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Updated: May 22, 2025
"There've been Trenchards in Glebeshire," said the Vicar, greatly excited, "since the beginning of time. If Adam and Eve were here, and Glebeshire was the Garden of Eden, as I daresay it was, why, then Adam was a Trenchard." Afterwards when they were smoking in the confused study, Seymour learnt why Mrs. Trenchard was a sad woman. "We've had one trial, under God's grace," said Mr. Trenchard.
Not indeed the sea of my Glebeshire memories; this was a sluggish, tideless sea, but in the winter one sheet of ice, stretching far beyond the barrier of the eye, catching into its frosted heart every colour of the sky and air, the lights of the town, the lamps of imprisoned barges, the moon, the sun, the stars, the purple sunsets, and the strange, mysterious lights that flash from the shadows of the hovering snow-clouds.
Seymour had known Polchester since he was five years old, when he first lived there with his father and mother, but he had only once during the last ten years been able to visit Glebeshire, and then he had been to Rafiel, a fishing village on the south coast.
"I've only been there once," said Katherine. "Frankly, I didn't like it very much, but then I'm so used to the Glebeshire sea that it all seemed rather tame. There was a good deal of sand blowing about the day I was there, but Paul's house is nice with a garden and a croquet-lawn, and and Oh! very nice, and nice people next door I believe." "I'm glad it's not like Glebeshire," said Maggie.
Trenchard had been a curate, at their joy at getting the Clinton living, and of their happiness at being there, of the kindness of the people, of the beauty of the country, of their neighbours, of their relations, the George Trenchards, at Garth of Glebeshire generally, and what it meant to be a Trenchard.
The Meads fall in a broad green slope from the old Cathedral battlement down to the River Pol. Their long stretches of meadow are scattered with trees, some of the oldest oaks in Glebeshire, and they are finally bounded by the winding path of the Rope Walk that skirts the river bank.
Maggie had not even in Glebeshire known so furious a day and hour when the winds tossed and raged but never broke into real storm. It was the more surprising. She had to pause for a moment to remember where Turnstall's the butcher was, then, suddenly recalling it, she turned off the High Street and found her way to the mean streets that ran behind the Promenade. Still she met no one.
She bent over and folded the rug more closely round his knees. Had he woken then and seen her gaze! Her hand'' routed for an instant on his, then she withdrew back into her own corner. That coming back into Glebeshire could not but be wonderful to her. She had been away for so long and it was her home.
"When it blows in Glebeshire it blows and there's a perfect storm. There's a storm or there isn't. Here " She broke off. She could see that Paul hadn't the least idea of what she was speaking. "The sand is always blowing about here," he said. "Now what about tea?" They walked back through the High Street and not a soul was to be seen. "Does nobody live here?" asked Maggie.
But Glebeshire has such an individuality, whether for good or evil, that it forces comment from the most sluggish and inattentive of human beings. Mr. When on his visits to London people inquired his opinion of Glebeshire, he would say: "Ah well!... I'm afraid Methodism and intemperance are very strong ... all the same, we're fighting 'em, fighting 'em!" This was the more remarkable in that Mr.
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