Clare Avery | Page 9

leaning away from the sea, as though they wanted to
get as far from it as their small opportunities allowed; on one side
foamed the said grey-green expanse of sea; on the other lay a little
lakelet, shining in the setting sun: in front, at some distance, a rivulet

ran from the lake to the sea. On the nearer side of the brook lay a little
village; while on the further bank was a large, well-kept park, in which
stood a grey quadrangular mansion. Beyond the park, nearly as far as
the eye could reach, stretched a wide, dreary swamp, bounded only by
the sea on the one hand and the lake on the other. The only pretty or
pleasant features in the landscape were the village and park; and little
could be seen of those for intervening sandhills.
The lake was Marton Mere; the swamp was Marton Moss; and the
district was the Fylde of Lancashire. The County Palatine was
renowned, at that time, in the eyes of the Londoners, for its air, which
was "subtile and piercing," without any "gross vapours nor foggie
mists;" for the abundance and excellence of its cattle, which were sent
even then to the metropolis; for the plentiful variety of its provisions;
for its magnificent woods, "preserved by gentlemen for beauty," to
such an extent that no wood was used for fuel, and its place was
supplied by "sea-coal" and turf; for its numerous churches, "in no part
of the land more in proportion to the inhabitants." But the good
qualities of the County Palatine were not likely to be appreciated by our
weary travellers.
The travellers were three in number:--a short, thick-set man, in a coat
of frieze as rough as his surroundings; a woman, and a child; lastly
came a pack-horse, bearing a quantity of luggage.
"Eh me!" ejaculated Barbara Polwhele, with a weary sigh. "Master,
doth any man live hereaway?"
"Eh?" queried the man, not looking back.
Barbara repeated her question.
"Ay," said he in a rough voice.
"By 'r Lady!" exclaimed Barbara, pityingly. "What manner of folk be
they, I marvel?"
"Me an' th' rest," said the man.

"Eh? what, you never--Be we anear Enville Court now?"
"O'er yon," replied the man, pointing straight forward with his whip,
and then giving it a sharp crack, as a reminder to the galloways.
"What, in the midst of yonder marsh?" cried poor Barbara.
Dick gave a hoarse chuckle, but made no other reply. Barbara's
sensations were coming very near despair.
"What call men your name, Master?" she demanded, after some
minutes' gloomy meditation.
"Name?" echoed the stolid individual before her.
"Ay," said she.
"Dick o' Will's o' Mally's o' Robin's o' Joan's o' owd Dick's," responded
he, in a breath.
"Marry La'kin!" exclaimed Barbara, relieving her feelings by recourse
to her favourite epithet. She took the whole pedigree to be a
polysyllabic name. "Dear heart, to think of a country where the folk
have names as long as a cart-rope!"
"Bab, I am aweary!" said little Clare, rousing up from a nap which she
had taken leaning against Barbara.
"And well thou mayest, poor chick!" returned Barbara compassionately;
adding in an undertone,--"Could she ne'er have come so far as
Kirkham!"
They toiled wearily on after this, until presently Dick o' Will's--I drop
the rest of the genealogy--drew bridle, and looking back, pointed with
his whip to the village which now lay close before them.
"See thee!" said he. "Yon's th' fold."
"Yon's what?" demanded Barbara.

The word was unintelligible to her, as Dick pronounced it "fowd;" but
had she understood it, she would have been little wiser. Fold meant to
her a place to pen sheep in, while it signified to Dick an enclosure
surrounded by houses.
"What is 't?" responded Dick. "Why, it's th' fowd."
"But what is `fowd'?" asked bewildered Barbara.
"Open thy een, wilt thou?" answered Dick cynically.
Barbara resigned the attempt to comprehend him, and, unwittingly
obeying, looked at the landscape.
Just the village itself was pretty enough. It was surrounded with trees,
through which white houses peeped out, clustered together on the bank
of the little brook. The spire of the village church towered up through
the foliage, close to the narrow footbridge; and beside it stood the
parsonage,--a long, low, stone house, embowered in ivy.
"Is yonder Enville Court?" asked Barbara, referring to the house in the
park.
"Ay," said Dick.
"And where dwelleth Master Tremayne?"
"Eh?"
"Master Tremayne--the parson--where dwelleth he?"
"Th' parson? Why, i' th' parsonage, for sure," said Dick, conclusively.
"Where else would thou have him?"
"Ay, in sooth, but which is the parsonage?"
"Close by th' church--where would thou have it?"
"What, yonder green house, all o'er ivy?"

"For sure."
They slowly filed into the village, rode past the church and
parsonage,--at which latter Barbara