood, and that he was a nuisance. These men, who had talked this matter, as they did every matter over at the Grey Goose public-house, without noticing a stranger amongst them, were astonished and confounded to be brought against their own respected master. At first they refused to speak, but they were assured that if they did not they would be sent to prison; and Mr. Woodburn, who had no wish to deny those imprudent words, told them he wished them to speak out all that they knew, and said that it was true that he had said such words, but of course, with no evil intent. The men, thus having their tongues loosed, gave evidence, but never having been in a witness-box before, and being badgered by the opposing lawyer and by the magistrates, made a confused mess of it. It was taken down, as admitted evidence on their part, that Mr. Woodburn had uttered words of the sort evincing a strong feeling against Mr. Drury.

Evidence was brought from the hay-makers in the meadows to prove that Mr. Woodburn and Mr. Drury were in the meadows at the same time; that they both returned home by the ferry, Mr. Drury soon after Mr. Woodburn; that they had observed no other person about the ferry between the passing of Mr. Woodburn and Mr. Drury. It was also given in evidence by various persons summoned, amongst whom, to their inexpressible mortification, were Howell Crusoe and Job Latter, the blacksmith, that there was a sort of misunderstanding betwixt the two gentlemen. As for Crusoe and Latter, they added at the same time that they would sooner believe the moon would fall than that Mr. Woodburn would hurt a hair of any man alive.

On the other hand, evidence was brought on Mr. Woodburn’s side, that his having anything to do with the death of Mr. Drury was impossible, even if such a matter was in any way likely, because Mr. Woodburn was seen to leave the meadows half an hour before Mr. Drury, and was seen coming up the hollow road from the ferry as immediately following his quitting the meadows as it was possible in time. It was not possible that he could have waited to waylay Mr. Drury. He was on foot, Mr. Drury on horseback. He was seen walking up the hollow road by a dozen people in the hill-field, in his usual quiet way, without any evidence of excitement about him. George Woodburn, Betty Trapps and the other maid-servants, gave evidence that Mr. Woodburn returned home just at six, in his ordinarily quiet manner. He took his tea with his family in the garden, showing no excitement, no exhaustion, not a single trace on his clothes or on his person, of any unusual disturbance of mind or exertion of body, which could not have been the case had a man of his piety, his benevolence, his feeling and whole character been engaged in a murder. The horse of Mr. Drury was seen galloping up the village at half-past six, clearly under the effect of sudden fright. Whatever was the cause of Mr. Drury’s death, it had plainly taken place when Mr. Woodburn was tranquilly taking tea with his family in his garden.

But what produced the greatest sensation was to see Mrs. Woodburn and her daughter Ann successively appear and, though sinking under their grief, as a matter of social duty substantiate these latter facts. The evidence being closed, Mr. Woodburn was allowed to make a few observations. He said that such an accusation as this, and the situation in which he stood, appeared to him a dream,—seemed to his sober senses impossibilities. Yet, he so highly reverenced human life and those laws of his country which were established to protect it, that he did not object to stand there to answer to any charge of the nature which circumstances might make in the least degree colourable against him. All that wounded him was that any man or men who had known his general character, tone of mind and life for half a century, should suppose him capable of lifting his hand, under any circumstances, against any human being. Now he was ready to confess that there was that in the manner and dogmatism of Mr. Drury which grated on his own feelings, and of late had held him at a distance from him, and he admitted that he had uttered a wish in the hearing of his workpeople, that some fortunate circumstance would take Mr. Drury out of the neighbourhood. “It was some fortunate circumstance, gentlemen, that I especially spoke of,” said Mr. Woodburn, “and sincerely wished, namely, that from Mr. Drury’s eminent abilities in agricultural science, knowledge of stock, and other things, he might obtain a stewardship from some nobleman or great landed gentleman at a distance, which would remove him out of my immediate neighbourhood. But that I should have wished any evil, much less that I should personally attempt any evil against Mr. Drury, to whose only daughter my only son was engaged, or that I should wish, or try to enact evil against any human creature whatever, I am sure can never enter the mind of any one of my neighbours who know my character and habits. As the circumstances given in evidence show, moreover, that so far as I was concerned, the murder of Mr. Drury, if murder it shall be proved, was an absolute impossibility, I contend that there is no case against me. At the same time I trust that no exertions will be omitted to obtain some clue to the real causes and perpetrators, if such there be, of this, by me most deeply deplored event.”

Numbers of gentlemen, as well as neighbours of Mr. Woodburn, of different classes, came forward to bear testimony to the uniformly high moral character of Mr. Woodburn; amongst them Mr. Heritage, Mr. William Fairfax, Mr. Simon Degge, the Rev. Thomas Clavering, &c.; whilst Sir Henry Clavering and Mr. Degge gave their opinion that there was not an atom of a case against him, and voted for his instant discharge. A long and warm discussion took place; the friends of Sir Benjamin Bullockshed were strong on the bench, and a majority was obtained for the committal of Mr. Woodburn for trial at the March Assizes. It was not a bailable offence, and Mr. Woodburn was committed to the felons’ side of the county prison. Sir Henry Clavering and Simon Degge, however, exerted their influence so far as to procure him comfortable apartments in the gaol, and the privilege of admittance to his immediate connections and intimate friends. The Rockville faction having so far obtained their desire for his incarceration and trial, were willing to make a grace of affording him all alleviations consistent with his security.

The sensation in Woodburn and the country round on the news of this extraordinary fact exceeded anything known in the memory of man. Bins’ Farm, deserted by its afflicted inhabitants, was not so melancholy a place as Woodburn Grange, whence Mrs. and Miss Woodburn had fled to be near the beloved husband and father in Castleborough. George only was seen occasionally there, giving orders, and returning hastily to the town. Sir Henry Clavering was nearly as little at Cotmanhaye, but in turn occupied with all sorts of thoughts and plans for the comfort of Mr. Woodburn, for supporting the dreadfully oppressed minds of his family, and for prosecuting inquiries in the country if possible to catch some small thread, if it were only that of a gossamer, to lead to a solution of the mystery of Wink’s Ferry. He inclined to the belief in its being murder, and that some cause might yet lead to the detection of the murderer. The only thing which puzzled him and others was the absence of any evidence of robbery.

Poor Letty Thorsby! This frightful turn of affairs had once more broken down the few supports which she had found in her own prior affliction to her resolute determination to work for her husband’s reform. She fell into violent convulsions on the first news of the astounding charge, and, when admitted to see her father, she rushed to his neck with a wild cry and fainted in his arms. It was many days before she could rally in her that strong part of her soul which had borne her so bravely through so much before. The whole sorrowful family were at Letty’s, where also Sir Henry Clavering was almost always. Horrible fears assailed them lest, after all, the most terrible result might take place—the did condemnation of Mr. Woodburn. In vain Sir Henry scout any such idea, declaring that there was not a single iota of ground to go upon against Mr. Woodburn. That, independent of his character, there was no proof whatever of his or indeed, yet, of any one’s participation in this catastrophe; but, on the contrary, he had positive proof against it. But the unhappy sufferers were haunted by cases of conviction under circumstantial evidence, and of persons suffering whose innocence was too late made manifest.

Sad and agonising were the days which passed over them—Sir Henry and other friends exerting all their ingenuity to inspire them with hope. It was only when they were with Mr. Woodburn that they forced themselves to appear cheerful and hopeful. For himself, he was calm and resigned. He would not believe that any sentence could be obtained against him upon such an utter absence of proof. He begged to have his favourite books, his Theocritus and Virgil, whose Idyls and Georgics carried him into the country; his Plato and Epictetus, whose philosophy and morals raised him above despondency; his Homer and Euripides, whose heroic narratives and dramatic life made him forget his actual solitude. Above all, his Bible and his favourite religious authors. These were brought, and various articles of furniture to make his rooms more agreeable, or to accommodate his friends who came to cheer him. Amongst these were often Mr. and Mrs. Heritage, Mr. William Fairfax, and the different members of the Degge family. The gaoler, Mr. Wright, was a man noted for his intelligence and kindness, and stretched Mr. Woodburn’s privileges to the utmost limit of his own responsibility. He contrived to allow Mr. Woodburn the range of the prison-yard when the other prisoners were in their cells, so that he could enjoy sufficient exercise without being exposed to unwelcome notice.

So passed on that long and miserable autumn, that long and melancholy winter. During this time Letty received a letter from her husband, which informed her and Mr. Barnsdale that he had followed on the trail of the flying miscreant, through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and into Ohio. The man seemed possessed by a spirit of unrest, or of fear of pursuit, which kept him constantly in motion. Sometimes he had been on his very heels; sometimes he lost his trail for weeks. In his lonely journeys he had met with some strange occurrences, too numerous to detail; but everywhere he carried in his pocket-book the severe letter of Mrs. Heritage, and inflicted a proper penance on himself by looking at his past image in it, as in a glass. “Ah!” he said, “it is in these long, solitary journeys, through deep woods and through swampy jungles, or amid total strangers, that the brightness and beauty of his once heavenly but abused home came over him with a force which made him curse his now inconceivable folly. And yet,” added he, “that will-o’-the-wisp nature in me is not yet extinct. One day I came upon a great camp-meeting in the midst of the woods, and after witnessing the strange scene for some time I was seized by a spirit of fire, and sprung up into a waggon, and poured forth a harangue on sin and its sorrow; on the strength of weakness in some souls carrying them like maniacs into the whirlwinds of crime and woe; on repentance and backsliding; on heaven and damnation, in such a rush and hurricane of passionate speech, such cries of despair and shouts of ‘Help! help!’ within me to God and Christ, as drew the scattered thousands around me, and flung them into the wildest commotion and shrieks and ejaculations; which seemed more like the riot of a raging ocean tempest than the tumult of human creatures. Suddenly I dropped down, and disappeared amongst the trees; but for days and weeks afterwards I heard of what they called ‘The Wild-fire Preacher,’ who came and went so mysteriously.”

Thorsby related that one evening having made his camp for the night, and cut down boughs of the hemlock pine for his bed, an old Friend rode up, and asked leave to pass the night by his fire. He was a small, light man in sober home-spun clothes, who having hobbled out his horse, came and sat down, and drew from his wallet bread and dried venison, and invited Thorsby to partake. He said his name was Jesse Kersey, and that he was on a religious journey into the back settlements. After they had conversed till rather late, the stranger informed Thorsby that his father had left him a good property. Thorsby asked him in what it consisted,—in land? No. In houses? No. In money? No. In teaching him to live on a little. “He who has that fortune,” said Jesse Kersey, “can never want. I would give thee this as a safe rule of life—

‘Keep within compass, and thou wilt be sure
To shun many evils that others endure.’”

The old man having said this, tied his handkerchief round his head for a nightcap, drew his rug over him, and saying, “Farewell, friend!” dropped instantly to sleep, and slept like a child till morning. Thorsby himself lay long, and thought on the truth of the old man’s simple philosophy. In the morning, as they rode on through the deep forests together, Jesse Kersey dropped gradually into a silence. Thorsby addressed to him some remark, but receiving no reply, he cast a glance at his companion, and observed that he was deep sunk in reverie. At length the old man said—

“Stranger and yet friend, I am drawn by that life which wells up in the heart like the spring in the desert, and the soft breeze on the solitary plain, in tenderness and loving concern towards thee. Of thy past life or outward circumstances I know nothing but what thou hast said, that thou art from the old country; I am, however, made inwardly sensible that there are two natures striving in thee for the mastery. There is the spirit and life of good, and the spirit and life of vanity, and the word to thee which arises in me is—Be prayerful and bewareful. Oh, I see a fire in thee which might be that of which I have lately heard in the so-called ‘Wild-fire Preacher,’ Oh, it is a quick, leaping, overleaping, perilous fire, capable of causing thee to spring out of the cool soberness of peace and wisdom, as it were, into the very pit of perdition. Friend! beware! beware! beware! Put thy heart into the hand of Almighty God. Oh, pray Him fervently, most fervently to chastise it, and press it down, and crush out of it this high-leaping and unruly fire! And the answer in my spirit is—Yes. God shall so press down the life within thee; so crush and control thy spirit by severe labour and discipline, by passing the waters of affliction over thy had and by awaking deep searching thoughts in thy own solitary heart, that this fire shall be extinguished, and the solid ground of peaceful wisdom shall be laid within thee, and thou shalt be made to experience the beauty of holiness and the thoughts of him whose heart is stayed on God.”

Thorsby added that he himself had here broken down, and had wept like a child, wept long and silently as they travelled on, and he had prayed that every affliction might befall him which should arm him with this blessed strength. His heart had been drawn to this old Friend as to a father, and he had travelled on with him a fortnight, attended his meetings, and seen with daily increasing wonder the loving and single childlike simplicity and faith of this apostle of the woods. It was with a violent effort that he had torn himself away from him, and that he was now about to penetrate into the woods and hills of Indiana.

It may be imagined what a consolation this letter was to Letty Thorsby amid the dark days now lowering over her and her whole family, and she, too, prayed that God would spare no correction to her husband which would leave him sobered and strengthened into permanent stability.

Spring was once more advancing, but to the afflicted family and the prisoner at Castleborough it came only with anxious fears and dreadfully depressed spirits. The Woodburns, collected together at Letty’s, were very very low in heart; and Mr. Woodburn himself, as time drew on, became very restless and desponding. He had borne up well, and said very little about his case, except that it would be all right. But as the time of trial approached and no new light whatever had been cast on the mystery of Mr. Drury’s death, he began to be very low too.

Sometimes, after sitting long in silence, he would suddenly seem to wake out of a reverie, and say, “It is strange, very strange that nothing turns up.” His family would say, “Very strange, indeed; but we must trust in God.” And once or twice lately he had startled them by saying, as if angrily, “Yes, trust in God, that is always the word; but is there a God at all?”

The shock this gave them was dreadful. Ann exclaimed, “Oh, dear father, don’t, don’t let go your faith in God! Think what mercies He has shed on your whole life. Think on the love by which you are surrounded, on the influential friends ready to do everything possible for your defence.”

“If anything,” said Mr. Woodburn, “would make me doubt the truth of Christianity, it is those very ready, flourishing promises that it abounds in. ‘Whatever ye ask in my name, believing, ye shall receive.’ ‘Seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened; ask, and it shall be given you.’ Now, have I not asked day after day, in the name of Christ, that the truth might be revealed in this case? Have I not sought, and knocked, and asked, and all to no purpose?”

“But, dear father,” said Ann, in the greatest perturbation, “the time is not yet over and past. Our time is not God’s time. He may wish to try us all, and may solve the enigma even at the last moment.”

“It may be so,” said Mr. Woodburn, gloomily; “but what does it mean where it says that if any man lose houses or land or wife or children for Christ’s sake, he shall receive tenfold more in this world of houses, land, and the rest of it, and in the world to come life everlasting? Now, Ann, I have heard of thousands being ruined, and even burnt and killed for Christ’s sake, but I never yet heard of one who received tenfold property for what he lost. These things make one believe the whole to be a cunningly devised fable. If the Gospels are not true altogether, they may not be true at all.”

Ann sat and wept bitterly for a long time; then getting up and throwing her arms round her father’s neck, and looking with her streaming eyes into his face, she said, “Oh, father, if you let go your faith in our dear Redeemer, you let go everything, and make us all miserable beyond words. Wait, wait a little, and I feel sure all will be well. For myself, I would rather lose life, liberty, fame, everything, than my trust in God.”

“But why should God,” added Mr. Woodburn, “treat his servants worse than the devil and the world treat theirs? I see continually those who neither think nor care about religion flourishing like green bay trees, and the good left to all sorts of troubles.”

“Oh, don’t talk in that manner!” exclaimed Ann. “Shall we expect an eternity of good, and shall we shrink from a trial for a few years? Shall we serve and trust in God only for selfish ends? Oh, no, indeed; we do need refining by fire. But, dear father, your mind and health are hurt by this confinement and suspense. But, I say, and ever will say, ‘Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’ Remember God has an eternal recompense to offer for all our sorrows here, but the devil and the world have nothing to offer us after this little life.”

These moments of despair in Mr. Woodburn were the severest trial of all to his disconsolate family. But the March assizes were at hand, and the preparations which his friends were making for his defence tended to occupy his mind and relieve his spirits. Sir Henry Clavering never for a moment doubted of his instant and complete acquittal, and his steady, cheerful views and active exertions acted as a great solace to the Woodburns. He and George, assisted most zealously by Simon Degge, Mr. Heritage, and Mr. Fairfax, had arranged a considerable amount of evidence, which though it brought no nearer to the light the real perpetrator of the murder, if it were one, showed, they thought, sufficiently that no suspicion could fall on Mr. Woodburn.

The assizes had at length arrived. Mr. Baron Garrow had arrived and opened his commission. Mr. Woodburn’s case, as it occurred immediately after the midsummer assizes, was the first on the calendar. Vast was the excitement connected with it. The singular mystery of the affair, the character and position of the prisoner, were circumstances sure to awake a most lively interest. The town was crowded by people from all parts of the country round, and the county court was filled in a few minutes to repletion. Most of the families of distinction of the county and town were in the galleries. We will not go at great length into the details of the trial. Mr. Sergeant Giffard was the counsel for the crown against Mr. Woodburn, and he was defended by his old friend, Mr. Balguy of Derbyshire. Sir Henry Clavering had entreated him to have other and very celebrated counsel from London, but Mr. Woodburn steadily refused. He said, “No, he had perfect reliance on his friend Balguy; though he practised only as a provincial barrister, he was a man of the soundest judgment, one who had known him all his life, and could speak personally to his character. Besides, he would not have it imagined for a moment that his case required the subtle lights and arts of a brilliant oratory. He wanted merely a plain statement of plain facts.”

When Mr. Woodburn was brought in and placed in the dock, there was a silence like death throughout the court. The sensation was profound. He was attended by his son and Sir Henry Clavering, who were accommodated at each side of the dock; so that they could encourage him, and communicate for him with his counsel, seated just under him. Mr. Woodburn looked calm, but somewhat pale, and his intelligent, thoughtful, and amiable aspect was anything but that of a murderer. “That man,” said many a lady to her friend near her, “never committed a murder.” “No,” some gentleman replied, “one would not think it; but one cannot tell what a growing animosity may stir a man to, in some unguarded moment.”

The case was opened, the indictment read, and Mr. Serjeant Giffard rose. He called first witnesses to show that there had been a considerable and, as he termed it, a bitter feud betwixt the prisoner and Mr. Drury; he proved the unguarded expressions of Mr. Woodburn in the hay-field, and that the prisoner was the last man seen coming from the ferry where Mr. Drury was found, as he said, in his blood. In his address, which followed, he dwelt on these proofs of an animus in Mr. Woodburn’s mind against Mr. Drury, and treated his words only four days before the catastrophe as words of menace, or at least of a wish to have Mr. Drury put away. The catastrophe following on the immediate heels of these words, what could it be deemed but the direct result of them? Then the fact that no amount of inquiry, nor the offered reward of 300l., had been able to elicit a single atom of evidence implicating any other person, must be held, in his opinion, as most decisive. Why had no such evidence transpired? The answer in his own mind, said the counsel, was that no such evidence existed; and that the fair and damning inference was that the man, who was known to have a standing feud with the murdered man; who had uttered words of a vindictive and even minatory character; the man who was last seen coming from the fatal spot, and that only just before the discovery of the horrible circumstance, was the person guilty of that deadly crime. He had wished the country might be fortunately rid of the person so offensive to him, and there was the finale. He dwelt especially on the fact, that no robbery had been committed; it was clearly a case of vengeance in a mind where money offered no temptation.

It was with a deep and breathless feeling that the spectators saw the counsel for the defence rise. He observed that his learned friend had galloped to a conclusion, for which there was not a single atom of foundation. He had talked of a murder, yet there was no proof of a murder. An unhappy accident in crossing the ferry; a fright on the part of the horse, and a kick on the head of the unfortunate owner as he stooped to pull the chain, would probably explain it all. Now he had known Mr. Woodburn all his life from his school-days, and he would pledge his whole character, conscience, and existence to the jury, that Mr. Woodburn was as incapable of a murder as he was of flying. No, he would not tread on a worm if he knew it. He would call evidence to show that it was as improbable as it was, in fact, impossible. His learned friend had talked of a feud betwixt Mr. Woodburn and Mr. Drury. Why, this feud was of so mild a kind that the only son of Mr. Woodburn was on the point at the moment of the catastrophe of being married to the only daughter of Mr. Drury. His learned friend had left it to be inferred that Mr. Woodburn was the only man in the neighbourhood who felt any antagonism to Mr. Drury. He would bring forward proofs that Mr. Drury had made many bitter enemies, he would not say justly, but simply by the introduction of new machines, and new fashions of farming, and by his active, energetic, and, perhaps, somewhat peremptory and exacting character; he had made those enemies amongst the lower and more ignorant class, who were far more likely to commit an outrage in their revenge than a gentleman of Mr. Woodburn’s well-known character—than a gentleman whose family was on the very point of forming the most intimate ties with the family of Mr. Drury. As to the question of crossing the ferry, he would show that it was impossible that Mr. Woodburn could have been present at the catastrophe, for he had witnesses to prove that Mr. Drury did not leave the hay-meadow beyond the river till nearly half an hour after Mr. Woodburn was seated quietly with his family at tea in his own garden.

This last assertion produced an instant and evident sensation throughout the whole place. The judge on the bench, with whom were seated several noblemen and gentlemen of the county, the counsel at the bar, the people throughout the court, were engaged in conversation on it. There was a general buzz and murmur of voices in the court, when the clerk of the arraigns called, “Silence!” and Mr. Balguy began with his witnesses. He produced a number of farmers of the neighbourhood, who declared that they had heard the severest language of hatred used by their labourers against Mr. Drury, adding they would not be in his shoes for a trifle. They said this was not only on account of his using so much machinery, but on account of his timing them, and docking their wages, and his slave-driving way, as they called it. Many labourers were called who gave the same evidence. Mr. Balguy then called several haymakers to show that Mr. Woodburn’s words were, not that he wished something would fortunately rid the country of Mr. Drury, but that some fortunate circumstance would take him somewhere else. He next showed by the evidence of Mr. Drury’s own bailiff, who was in the meadows when Mr. Drury left, that it was half-past six o’clock by his watch, and then by the evidence of George Woodburn and Betty Trapps that Mr. Woodburn entered the house exactly as the old cuckoo clock in the hall struck six. That the time of the bailiff and of the clock at Woodburn Grange agreed, was also proved by the people of both farms going to and returning from work at exactly the same hour, morning, noon and evening.

This evidence having been gone through, Mr. Balguy said that little more was required. He would only remark that it was shown that there were many persons in the neighbourhood hostile to Mr. Drury. That Mr. Woodburn’s words in the hay-field were meant by him to express a wish that some stewardship, such as his eminent agricultural talents warranted, might call Mr. Drury from a neighbourhood where his views were not favourably received. That was the “fortunate” circumstance which Mr. Woodburn alluded to. Then, as he had shown by a complete alibi that Mr. Woodburn could not possibly be at Wink’s Ferry when Mr. Drury lost his life, he contended first, that if that catastrophe were a murder, it could not have been perpetrated by Mr. Woodburn; and secondly, that it had yet to be shown that it was a murder at all. He was, therefore, sure that the jury would acquit his client instantly and entirely.

The judge in summing up, came to the same conclusion. It was, he said, for the jury to decide, whether what had been shown to be impossible, if the respectable evidence of Mr. Drury’s own bailiff, and of the family of the prisoner as to time, was to be believed, could be possible: for his own part he did not believe in impossibilities. The jury consulted for a moment, and the foreman arose and declared the unanimous verdict to be—Not Guilty!

The effect of these words was an instant burst of uproarious applause throughout the court. Hats were waved violently; white handkerchiefs were waved as actively; the friends of the prisoner were shaking hands with one another, and rushing to shake hands with him, and all the time the judge was looking half-menacingly, half-laughingly, and saying something that nobody could hear, and the clerk of arraigns was shouting “Order! order!” with all his might. Of course the judge was trying to tell the offenders that if they did not keep quiet he must order them into custody, which was such an excellent joke, the offenders being the whole assembly, except a few of the Rockville and Bullockshed clan, who looked dark and significant of dissent, that old Baron Garrow, who dearly loved a joke, enjoyed the uproar as much as any of them.

Sir Henry Clavering had slipped away by a private door from the court, and run to carry the news to the family of Mr. Woodburn, who were awaiting in direst anxiety the result of the trial. They were standing at the window ready to catch the first sign of an approaching messenger, when a triumphant wave of his hat made them aware that all was right, and he rushed into the house to find himself caught and embraced and kissed and wet all over with tears of joy by every one there. Quickly came Sir Henry’s carriage, bringing Mr. Woodburn and George. We must leave the reader to imagine the scenes that followed. The husband and father stood amongst them once more, freed from every charge or shadow of suspicion of the odious crime imputed to him. That same evening a long train of carriages was seen driving from Mrs. Thorsby’s house out of the town, and taking the way towards Woodburn. There were those of Mr. Degge, of Mr. Heritage, Mr. Fairfax, Sir Henry Clavering, and the worthy Counsellor Balguy, as he was commonly called all through the Midland Counties. The bells were ringing in the steeples of Castleborough, and they were ringing at Cotmanhaye—Woodburn had no church—for Sir Henry Clavering had previously arranged all that in a most liberal manner, and that evening Mr. Woodburn stood once more under his own roof a free and unblemished man. All through Woodburn flags and garlands of evergreens, and shouting men, and women all tears and smiles, had made the drive a triumph. When these accompanying friends had taken their leave, and the happy family were left to themselves as in some strange dream, Ann came and softly dropped on her knees by her father, and taking his hand said, amidst tears of gladness—“Well, dearest father, God’s time is come!”

Mr. Woodburn stooped and kissed her affectionately, and said, “True, dear child, true—let us forget the hour and the power of darkness. You are far wiser than I am.”

“No, dear father,” said Ann. “No—the truth is, you have been tried far more than I have. But thank God that all this is over!”

CHAPTER III.

A WONDERFUL DREAM.

In the flush of happiness which immediately followed the acquittal of Mr. Woodburn, the long-deferred marriage of Ann Woodburn was celebrated. Sir Henry Clavering had proved himself a most noble and indefatigable friend through the whole dark season, and all were eager to confer on him his long and patiently sought prize, and to claim him as one of the family of the Grange. It was a pleasant morning in April when the wedding took place, the ceremony being performed by Sir Henry’s worthy uncle, Thomas Clavering, assisted by Mr. Markham, who, to his honour be it said, had most heartily protested against what he termed the atrocious prosecution of Mr. Woodburn. Not only was the outward spring breaking forth with her buds and dews and violets, but the inner spring of peace and joy was come back to the lovely fields of Woodburn. We need not say that all Woodburn, many friends from Castleborough, Cotmanhaye Manor, and all round there, some even from Rockville, had flocked to this auspicious scene, and many a warm wish was sent after the happy pair as they dashed away after the breakfast at the Grange, in Sir Henry’s carriage, on their way towards Paris. God’s blessing go with them, was the fervent prayer of the crowd of felicitating friends, as it is ours.

When they were gone, and the friends too, and that silence and strange vacancy fell on the house, which is deep in proportion to the love for the fair inmate carried away, Letty, who had worn on that morning something of her former bloom and gaiety, dashed with happy tears, said to her mother and father as they sat together in their old sitting-room, “None of us will ever forget the presentiment of Mrs. Heritage at our memorable May fête, for how strangely has it been realised? But perhaps you have forgotten that she pointed to an afterglow, and said that the days after the gloom should be more lovely and happy than before. As that dear, good woman spoke truth in one part of her prediction, I shall believe that she did in the other. Is not the present happy issue of that hideous, odious darkness a proof and a commencement of it? Is not this happy day another proof? And now I will read you a letter from my husband, which, though it may seem to you sad, is to me full of the happiest confidence.”

“What! have you at last heard from Thorsby again?” said her mother.

“Yes, dear mother; it is now seven months since I heard, and I began to have some serious fears of what might have befallen him: but you shall hear:—

“Cincinnati, March 7th, 18—.

“My Dearest Letty,—Probably you have thought me dead, and were not very sorry for it. No; you have always, even in the worst periods of my wretched life, shown such an admirable love for me, so undeserved, so badly requited; you have had such a wonderful faith in my coming some day right side uppermost, that I still flatter myself that you will be glad to see my hand-writing again. But the truth is, I have been at Death’s door, and all but in his ancient house. When I wrote to you in the autumn, I said I was going into Indiana. I had heard rumours of a man who very much resembled the one I was wanting to come up with, though out of no love to him, and was making my way to Indianopolis. I had reached a village not far from the Wabash, in a deep valley, and amongst enormous woods, where clearings and cultivation are but partial and scattered. I put up at a rude wooden public-house, where I was very miserably accommodated, but that was nothing new to me. When I came out of my room in the morning, which was on the ground-floor, my landlord, a tall, lanky woodsman, said, ‘Stranger, I guess I have but poor news for you. Some one in the night has entered the shed, and ridden off with your horse.’

“In my astonishment and consternation, I asked him why he thought so. ‘Just,’ said he, ‘because the crittur is not there.’ I rushed out as if I would be satisfied, but my horse, saddle, and bridle had disappeared, and my landlord, for my consolation, assured me that such scamps going through the country were often showing such a preference of riding over walking, at any one’s expense. The horror of my situation may be conceived. I had not money with me sufficient to purchase another horse, and to wait for an answer and remittance from New York would throw me into the winter. I determined to set out and reach Indianapolis on foot. For days I walked on in extreme anxiety, through woods, marshes, and intricate hills. Wet through and through, I at length took up my quarters for the night in the inn of another hamlet. The next morning I staggered forward on rising out of bed, from excessive dizziness, and in two or three days lost my consciousness in a delirious attack of fever. A week after that I awoke, weak beyond expression, and unable to move. I was told I had been in a raging condition, and corded down on my bed. It was some time before I could get out of bed, and on looking for my clothes, found my coat gone, and with it the whole of my money. I could get no satisfaction. The people of the house said there had been many strangers coming and going, and some one of them had clearly been a thief.

“What a situation! Here was I, above six hundred miles from New York, without a dollar, and without a full suit of clothing! My watch, too, was gone! I sat down in a mood of absolute despair, and wished I had died in my delirium. The people bade me cheer up, they said they would not charge me anything for their trouble. My inmost conviction was that they need not—they had paid themselves too well out of my property. But what was I to do? The man gave me an old coarse rough coat of his own: I accepted it, for it would prevent me from perishing. But how should I live? Winter was coming down, there was no work, but that of felling timber, and ploughing the new enclosures, and I had no strength for it; besides, the deep snow would soon put an end to that. But there was sufficient food to be had; the people of the inn said I might stay and recruit myself a little. I did so. I believed I owed them nothing, that the balance was really to my credit.

“But there was one man always busy, that was the blacksmith. I heard his hammer ringing on the anvil long before it was light in a morning, and often till late at night. In my lack of anything to occupy my time with, I wandered to his forge, and fell into conversation with him. He had heard my case, and rough as he seemed, he said he felt for me. ‘I wish I could swing a hammer like you,’ I said, ‘I would come and help you, for you seem to have too much to do.’

“‘I wish you could then,’ said he, ‘for I want a help dreadfully. But why should not you soon?’

“I shook my head. ‘I am too weak yet,’ I said.

“‘But there’s strength in hominy and pork and peach-brandy,’ he said. ‘Come to my log-hut; you can rest and feed till you feel your strength, and by-and-by, you can do a little.’

“I accepted his offer. Our living was, as he said, almost literally hominy and pork, but these suited my reduced system excellently, and in a few weeks I was strong enough to strike with the hammer against him. He had plough-shares and all the irons for ploughs and harrows, shoes for horses, and tiring and bushes for drays for the farmers around to make, and having nothing much else to do in the winter, they were always coming to demand them.

“Well, to make a short story of it, by degrees I became capable of striking with the big hammer against him. Day after day, from early morning till night, I thus toiled and sweltered. Oh, what mortal weariness, what aching bones were mine! Many a night I could not sleep for aching, bone-weary fatigue. There was a young child which cried continually in the room next to my little cabin of a place, and though the stout blacksmith snored through it all, it kept me awake when I could have slept. Through the long dreary winter I continued to beat the anvil, and earn my hominy and pork, hominy and molasses, hominy and milk. These were my chief articles of diet, and my three dollars a-week. There was no help for it. The forests around were impassable for snow; there was no communication with New York.

“But in those long laborious days, those dreary nights, in that dreary village of Tunckhannock, the scenes of my past life came before me in very different colours. Oh! what an idiot I saw myself to have been. The letter of Mrs. Heritage, which the thief had carried off in my coat—may it do him the good he greatly needs!—but which was engraven on my memory, and the words of that good old Jesse Kersey, they stood as if written in fire on my soul. I acknowledged the hand that had thus led me into this school of hard discipline, which had stripped me, and bruised me to the very core, and I poured out my soul in tears and wrestling prayers for the gifts of soberness and wisdom. If I am not greatly deceived, the fire-spirit, as Jesse Kersey called it, is beaten out of me. That big hammer and its ever-straining blows have tamed the wild blood in me. I feel another, ‘a sadder but a wiser man.’

“The favour of God, indeed, seems to be returning to me. In this city of the west, at the principal inn, whom should I discover but the man of my long and vain search. As I entered the room I saw him at a table opposite. He was no longer the brown-headed, sandy-whiskered man, but one with a head of raven hair, a clean-shaven face, and spectacles,—but I could never mistake those features. I cautiously withdrew and returned with a constable. My man very coolly assured us we were entirely mistaken in him. ‘If I am,’ I said, ‘this black hair is not false,’ and with that I lifted off his wig, and showed the brown crop beneath. We now searched his portmanteau, found papers fully identifying him, and to my joyful surprise three thousand pounds of my own money. A good Providence seemed to have compelled him to wander like a Cain, and to carry his spoil always with him.

“I have stayed to see him put on the treadmill of the prison for three years, and now I am about to travel on to New York. Boat and carriage are now at my command. In the summer I trust once more to see England, and a wife who will add to all her other undeserved goodness that of receiving her repentant and for-ever sobered

“Henry Thorsby.”

“Well,” said Mr. Woodburn, “God grant that he may be as completely sobered as he says. That big hammer is one of the best things for taming a man I ever heard of. If it has effected a cure, as we will hope it has, Thorsby ought to have it emblazoned in his arms.”

“Yes, truly,” said Mrs. Woodburn; “and I pray that it may have done that good work with all my heart.”

“And you can still forgive him, Letty?” said Mr. Woodburn.

“My dear father,” said Letty, smiling, “do you think I never say the Lord’s Prayer?”

“Oh! as to that,” said Mr. Woodburn, “I know scores who say it every night and morning, and yet never forgive anybody. They hug their spites like dear babies, and remember a small offence ten or twenty years after as keenly as they felt it the moment it occurred.”

“I don’t understand such people,” said Letty.

“They don’t understand themselves,” said her father. “Many of these people think themselves admirable Christians.”

“But,” said Letty, “if I am required by my Redeemer to forgive a brother, not seven times, but seventy times seven, how many times should I forgive a husband, whom I have sworn to take for better for worse? My notion is that so long as you can hope to reform and save a fellow-creature, you should not only forgive, but work hard for his restoration. If God permits me to reclaim an immortal being that He has thought it good to make, I don’t think I can be better employed.”

“Nor I, neither,” said Mr. Woodburn.

As time had worn on, after Mr. Woodburn’s acquittal, the first satisfaction of it had given way in his mind to deeper and deeper reflections on the brand which his neighbours had put upon him, in publicly accusing him of so atrocious a crime as murder. The more he pondered on it, the more it appeared like an ugly dream. No single trace of an explanation had yet shown itself of the real nature of the catastrophe. He knew that the Rockville faction still amongst themselves deemed him guilty of the death of Mr. Drury, and denominated the result of the trial a lucky escape for him. These reflections were intolerable to him, and he became extremely low and depressed. He did not like to be seen in public. He spent much time in hoeing and weeding in his garden, where he was out of the way of observation. Whenever he took a ride it was down the hollow road and up the narrow hedge-embowered cart-road by the river to Cotmanhaye Mill, and so out into Sir Henry Clavering’s fields. He sat for whole days together over his old classical authors, and in the society of his family fell into long and deep silences. All noticed this state of things, and became anxious on account of its effect both on his mind and his health.

Towards midsummer Sir Henry and Lady Clavering returned to Cotmanhaye Manor, and it was delightful to her family and friends to see her in her new home all brightness and happiness. A lovely home it was, and Sir Henry seemed proud of it because it gave so much pleasure to his wife. A series of dinners and fêtes were given after the reception days, at which all their friends from town and country assembled, and not only Letty appeared there with much of her early gaiety, but Millicent Heritage was observed to be cheerful and soberly happy. At these fêtes, however, Mr. Woodburn was rarely seen, he preferred walking up and talking with Sir Henry, his daughter, and the Rector in quiet hours, when they were alone. It was clear that unless some light could be thrown on the tragedy of Wink’s Ferry, his spirits never again could regain their wonted buoyancy; he must be a retiring and melancholy man: which was a heavy weight on the hearts of his family.

One day, towards the end of July, a traveller dropped from the top of the Derby coach at the manufacturing village of Beeton, and took his way across the wide meadows in the direction of Woodburn. The hay had been cleared, and numerous herds of cattle were grazing in them on the new-springing grass. The flowers of the meadow-sweet yet breathed out their fragrance as the traveller walked on by the long hedge sides, and along the dry footpath, with his eyes fixed on the distant heights of Woodburn and the woods of Rockville. He had evidently chosen this path that he might not be much seen; and as he observed some peasants coming along the footpath towards him, he crossed a gate, and sat down under the fence until they had passed. He then recrossed and pursued his way. This traveller was Henry Thorsby; but what a change! Instead of that bustling, mercurial air, he looked grave, and even sad. He was wondering, after all, notwithstanding Letty’s goodness, what sort of a reception he would meet with. He knew that he deserved nothing but reproach, and all the causes of such reproach rose up in his memory as he walked on. He had learned, too, from Letty’s letters, and the English newspapers, the whole strange story of Mr. Woodburn’s arrest and trial. It seemed that he was drawing near to a very different Woodburn from that of past times; and on reaching the river he hesitated whether to cross and go boldly on to the Grange, or sit down and spend his time in the solitary fields till he could steal away unnoticed to his house in Castleborough. But he knew that Letty was at the Grange, where she spent most of her time in endeavouring to cheer the spirits of her father. He resolved, therefore, to go resolutely on. If he were coldly received by the family, he knew that he deserved it, and he was prepared to endure his just punishment.

At Wink’s Ferry he paused and looked round, revolving in his mind the strange occurrence of Mr. Drury’s death. All looked calm, and serenely smiling as ever. He pulled himself over, and passing through the branches of a great old hazel-bush—a way well known to him and George Woodburn—entered the orchard, and so proceeded through the garden to the house. With a hesitating step and beating heart he entered the well-known sitting-room, and the next moment found himself with a wild cry of joy in the arms of his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn stood in silent surprise, and with feelings that it would be in vain to attempt to describe. Over that sacred scene of the Return of the Prodigal Son, and the forgiving hands that were extended to him, let us draw the veil of domesticity, and of silence.

For some time Thorsby remained at the Grange, and only ventured to take the secluded path in the dusk of evening towards Cotmanhaye Manor, where he was cordially received. The letters he had written to Letty, and the altered appearance of his person, where the solidity of middle age seemed to reign, and the subdued tone of his mind, had produced a great revulsion in his favour. It was some weeks before Letty could inspirit him to face Castleborough and all the comments of his old townsmen, but at length even this was effected; and people saw with astonishment Thorsby going with sober steps from his house to his warehouse. The surprise of this re-appearance was extreme; and afforded subject for abundance of discussion. Thorsby sought no recognition from his old acquaintances; when he met them, spoke passingly to them; and when anyone offered him a hand he took it cordially; but there was a gravity about him that strangely impressed even those of the greatest levity. He looked like a man who had passed through some severe furnace of affliction, some profound trouble of which the shadow still haunted him. All thought he looked ten years older; and by degrees his steady devotion to business, and the assurances of Mr. Barnesdale that he was a wonderfully changed man, began to give him a new status in public opinion. His wife seemed as happy as if no grief had ever passed over her, and she and her husband, with their now lovely flaxen-curled little boy between them, might be seen driving after business hours towards Woodburn. There it was that Thorsby seemed most at home, except in his own house. He felt deeply grateful for the kind reception he had met from every one of the family, and was very anxious to contribute all he could towards diverting that load of melancholy which weighed more and more on the spirits of Mr. Woodburn.

It was on a beautiful morning in August that Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn, George and Letty were sitting in the cool old house-place. Breakfast was just over, and Letty had nodded a loving greeting to her husband as he rode past the front garden on his way to business, holding up in her arms little Leonard, to make his greetings with a pair of little chubby but active hands. George had taken down the Bible, for they had adopted the custom of the Friends of Fair Manor, of reading a chapter after breakfast. He had just commenced the reading of the twelfth chapter of St. Luke, and reached the second verse,—“For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.”

Mr. Woodburn did not wait for the conclusion of the reading, but said, “Ay, see there now! that is one of those promises which are so freely made in these Gospels, and that are not fulfilled. We know that too well.”

George paused, and was about to go on again, for such remarks were too frequent from Mr. Woodburn to be immediately replied to, when there came the postman’s rat-tat at the door, and Letty sprung up with all a woman’s eagerness for letters, opened the door and took in a letter. She looked at it a moment, and said,

“For you, dear George. Bless me, a ship letter, and, as I live, from Dr. Leroy! Why, that is the first news of him that has reached England, so far as I know.”

She handed it to George, who began running it over to himself.

“He is well, I hope,” said two or three voices at once.

“But I have scarcely read a line,” said George. “How can I tell? You will hear all presently. It is dated from on board the Aurungzebe, in the Hoogly. Yes, he says he is quite well.” And George read on in silence again. Suddenly they saw a deeper interest expressed in his face. He read on with a sort of hurrying avidity.

“What is it? What is it?” asked the impatient Letty.

“What is it?” said George. “It is most extraordinary, and yet it is only a dream.”

“A dream? Oh, a dream only, and does that so astonish you George, as I see it does?” continued Letty.

“Listen then,” said George; “listen, father. It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of, though it is but a dream. One thing, however, I observe, the letter must have lain somewhere a good while, it is much out of date.”

“On board the ‘Aurungzebe’ in the Hoogly,
July 4th, 18—.

“My Dear George Woodburn,—I write to you the first line of a letter that I have sent to any one since leaving England; you will see why. We have had a long, but a prosperous voyage. We discharged part cargo at the Cape, and another at the Mauritius, and have just cast anchor here. I have not yet visited Calcutta, that city of palaces, for yesterday as we came to anchor I felt a most unaccountable and gloomy weight oh my spirits. Amid all the bustle of quitting the ship by the passengers and saying good-bye to those who had become so familiar through a long voyage, this weight lay on me. In the night I dreamed a most frightful and extraordinary dream. Now you know that I am not superstitious; that my medical education has made me a firm believer in the invariable prevalence of law in God’s creation. Dreams, visions, stories of apparitions, are all to me furniture of the nursery; and yet how inconsistent I am! Twice in my life I have had dreams so vivid and life-like that, contrary to the ordinary run of my dreams, which I rarely remember, they have remained as clearly and firmly on my mind as actual broad-day facts, and, what is the more wonderful, they were found each to represent something which at the same moment was really passing in a distant place.

“God forbid that this should prove so, but it is exactly of the same kind, and I feel impelled to tell it you at the risk of being laughed at. Certainly I do hope that you will be able to laugh at me. All I ask is that if it be not true, you keep my counsel.

“Well then, I seemed to be somewhere in the great meadows between Woodburn and Beeton. The hay was all abroad, and numbers of people were busily getting it up. It was a splendid, still, reposing evening. I saw Mr. Drury amongst his work-people on his well-remembered tall, roan horse.”

“Oh!” was ejaculated by every one present.

“How odd too,” said George, looking at the date, “and this dream occurred on the night following the death of Mr. Drury. But to proceed.”

“As I looked round I saw two men cross Wink’s Ferry into the meadows, one with a hay-fork in his hand. They seated themselves under the alder bushes near the ferry and on the banks of the river. One of these men I recognised at once. It was that Nathan Hopcraft, who lives just below you, and whose powers of gormandising I have witnessed to my astonishment in your kitchen. His short, thick figure was exact. As usual in hot weather, his shirt-collar and bosom were open, displaying his red, sunburnt, and hairy chest, and his thick, muscular neck, which I remember him once speaking of in his stupid and cart-before-the-horse-way, saying, ‘I have a bull like a neck,’ meaning he had a neck like a bull. There he sat in his shirt sleeves, and with him a man I never saw before. He was a tall, muscular fellow of about thirty. At first view I thought him a keeper, for he had on leather leggings and a velveteen shooting-jacket, with ample skirts and pockets, capable of holding a hare each if necessary. He had black curly hair, and full black whiskers. His face was burnt brown with exposure, and on looking closer his expression was sullen and savage.”

“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed both Letty and her brother together. “Scammel! Scammel to the life! How extraordinary!”

“I soon saw,” continued the letter, “that he was no keeper; but the man had the look of one who had been degraded from a keeper to a poacher and ruffian. His clothes were dirty and weather-beaten; his coat was sun-burnt, of a ruddy brown, his hat was battered and shapeless. As I again looked towards the hay-field, I saw Mr. Drury leaving the people and riding towards the ferry. As he did that the poacher-looking fellow slunk into the bushes and disappeared. Hopcraft went upon the boat and stood ready to pull it over. As Mr. Drury rode on to the boat he touched his hat, and Mr. Drury appeared to say something to him, and then rode towards the prow of the boat, and sat looking forward ready to issue to the shore. But at the very moment that the horse set his feet on the boat, the ugly fellow issued from the bushes armed with the hay-fork, a very heavy one—a pitchfork for loading the hay on the waggons. He carried his shoes in his left hand, and set them down softly but quickly on the boat, and then, with the spring of a tiger, he darted forward, and struck Mr. Drury on the back of the head a furious blow. I shouted, as it seemed, as I saw the murderous intention; but the deed was done. Mr. Drury fell backward from his horse, dragging the saddle round after him, and would have gone overboard but that he was caught by the ruffianly looking fellow, and stretched on the deck of the boat. In the fright the horse reared, and, springing forward, fell into the river. For some time he seemed embarrassed by the saddle under his chest, and floundered about as if he would drown, but then he recovered himself, and got footing in the shallower part of the river.

“During this time, for I seemed to see both things at once, I saw the ruffian take Mr. Drury’s watch from his pocket and put it back again. He then took out a pocket-book from the breast-pocket of his coat, opened it, looked at some papers, and put the book back. Then he felt in his small-clothes pockets and drew out what seemed to be a considerable roll of bank-notes. These he thrust into his coat-pocket, and seizing the dead man by the shoulders, and Hopcraft seizing him by the feet, they flung him into the river. The ruffian then hurriedly slipped on his shoes, whilst Hopcraft pulled the boat to land. As soon as they set foot on land the ruffian gave some part of his roll to Hopcraft, who went down the river bank towards his house, driving the horse further down before him.

“But whilst seeing all this, in some singular manner, I saw during the whole transaction, two old people, man and woman, occasionally peep forth from amongst the bushes near the entrance to the hollow road leading to the village. The man had the look of a tramp with a sackcloth wallet on his back. The woman was in an old faded red cloak and battered black bonnet. Both walked with sticks.”

During this description the amazement of the listeners had momently increased, and their exclamations of surprise were continual. Now they said, “Oh! those are the Shalcrosses—exactly—to a hair! How wonderful!”

“But,” said Mr. Woodburn, “Dr. Leroy had heard, or read, in some newspaper of the affair.”

George looked forward in the letter, and said, “No; he says, he had not at the writing of this heard a syllable of news, or received a single letter, though he hoped for letters at Calcutta, but they could not possibly convey any such news. For you forget this dream occurred on the night immediately succeeding the catastrophe at the ferry.”

All sat in silent wonder. “Certainly,” said Mr. Woodburn, at length, “it is the most amazing dream that ever occurred;—but go on, George.”

“As the ruffian approached the end of the hollow road, these two old people came out and confronted him. They pointed towards the ferry, as if telling him that they had seen all, and the man made violent gestures in return, clenching his fist and seeming to menace them. Then he took out his roll, gave them some part of it, and they then hasted along the river-side cart-track, and disappeared together in the wooded glen above on Mr. Woodburn’s estate. Whilst they were yet in sight, Mr. Drury’s horse galloped up the river-side and turned up the hollow road towards the village. In a few minutes more men appeared looking full of affright, went down to the ferry, and were evidently seeking Mr. Drury.

“That was my dream. I trust that it is but a dream. I cannot persuade myself that any such horrible transaction has taken place: yet, shall I confess it? the distinctness as of life itself with which the whole of it was seen, and with which it remains, combined with my two former experiences of similar, though not so tragical a kind, makes me uneasy. Write to me, dear George, at the ship agents’, Calcutta, Messrs. Mac Campbell and Dimsdale; I shall get it, perhaps, as I come back, for Captain Andrews, of the Aurungzebe, is going to China with a cargo of opium, to reload there with tea for England, and has persuaded me to accompany him. He offers me great terms to accompany him home again, when he expects distinguished passengers, and as I have taken a great liking to him, perhaps I may,—who knows? Ah, if I had but one happy word from England, I would accept the invitation as the message of an angel. But England lies cold on my heart: and I have flattering prospects held out to me of a practice amongst the invalids in the Nilgherry Hills. Well, time must decide.”

“There are messages of friendship to you all,” said George, “and to others; the rest we can read another time, but the surprising nature of this dream makes my head swim.”

“I believe every word of it,” said Letty, “is as true as gospel. The facts, as far as they are known, are as exact as if related by an eye-witness. Why should the rest not be equally exact? That Dr. Leroy should see in his dream Scammel and the Shalcrosses whom he does not know, is so extraordinary that it is to me a pledge of the truth. And did not the Gospel, at breakfast, say that whatever is hidden shall be revealed?”

“The coincidence,” said Mr. Woodburn, “is certainly very curious—the dream is very curious; but would to God that it were anything but a dream!”

“Father,” said George, “one thing is certain, it has put us on a track that we can quickly follow out. We can set on foot a careful, well arranged inquiry after these people mentioned. I have not seen Scammel or the Shalcrosses for a long time. If Scammel be the murderer, he has good reason to avoid the neighbourhood, and to keep the Shalcrosses away. A fellow more likely to do such an act I do not know: and another thing strikes me. Hopcraft, who used to be so famous for his cabbage and potato-garden, his fat pigs and his hens—look at him now; he has, almost ever since the date of Mr. Drury’s death, been going back in the world. He killed his pigs at Christmas, but has not bought any fresh ones, though young pigs are plentiful and cheap. His hens are gone, and his garden is a chaos. He seems to have no heart to work it. He has, as you know, been on the parish these six months, and his wife looks more like a scarecrow than a woman. I asked him how all this has come about one day lately, and he said he had no luck. That is true; he has no luck because his conscience, it is my firm conviction, is not at ease. But I will ride up to Sir Henry, and show him the letter, and if he thinks it warrants it, we will set about to sound these fellows.”

George ordered his horse, and rode off; in less than an hour he and Sir Henry came riding back together.

“Well,” said Sir Henry, “this is a very wonderful affair.”

“You believe it then?” said Mr. Woodburn, who was evidently getting into a state of great excitement.

“I believe every word of it, and so does Ann—by the by, she will be down here directly,” said Sir Henry. “My father would have been delighted with it. He had been so much in the East, that he had seen a great deal of the amazing powers of what are called magic, or the occult, which are exercised there by some of the most powerful chiefs. The last thing that he would believe was in their fixed notion of the evil eye; but one day, in Greece, riding a most valuable and favourite horse, he saw a man sitting by the roadside, noted and dreaded for the possession of this evil power. On coming opposite, and the man looking hard at his horse, it dropped suddenly as if shot, under him, and was stone dead. A wonderful coincidence, at least, my father used to say.

“But now, for prosecuting this important inquiry. It must be cautiously and unobtrusively done. That Joe Scammel is a desperate fellow, and as wide awake as a hare in March. The slightest suspicion, and he would be gone far enough, for he ranges over a great extent of country. I was surprised to find him as well known to keepers of Staffordshire as he is here. I have an idea which George approves. This is to set Tom Boddily on this quest. He is the most knowing fellow I have come across anywhere round here. He is an old soldier, and his living up and down in quarters has sharpened his wits. It was but yesterday that he came before us at the county hall in a very droll way. Our friend, Sylvanus Crook, was sent on Miss Millicent’s mare to Castleborough on an errand. It was a good distance from the town-house of the Heritages, where his errand lay. So instead of Sylvanus taking the mare to their own stable, he put her up for the time at the Spread Eagle. It was market-day, and the stables were crowded. When he went back for the mare, behold she was not there.

“‘Where is my mare?’ asked Sylvanus in great alarm.

“‘Mr. Heritage’s groom took her,’ said the hostler, ‘and said you must ride home this,’ pointing to a wretched animal not worth ten pounds. Sylvanus asked what sort of a man this groom was, and was told a man in a drab jockey coat with large buttons and top boots.

“‘That,’ said Sylvanus, ‘is no groom of ours; it is a hoax. Dear! dear! what will master, what will Millicent say? Man! man! thou hadst no business to let any person have my horse till I came.’

“Sylvanus hurried off to the bank. The theft and description of the horse and the thief were cried through the market; and handbills ordered to placard in all the towns round. You may imagine the consternation at Fair Manor, and the grief of Miss Heritage at the loss of her favourite May Dew. But about three o’clock next morning, Tom Boddily, who lives at a cottage on the green opposite to Fair Manor gates, sprung up in bed, saying,

“‘That’s May Dew.’

“‘You’re dreaming, Tom,’ said his wife.

“‘No,’ replied Tom; ‘I heard her neigh. I know that sharp, clear neigh well enough. And there it is again.’

“Tom slipped on his clothes; out and across the green towards the place whence the sound came, when, to his amazement, he saw May Dew standing at Fair Manor gates, with her nose put through the bars, and a great fellow fast asleep on her back, and his head resting on her neck. Quick as lightning, Tom ran back; with a handful of gravel woke up Tim Bentley at the Grey Goose, and told him to come down in a moment. Tim was soon down, wondering what was on foot, when Tom took him, making motions to keep still, and showed him May Dew with the fellow on her back. Tom then took May Dew by the bridle, and led her gently to the door of the Grey Goose.

“‘Now, Bentley,’ he said, in a whisper, ‘you must have this fellow in; he has evidently drunk some drugged beer somewhere, and the mare has come home with him. You must have the fellow in, and let him lie on the squab till morning. I’ll put up the mare and be back and get Latter, and we’ll secure the fellow.’

“Bentley then shook the fellow. ‘Heigh-ho!’ said he, ‘won’t you get down, stranger?’

“‘What is it?’ asked the fellow, drowsily.

“‘It is the Grey Goose public-house,’ said Bentley; ‘you’ll put up your horse, and have your nap out.’”

“‘Grey Goose?’ said the fellow. ‘Have you oats—have you good ale?’

“‘Both,’ said Bentley, and with Tom’s help they got the stupified fellow down, and into the house. Then he looked about rather more wakefully, and said—

“‘It’s queer how I came here; there’s d—d hockley indyberries in this beer. Landlord, you’ve a good tap, eh?’

“‘First-rate!’ said Bentley, ‘no bacca nor hockley-indy in our beer.’ He fetched the man a pint, who drank it off at a breath, said, ‘You’ve a safe stable, eh?’ and being assured of that, lay along on the squab, a sort of wooden sofa, and fell asleep again. Meantime, Tom Boddily led the mare to her own stable, and woke up Job Latter, who came with his handcuffs and a strap, and secured the fellow as he still slept in a stupid, drunken sleep. You may imagine the surprise and joy at Fair Manor in the morning; and I can assure you that Tom Boddily yesterday won great credit among the justices for his adroitness, when the case came before them.

“That really was very clever,” said Mr. Woodburn; “but what is Boddily to do? Had you not better take up Hopcraft on suspicion?”

“I doubt that,” said Sir Henry. “We must create no alarm. I would employ Tom to sound Hopcraft a little without exciting his alarm too much, and if he thinks him guilty, to set out to beat up Scammel before we arrest Hopcraft. We can keep an eye on Hopcraft meantime, he is so stupid a fellow that it won’t be difficult.”

Sir Henry immediately went up to Fair Manor, and returned, saying, “Mrs. Heritage believed Dr. Leroy’s letter was the Lord’s work, and Boddily should be put at once and wholly at our service.”

Soon after Tom made his appearance, and the matter being explained to him in confidence, he said at once—

“That’s it! My word for it, gentlemen, you have hit it. There is something wrong about that Hopcraft. He is sunk into a wretched pauper, and have not you noticed he is always looking behind him, at any little noise, as if he were afraid of a constable after him. As to that Scammel, I have not seen him for many a month. There’s something in that. He used to come to the Grey Goose of an evening, every now and then. But I’ll hunt him up if he is in the land of the living.”

As Hopcraft was in the cornfield reaping with other men, it was thought best not to say anything to him till evening, when he had gone home. In the meantime, Boddily went to prepare for his expedition after Scammel. In the course of the day he sent to the Grange a coarse brown linen bag to wait for him. In the evening he came hastily into the Grange, and being sent for into the parlour, where Sir Henry Clavering was again, he said, “It is a case! I have seen Hopcraft; I looked in as if in passing, and remarked that I thought he could not be well, his garden was so out of order. He said no, it was bad luck; he did not know how, but everything went wrong. I then asked where Scammel was now-a-days, I had not seen him for long. He was evidently alarmed at the mention of his name. He did not know, he said, and did not want to know; Scammel was a terrible fellow. ‘Do you think he had any hand in that murder at the ferry there?’ said I.

“‘Murder!’ said Hopcraft, ‘it was no murder—the horse kicked him.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I’ve some queer thoughts about that, and you know, Hopcraft, there are 300l. for any one who can find out who did that; a pretty sum. Suppose you and I were to go shares at that?’

“‘Don’t you meddle with it, Boddily,’ he said, evidently greatly frightened, ‘Scammel is a devil; he will be down on you like a shower of rain. Let him alone, I say, let him alone, in the devil’s name.’

“‘Then he must be somewhere near, to be so quickly down on one.’

“‘I know nothing about that; I say let him alone. Everybody says it was an accident.’

“‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘a little bird has whispered something to me. There were two people who saw the whole thing.’

“‘What who?’ said Hopcraft, pale and trembling—‘who said so—them Shalcrosses?’

“‘No matter,’ said I, ‘only, Hopcraft, as you live so near and may have seen something of the real fact, if you and I could bring it home to Scammel, that 300l. would be a very nice thing.’

“Hopcraft was now thoroughly frightened. ‘Mind,’ said he, ‘I know nothing, and I’ve said nothing; so don’t you bring me in any way.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘how can I, when you know nothing, and have said nothing?’

“‘Well, then,’ said Hopcraft, ‘you won’t say that you have had any talk with me, eh’?—you won’t, Boddily?’

“‘Oh, make yourself easy, Hopcraft,’ I said. ‘As you know nothing, what is the use of mentioning you? But now I must go, our folks will be wondering where I am. But, Hopcraft, if ever you do hear anything, tell me first about it, and let us get the three hundred.’

“This seemed to quiet him, and he said, ‘You may trust to me, Boddily; only be snug, eh? You won’t say a word of this?’

“‘What would be the use?’ I said, ‘if we are some day to find out something. As you say, Snug’s the word.’ And with that I came away, Hopcraft uneasily watching me through his garden hedge. He’s got a fright, and it will be well to talk to him a little cheerfully in the cornfield, occasionally, to allay any suspicions.”

“At all events,” said Sir Henry, “we will have an eye on him, he won’t escape us. But his mentioning the Shalcrosses is a settler. We have the thing by the end now. I congratulate you, dear Mr. Woodburn; all will soon be cleared up, depend upon it.”

“God grant it,” said Mr. Woodburn; and all present.

“And when are you off, Boddily?” asked Sir Henry; but receiving no answer he looked round, and saw that Boddily had disappeared. “Where’s Boddily?” he asked.

“Here!” answered a dirty, grimy, limping, shabby fellow, coming down the back stairs. All looked in astonishment: could that be Boddily? It was a regular lounging-looking tramp, in a ragged old surtout, and ragged drab trousers, worn off very much behind at the heel. A pair of very slip-shod shoes on, and great holes, or potatoes, according to Midland county phrase, in his stocking heels. A very old, battered hat on his head, and a canvas wallet on his back, tied up like a sack at the top, and suspended over his shoulders by very old cracked straps. “Can your worships bestow your charity on a poor fellow who has not tasted bit nor sup these three days?”

There was one general burst of laughter, for Tom had so completely metamorphosed himself that nobody knew him till he made this petition. Then, changing his tone, he said, “Gentlemen, now I am off—in my wallet I carry a suit of my ordinary clothes. You will hear from me every few days, and may God prosper us, for I mean to go to John o’ Groat’s or the Land’s End, but I’ll have that Scammel.”

With that Tom made a grave bow, put on his hat, and with a shuffling, limping gait, left the house by the front door, and with a dirty, ugly stick, very much in keeping with his whole appearance, he went slowly up the road till he was out of sight.

“That is a most extraordinary fellow,” said Sir Henry. “I would bet anything on his success; so now we must wait in patience for news from him.” With that he shook hands heartily all round, mounted his horse, and rode home.

CHAPTER IV.

SCAMMEL’S DEATH.

Some days disappeared after Boddily’s departure without news from him. There came a letter to say he had explored the neighbourhoods of the Bullockshed, Tenterhook, Sheepshank, and Swagsides estates, where game abounded, and where Scammel was known to haunt; but he had disappeared from those places for some time. There was no trace of him. A week more, and Tom had been through Elvaston and Shipley woods, and on into the neighbourhood of the preserves of the Dukes of Devonshire and Rutland, on the borders of the Peak of Derbyshire, and no news of him of late. Then another like interval, and Tom had explored the vicinities of the Lords Vernon, Bagot, Anson, and Gower, in Staffordshire, and still no news. Then he was bending his course towards Leicestershire. Amongst poachers, where Scammel was a great leader but a few years ago, he was now missed, and many thought him dead; but Boddily found nowhere any news of his death. In the lodging-houses of tramps, who came across all sorts of people accustomed to ply their daily or nocturnal arts amongst the farms and villages, no news. Tom was puzzled, but not disheartened. The man, he felt, had stepped out of his ordinary haunts for concealment. No such persons as the Shalcrosses were, or had been, seen for a good while in all the regions of trampdom. Wherever they lay perdu, they were, he felt sure, together.

During the time that Boddily was absent, Nathan Hopcraft had evidently grown more uneasy, and had gone over to Fair Manor one Sunday to inquire for him. Sylvanus Crook told him Thomas Boddily was away about his master’s business. He would tell him when he came back that he, Nathan Hopcraft, had inquired after him. But as Sylvanus was in the secret of Tom’s absence, to allay Nathan’s fears he went on to the house, and brought him out a large piece of cold roast-beef, wrapped in a newspaper, to take home with him—a most savoury offering to Hopcraft’s gigantic appetite.

It was towards the end of September when Tom suddenly made his appearance at the Grange. He had discovered Scammel. Far away in a heathery glen in Charnwood Forest, in Leicestershire, he had come upon a gipsies’ camp. It was mid-day, and all the men and younger women were absent on their rounds; a few old crones only were there, and an old cur or two, which ran out to a distance to meet and bark at Boddily. But there was something in Tom’s tramp-like appearance, and his quiet welcoming of them that soon silenced them, and they followed him and licked his hands caressingly. On coming up, Tom squatted down familiarly, and entered into talk with the old women. He asked them how far to the next village, and the houses best to call at. This information the old dames readily gave, and offered him some stew from their kettle on the fire, which sent out a savoury smell. But just as Tom was about to accept it, his eye casually fell on an open cabin, formed of sticks bent into hoop shape, and saw, lying on the straw there, fast asleep, no other than the man of his search. It was Scammel’s black head and sunburnt sullen face, and no mistake. Tom nodded familiarly towards him, and said, “The palla there looks tired.”

“Yes,” said one of the old women, with a significant smile; “out much at night—supplies the pot there.”

“Aha!” said Tom; “a good butty, that; don’t let us disturb him.”

“You can’t readily do that,” said another old woman: “when he does sleep a crack o’ thunner would not wake him.”

Tom despatched his stew, praised it highly, and then said he must make use of the day while it lasted, and visit some of the farms. He bade them good-day, and limped off. Tom had found his game, but he saw difficulties in taking it. Scammel had evidently allied himself with the gipsies to secure a retreat away from villages and lodging-houses, amongst which news circulates freely over the country; and with three hundred pound reward hanging over his head the fewer companions the better. He could turn out at night, forage amongst the hares and pheasants, and sleep quietly under watch of the old crones in the day. They had allowed Tom to approach, from his orthodoxly trampish look; but how was he to approach by day over that open heath with men sufficient to take the ruffian napping?

Tom pondered this point long and anxiously as he strode along. “How shall I bring Latter, and, say, Ralph Chaddick, Sir Henry’s powerful head-keeper, to this camp, without starting the game and seeing Scammel run for it into the next woods? If he were once up, he would put a couple of bullets from his double-barrel through any two of us as soon as look at us.” Tom sat on a hill and looked round. Every way were difficulties. They could not approach the camp in any direction without coming into full notice from it. Though to-day all the men were away, it might not be so every day. If any of these were there, the difficulty was greater. Reflecting on these matters, and putting them into all possible shapes, Tom reached the next village, and entered the Cat and Fiddle public-house, and sitting down, called for his pint. As a tramp he did not presume to enter into conversation with the two or three farmers who were chatting over their glasses there. He soon learned that they had all got their harvests over, and were “taking their ease in their inn” a little, in a state of comfortable complacency over their good fortune. As Tom seemed to listen to their discourse with considerable interest, one of them said—

“Well, traveller, and have you got your harvest pretty well?”

“But middling, sir,” said Tom; “my fields lie rather wide asunder.”

“I reckon so,” said the farmer; “and a pretty good stock of gleaners in ’em.”

“True, sir,” said Tom.

“Yet you manage to get your bread, I daresay?”

“Well,” said Tom, “if I don’t get bread I manage to get cake, perhaps, or a piece of cold pudding. I never knew the want of bread, thank God, but once, and then I made a pretty good shift with pie-crust.”

“Oh, you did, eh?” said the man, brightening up; for he saw Tom had something in him; and a bit of clever talk was rather a novelty down there. The place was much troubled with stagnation of ideas.

“You’re not unreasonable, at any rate,” said the farmer, all the rest kindling up considerably.

“No,” said Tom, “not quite as unreasonable as a neighbour of mine, who, when he went home to his dinner, asked his wife why she had not made a pudding. ‘Because,’ said the wife, ‘there was no flour in the house.’ ‘Then,’ said the husband, ‘why did not you make a bit of a dumpling?’”

“Bread of idleness, I reckon,” said another, “is sweeter to you, young fellow, than any other, whether white or brown, fine flour or seconds, with a glass of summat strong occasionally to scare the cold off your stomach.”

“Gentlemen,” said Tom, “it’s no idle affair, I can assure you, to shuffle from town to town with a lame leg;”—and Tom drew his right foot in with an expression of well-affected pain in his face. “You’ve heard, no doubt, of the old man on his death-bed that his wife was giving a lot of messages to carry to her relations in the next world, when he interrupted her with, ‘Hold thy tongue, old woman; dost think I can go stumping all over heaven with my lame leg to carry thy gossip?’ That man knew, gentleman, what a burden a lame leg is.”

The farmers, who had evidently never heard of the stumping about heaven story before, laughed heartily.

“How did you get lamed, young man?” asked one.

“In service, sir.”

“What, you’ve bin a sodger, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ay, ay, that’s where you’ve picked up your knowledge. Now I see. I reckon you’ve learned th’ Eleventh Commandment?”

“No,” said Tom, “what’s that?”

“Not know that, an bin a sodger? Why, th’ Eleventh Commandment is—‘As new debts come on so fast, thou shalt not pay the old ’uns.’”

“Well, thank heaven,” said Tom, “I’ve no occasion for book-keeping. I’ve no credit to give, and I get as little. Blessed are those that have nothing, for they cannot lose it. Now, I reckon you gentlemen farmers find many slips betwixt the cup and lip. I can tell you of a funny thing as happened to an alderman of our town.”

“Where’s your town? I thought all towns were alike to your trade.”

“Well, that’s just it,” said Tom; “but Tag-town, in the land of Green Ginger, where the houses are built of black-puddings and thatched with pancakes, and with windows that used to be glazed with barley-sugar, but the lads have broken all the panes. That is my particular town; and there, as I was going to say, is a jolly alderman, a big, broadchested, hearty, laughing man he is, and pokes his fingers in your sides when he tells you a good story. Well, he has a fine, large garden, and in the middle of it a fine, large lawn, and in the middle of the lawn is a fine, large oak-tree. Now, the grass of the lawn had become thin, and the alderman told his gardener to dig up his lawn, and sow it with barley for the fowls, and next year they would turf the lawn again. The gardener thought this an odd fancy, but said he to himself, aldermen arn’t farmers, nor yet gardeners.”

“He wor right there,” said the farmers.

“Nothing would serve our alderman, but the lawn must be dug up and sown with barley, and so it was at spring. The barley came up and grew finely, and the alderman said to the gardener, ‘Well, John, we shall have a fine crop here.’

“‘No, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘you’ll excuse me, but you’ll just have none at all.’”

“‘None at all; why not?’ said the alderman. ‘It looks very healthy.’

“‘It does so,’ said the gardener; ‘but mark my word—you won’t have no barley here.’

“‘Why, how is that?’ demanded the alderman.

“‘I can’t just say,’ said the gardener, ‘but that’s how it will be.’

“The alderman thought the gardener very stupid, and every time he went round his garden he looked particularly at the barley plot. It grew and flourished, and as summer came in it shot into ear, and the alderman said to the gardener, ‘You’re all wrong, John. You never saw a finer, healthier, more promising crop of barley in your life.’

“‘That’s quite true, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘but mark my word, sir, you’ll never get a bushel of barley out of this plot.’

“The alderman was quite exasperated with the gardener, and went away saying, ‘You’re a fool, John, that’s all.’ The weather grew hot, and when the alderman went home on Saturday, the barley looked quite ripe, and he ordered John with much triumph to cut it on Monday.

“Now, the alderman, after his good dinner on Sunday, got an extra good Sunday nap in his arm-chair, and very cross was he to be woke up out of the sweetest sleep by somebody, and to see John, the gardener, standing in his Sunday suit before him, and with his hat in his hand.

“‘Hang it, John,’ said he, ‘you are getting more stupid than ever. Why do you come in and wake me up in this manner?’

“‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said John, ‘but I want you to come into the garden, and see a sight.’

“‘Be hanged to your sights!’ said the alderman; ‘what is it? Can’t you say what it is?’

“‘I can’t exactly say, sir,’ said John. ‘I’d rather your worship saw it yourself. You don’t see such a sight in a barley-plot every day.’

“At the mention of the barley, up jumped the alderman with a very red face, and nearly fell on the floor, for his legs were asleep yet; but, when he got a little right, out he went.

“‘Come quietly,’ said John, ‘as quietly as possible;’ and he led him along a grass-walk, and begged him not to speak, nor even to cough, or he would spoil all. At last, from under cover of the trees, he points, and the alderman, to his astonishment and consternation, saw the oak tree in the middle of the barley plot as black as his hat, all over with rooks, and the barley under was as black as his hat too. There were thousands and thousands, and they were all as silent as so many undertakers at a funeral. The alderman could stand it no longer, but out he rushed and shouted—Shoo! and up went the rooks with such a sough, and a whistle of wings, and a cacawing, that was enough to deafen a cataract itself.

“‘It is that cursed old crow,’ said the gardener, ‘that I seed perched on the tree yesterday morning at six o’clock when I came to my work. I knew he would go and tell all the crows round the country what a pretty barley-plot your worship had got here. I know them black gentlemen of old, and I’ve been expecting him some time.’

“‘Then why didn’t you shoot him?’ said the alderman in a great rage.

“‘Ha! shoot him!’ said the gardener. ‘I must cotch him first, and plug his nostrils up, for he can smell powder a mile off. But it is just what I said—it is all up with the barley.’

“‘Have done with your stupid nonsense,’ said the alderman. ‘Hire a dozen men, and have it all down in half an hour in the morning: but you had rather see those devils of crows eat it, eh? It would make your prophesying true.’

“‘Not a bit of it,’ said John; ‘I shall miss all this good barley in the winter for the fowls; but I knew how it would be.’

“The alderman went away very crusty: he had lost his nap, and a good deal of barley. Next morning comes John and three or four men, to mow and carry away the barley, to secure it from the crows, but the crows had been there for three hours before John came at six, and had not left a single ear on the stalks.”

“Well, seize me,” said one of the farmers, “but that’s a good story, and just like them rooks.”

“A deep old file that gardener,” said the others. “You know a thing or two, young fellow, we can see. Now I dare say as you go on through the country, you can put a bit of wire in your pocket and snickle a puss now and then. That makes a good supper at the lodging-house. There’s rare living there, I hear; jolly beggars all when you getten together.”

“There’s a deal of fun there often,” said Tom; “and if you farmers and the gentlemen landlords could but hear yourselves talked of by some witty rogues—taken off, as they call it—you’d hardly know yourselves again. But as to poaching, I can tell you the prettiest feat of that kind that ever came off, and done by a sort of a gentleman too.”

“Let’s have it,” said the farmers, for they had not had such an entertaining fellow for a very long while to listen to. “Landlord, another pint for him, to wet his whistle, it mun get dry with so much talk.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Tom; “but I never allow myself above a pint.”

“Then put this pint to our score, landlord,” said the farmer. “And this bit of poaching?”

“It was this,” said Tom. “In the town of C——ff, in South Wales, where I was once quartered with the regiment, there was a young fellow, a travelling portrait-painter. He dressed like a gentleman, but rather, just a bit, seedily, and he wore fine light boots; but one day I heard him say, as a gentleman was taking him to his house to paint some young ladies, ‘I see my boots are burst at the side; I am ashamed to go into a good house, and into the presence of ladies; but the misfortune is, my feet are so tender I can’t wear good boots.’ Thinks I, certainly not, but the tenderness is, I guess, in the pocket. Well this young fellow painted little portraits for lockets of many of the young gentlemen and their sweethearts, but somehow he never seemed to get richer. He was well known by staying in the town some months, and one day, passing a game-dealer’s, he saw a wonderfully fine woodcock. He stopped, admired it, cheapened it, and bought it for four-and-sixpence. ‘I’ll call and pay you for it in a day or two, he said to the dealer, but I will take it and show it to a friend.’ So he carried it away with him, went straight to one of the principal inns in the town, showed it to the landlord, and said, ‘See what I have brought you! It is the finest woodcock I ever saw, and fat too.’

“‘Oh, thank you,’ said the landlord; ‘you are very kind; you must come and partake of it to-morrow.’

“‘To-morrow—no, I can’t dine with you to-morrow, but I’ll stay and dine with you to-day instead, if you ask me; I don’t care myself for game.’

“Said and done. The artist knew that it was then exactly the landlord’s hour. They dined together, got very friendly over their wine; the landlord had the woodcock brought in to admire it afresh.

“‘By-the-by,’ said the painter; ‘it would be a shame to pluck that bird and not to take a portrait of it. Give me leave to carry it home, you shall have both it, and a good sketch of it, early in the morning.’

“‘You are very good,’ said the landlord; and the young man carried off the woodcock when he went. The next day, at the same hour, he went to another inn, played the same game, got another dinner, carried back the bird to paint it, but instead of painting it, he now skinned it, had the bird nicely dressed, cooked, and eat it himself. Immediately after dinner he carried the skin to a bird-stuffer’s, ordered him to set it up in his best style, and send it to the museum of the town. He left written on a paper—‘Presented to the public Museum of C——ff, by J. D——, Esq.’

“All this was done. The two landlords wondered that the woodcock never came, the bird-stuffer delivered the stuffed bird, and the label with it, to the keeper of the museum; but when both he and the game-dealer called for their money, they found that J. D——, Esq., had left the town immediately after this transaction. He had made three dinners out of the bird, and had received a vote of thanks from the committee of the museum, without its having cost him a farthing. The story is famous in C——ff, and the bird is conspicuous yet in the museum, and with the label of presentation attached, by J. D——, Esq.”

“My!” said the farmer; “that’s living by yer wits, and no doubt on’t. That wor a dead nap, that painter fellow. That woodcock wor worth keeping for a show.”

“Yes,” said Tom; “the painter made game of the game-dealer himself, and stuffed both himself, the landlords, and the bird-stuffer in first-rate style.”

“A pretty rogue, though,” said one of the farmers. “He wanted laying by the heels in the stocks for a few hours, and pelting wi’ mud.”

“Oh, trust him,” said Tom; “he’d get his deserts in the end. I never knew a dirty cur that went barking and nibbling horses’ heels, that did not get a clout on the head some day.”

As Tom said this, in came a countryman with a two-quart stone bottle, which he carried by a string tied by the neck. The landlord took the man’s money without an observation.

“You see that,” said one of the farmers; “our squire’s keepers complain dreadful of the decrease of their game in the woods there on the forest.”

“Ay, that they do,” said another, “and the cause is plain as daylight. It’s them gipsies camped there.”

“It’s one gipsy, a huge, dare-devil looking fellow,” said the first; “who lies in the straw all day, and turns out only at night. They should look out for him and nab him.”

“Ay, faith, but how?”

“Nothing easier,” said the first farmer. “This woodman lives in the cottage on the edge of the wood, just behind the gipsy camp. He’s in league with them, as I know. Every afternoon he calls here for the man’s ale—that’s his weakness—and every evening, punctually at eight o’clock, the big black fellow walks down there, and they empty that bottle together, and then it’s time for the poaching business.”

“Ay, how came you to find that out?” asked another.

“No matter,” said the first; “I know it, and any couple of good stout fellows who would watch for him at eight o’clock would be sure to find him.”

“Yes, but they must first know that he poaches, and be able to prove it on him.”

“Well, of course; but that’s soon done by a keeper that will have a quick eye upon him.”

Tom had now heard enough. His lingering and story-telling here had been no loss of time. He drank off his beer, made his bow to the farmers, and shuffled off. He followed the man with the bottle, saw him take a cart road through the woods, and, keeping within the trees, followed till he saw the cottage, and the man enter it. “Good,” said he; “now I know my lesson.” Tom lost no time in changing his clothes, and washing his face in a pool. He then thrust his wallet, with the old ragged toggery, into a large gorse-bush, and, like a smart servant out of livery, and in a neat Glengarry cap instead of a hat, cut across the country to the great Leicester road, and by coach next day was at Hillmartin, where he got down and walked to Woodburn.

Great was the exultation at Tom’s success. It was soon arranged that Tom, with Job Latter, the constable blacksmith, Ralph Chaddick, Sir Henry’s keeper, and Luke Palin, Sir Henry’s groom,—Latter the strongest, and the two others the most active young fellows of the neighbourhood,—should set out before light in the morning; two in a spring cart, and two on horseback, and should make all speed to the place of Scammel’s retreat. It was calculated that they could reach the neighbourhood by evening, and, putting up their horses at a neighbouring village, be ready for the eight o’clock enterprise. All this they readily accomplished, and so anxious were Sir Henry and George Woodburn that they rode thither themselves.

The proximity of the woods to the woodman’s house, rendered it easy to watch Scammel’s movements, and very little after the time named by the farmer they saw his well-known tall figure coming down the heath, and enter the house. “The first thing,” said Sir Henry, “on rushing into the house, look out for Scammel’s gun, and seize it if you can, or, if he have time, he will give one of you the charge.” It was now at the end of September, getting fast dark, and the four men, taking a little, cautious circuit, came up at the back of the house. The window-shutters were not closed, and, by the light of the fire, they saw Scammel seated facing the hearth, with his back towards them. His gun was laid on a table at his right hand. The woodman and his wife were seated by the chimney, to the left of Scammel, and had each a mug of ale in their hands. At once there was a rush. Scammel started up, but only to be pinioned by Latter’s iron gripe; his gun, towards which he stretched out his hand, was adroitly drawn back by Luke Palin. In another moment there was a tremendous struggle. Scammel, who possessed enormous strength, twisted himself partly loose, by a violent effort, from Latter’s clutch, and came face to face, but it was only to be caught in a hug worthy of a great grizzly bear of the American forests, whilst Palin and Chaddick also closed upon him. The struggle was then furious. Scammel put forth his huge strength; he kicked, he bit, he foamed at the mouth, and swore terribly. But Latter held fast as a vice to him, and Chaddick drew a noose round his ankles, and forcing them together, prevented his ferocious kicks. It was, however, like four fierce beasts writhing and raging together; but at length Scammel was thrown, and Latter fell upon him, whilst Chaddick and Palin bound faster round his legs their strong cords; and at length the savage ruffian, giving in as beaten, and lying stupid and speechless, they managed to roll him over, pinion his arms securely behind him, and thus had him at their mercy. During all this time the woodman and his wife stood helpless and trembling. The light spring cart was soon brought by Boddily and Palin through the wood and over the heath; Scammel was hoisted in, and Sir Henry Clavering and George Woodburn came and took a view of him. There the great strong fellow lay on the straw at the bottom of the cart with his eyes shut, and his features, rendered almost black with rage, wore a sullen air of dogged endurance. Having seen their criminal secured, Sir Henry and George rode away with great satisfaction.

Before leaving, inquiries were made after the Shalcrosses by Boddily and his companions, but either the woodman and his wife knew nothing, or would say nothing, though offered money.

By the next afternoon the party had managed to reach Cotmanhaye Manor, where Simon Degge was ready to assist Sir Henry in hearing the charge against Scammel, for Hopcraft was now arrested, and, on hearing of Scammel’s being secured, was all eagerness to prove him the murderer. The magistrates had heard Hopcraft once this forenoon, who had sworn that Scammel had committed the murder at the Ferry, precisely as described in Dr. Leroy’s letter, and Hopcraft excused himself by saying that Scammel had taken him by surprise, and then swore to murder him too if he said anything. As for himself, he vowed that he had taken no part in the murder. He had only seen it in terror and fear of his own life.

“But,” said the magistrates, “you helped to throw Mr. Drury into the river, and you accepted part of the money.”

Hopcraft was dreadfully frightened to hear that this was known, and said, “But the man was dead when he was thrown into the river, and what could I do? He would have murdered me if I had refused either that, or to take some of the money.” Hopcraft was remanded till the arrival of Scammel, and he was now ordered up. The magistrates were seated in the library looking on to the lawn. As the afternoon was one of those so intensely hot about three o’clock in September, one of the French windows was left open. The prisoner, bound fast in all the coils of cords in which he had been enveloped on his capture, was carried in by two of the men and laid in the middle of the floor. Around stood Palin, Latter, Chaddick, and Boddily, all bearing obvious traces of their exertions for nearly two days and a night. Besides, there were several men-servants of the house.