Clare Avery. Emily Sarah Holt

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       Emily Sarah Holt

      Clare Avery

      A Story of the Spanish Armada

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066240677

Table of Contents

       Chapter Two.

       Chapter Three.

       Chapter Four.

       Chapter Five.

       Chapter Six.

       Chapter Seven.

       Chapter Eight.

       Chapter Nine.

       Chapter Ten.

       Chapter Eleven.

       Chapter Twelve.

       Chapter Thirteen.

       Chapter Fourteen.

       Chapter Fifteen.

       Chapter Sixteen.

       Appendix.

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      On the Border of Marton Mere.

      “Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way

       Thorny, 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 grass, 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 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,