Clare Avery Part 3

Barbara noted that his step was slower even than had been usual with him of late. It struck her, too, that his hair was whiter than she had ever noticed it before.

"Be you aweary this even, Master?"

"Something, good maid," he answered with a smile. "Even as a traveller may well be that hath but another furlong of his journey."

Another furlong! Was it more than another step? Barbara went upstairs with him, to relieve him of the light burden of the candle.

"Good night, Master! Metrusteth your sleep shall give you good refreshing."

"Good night, my maid," said he. "I wish thee the like. There shall be good rest up yonder."

Her eyes filled with tears as she turned away. Was it selfish that her wish was half a prayer,--that he might be kept a little longer from _that_ rest?

She waited longer than usual before she tapped at his door the next morning. It was seven o'clock--a very late hour for rising in the sixteenth century--when, receiving no answer, Barbara went softly into the room and unfastened the shutters as quietly as she could. No need for the care and the silence! There was good rest up yonder.

The shutters were drawn back, and the April sunlight streamed brightly in upon a still, dead face.

Deep indeed was the mourning: but it was for themselves, not for him.

He was safe in the Golden Land, with his children and his Isoult--all gone before him to that good rest. What cause could there be for grief that the battle was won, and that the tired soldier had laid aside his armour?

But there was need enough for grief as concerned the two survivors,--for Barbara and little Clare, left alone in the cold, wide world, with nothing before them but a mournful and wearisome journey, and Enville Court the dreaded end of it.

Note 1. So lately as 1601, an Act of Parliament forbade men to ride in coaches, as an effeminate practice.

Note 2. This was "His Holiness' sentence," of which the Armada was "in execution." See note, p.

Note 3. The names, and date of marriage, of Walter Avery and Orige Williams, are taken from the Bodmin Register. In every other respect they are fict.i.tious characters.

CHAPTER TWO.

ON THE BORDER OF MARTON MERE.

"Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Th.o.r.n.y, and bitter, and cold, and grey."

_Miss Muloch_.

It was drawing towards the dusk of a bright day early in May. The landscape was not attractive, at least to a tired traveller. It was a dreary waste of sandhills, diversified by patches of rough gra.s.s, and a few stunted bushes, all 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 quant.i.ty of luggage.

"Eh me!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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.

d.i.c.k gave a hoa.r.s.e 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.

"d.i.c.k o' Will's o' Mally's o' Robin's o' Joan's o' owd d.i.c.k'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 compa.s.sionately; adding in an undertone,--"Could she ne'er have come so far as Kirkham!"

They toiled wearily on after this, until presently d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k p.r.o.nounced 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 d.i.c.k an enclosure surrounded by houses.

"What is 't?" responded d.i.c.k. "Why, it's th' fowd."

"But what is 'fowd'?" asked bewildered Barbara.

"Open thy een, wilt thou?" answered d.i.c.k 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, cl.u.s.tered 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.