Isabel St. Clair, a romance of the 17th century

Front matter

ISABEL ST. CLAIR, A ROMANCE OF THE 17th CENTURY. BY JULIA ADDISON, /f Author of " Sister Kate," " Essie Vernon," &c. London : REMINGTON & Co., 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C 1876. CONTENTS. Chapteb. page. I. St. Claie Hall 1 II. The Fete 12 III. The Fiee 18 IV. A Reverse op Foetune 35 V. Life at Rock Cottage. ... ... ... 47 VI. The Runaway. 64 VII. Witches' Glen. ... ... ... ... 78 VIII. A Painful Joueney. 98 IX. The Castle 106 X. The Robbers' Plans. 120 XI. Life in a Dungeon. ... ... ... 126 XII. Despaie 138 XIII. A Foelorn Hope 145 XIV. The Teap Dooe 156 XV. Light and Daekness. ... 162 XVI. Libeety 173 XVII. The White Cottage. 181 XV1I1. Home yet Homeless. 189 XIX. The Hollow Oak Teee 197 XX. No Ghost 208 XXI. The Faemee's Retuen 218 XXII. A Geeat Discoyeey. 233 XXIII. The Casket 244 XXIV. Found at Last 267 XXV. The King's Decision 280 XXVI. A Last Visit to the Castle CLAIE.

Chapter I. St

CLAIR HALL. " Oh, mamma, do let us take a long walk this fine evening ?" said Isabel St. Clair, a girl of about twelve years old, running up to her mother, who was standing on the terrace of an old man sion in the North of England. Isabel was fol lowed by her little brother Arthur, who joined in the request. Mrs. St. Clair assented, and quitting the ter race, with its antique stone vases, and quaint sun dial, that had told the time to many a past generation of St. Clairs, the trio passed through B shrubberies, crossed the moat by what had formerly been the drawbridge, and so on towards a steep hill, which was the children's favourite walk. Isabel and Arthur St. Clair, young as they were, had known sorrow and misfortune. They lived in wild and troublous times— their father, a devoted adherent of the House of Stuart, had fought gallantly for the first Charles, and though broken in health by wounds and hardships, was one of the few Englishmen who joined the stan dard of that ill-fated monarch's son, when resolved to make one last desperate attempt to recover his kingdom.

He marched southwards with his Scottish army, to be ultimately defeated at the second battle of Worcester. In this engagement, or rather massacre, for the gallant Royalists were hemmed in and literally slaugh tered in the streets — in this last decisive encoun ter, which ended the civil war, Major St. Clair lost his life. A year later, Cromwell and his Common wealth being undisputed rulers of the country, St. Clair estates, amongst hundreds of others, were confiscated, falling into the hands of Lam bert Moneton, a grim old Puritan; the widow with her infant children, finding refuge with a merchant of the City of London, named Goldsac, who, with his maiden sister, lived in the then by no means unfashionable locality of Fleet-street. About a twelvemonth before the time when our story opens, King Charles II., being restored to his throne, had given back to the young Arthur his lawful inheritance, under the guar dianship of his mother, and the little family once more took possession of their beautiful home, which was all the dearer from its having been so long lost to them.

To return to our story. The children walked merrily along, rejoicing in the bright spring weather that had succeeded a long and severe winter. Trees and shrubs were bursting into life and verdure, and all nature looked fresh and blooming. Having by a somewhat steep but winding ascent reached the summit of Rayrigg Fell, as the hill was called, a fine prospect met eye, moorland and valley and rocky crag; with here and there a gleaming lake, and bright mountain stream, leaping and sparkling in its course, forming many a miniature waterfall; while a break in the chain of hills allowed the distant sea coast to be seen. This was only in clear weather; on the present occa sion, not only was the dim blue ocean line distinctly visible, but also the ruins of an old castle, which it was a great delight to the children to look at, and speculate upon ; standing on the rocky shore, its outline rising in weird and shadowy grandeur above all the neighbouring objects.

" How much nicer this is than London," presently said Arthur. " How glad I am we live here now. Are not you, Isabel?" " Yes, dear," answered his sister, "but do not let us talk just now. Our mother looks pale, and I am afraid her head aches." Both children approached their mother affec tionately. " I am quite well, my dears," she said answering their anxious looks, " but I felt sad just now, for I was thinking of the last time your dear father and I climbed up this hill together, only a week before his death. It is more than nine years ago. You, Isabel, were a little girl of three and a half; Arthur a baby, scarcely t\^o months old." "Isabel was born in 1648," said Arthur, "the year before the poor king was killed." " Yes, dear child, she came to console us in a time of. trouble and confusion."

" Arthur was not born till '51," remarked Isabel. " Just two months before the second battle of Worcester," said Arthur. " I can remember my father," said Isabel, thoughtfully, "just a little." " And I seem to know exactly how he looked," said Arthur, " when I see his picture. How lucky we were to find it up in the lumber-room, where old Master Moneton had stowed it away ; and that he had not run a sword through it, as he had through some of the others in the gallery." "Yes, indeed, it is a treasure," said Mrs. St. Clair, " so wonderfully lifelike and true." " It was painted by Sir Anthony Vandyke, the same artist who painted King Charles I.," added Arthur, proud to show his information. " Your father had, I think," resumed Mrs. St. Clair, " a presentiment that he should never see us again, when he went away that last time.

He kissed us all so tenderly, called us his three treasures, his wife, his daughter, and his baby boy, and told Isabel to be a good brave girl, and a comfort to her mother." " I will try my best to obey his words," said Isabel, earnestly. "And I, too, will be a good brave boy," said Arthur, with childish eagerness not to be left out. " We have now no near'relative left to care for us," continued Mrs. St. Clair. " Your uncle, whom you have often heard me speak of, your father's younger brother, must be dead, or we should have heard of him, for a kinder heart, or more affectionate disposition, never existed." " How long is it since my uncle was heard of, mamma ?" asked Arthur. " Nearly twelve years. Your sister was a babe of a year old when he bade us farewell. He was about to join Prince Rupert ; he had, of course, when the fleet was devoted to the service of the Parliament, been forced to abandon his profession of sailor, but was glad to resume it.

He called Isabel his bonnie little lassie, and used to dance her in his arms so high that I sometimes feared he would let her drop. He said he would bring home a fortune in silver and gold from foreign lands for his little maiden, so that if a baby brother were born, to be heir to the estates, which he did not doubt, as the St. Clair lands had des cended in a direct male line from father to son for more than three centuries, she should have a noble portion of her own." " I will be as kind to my sister as our uncle would have been had he lived," said Arthur, raising his soft blue eyes to the faces of his com panions, " and to my dear mother too. You shall both always live with me — indeed, what should I do without you." " Dear boy," said his mother, while Isabel caressed him fondly. " But you are very young yet."

" How old was my uncle when he went away, mamma ?" asked Arthur. " Just twenty-one." " Twenty-one and twelve are thirty-three," said Arthur. " Uncle must be quite an old man 5» now. " Men are not old at thirty-three, nor women either," said his older and more enlightened sister. " It is sad to be left all alone and unprotected in the world," said their mother, sorrowfully. " Yes ; wicked men might come and take our house or our lives," said Arthur, who was of a timid and fearful disposition. " But we must be resigned, my dear child, and trust in God," said Mrs. St. Clair ; " so do not look sad. 1 hough only protected hj servants, we performed safely all that long and somewhat perilous journey from London, but a year since. Your dear father would be glad, indeed, to know that we were restored to the home of our ances tors — our rights— rendered yet more secure by a deed of gift to Arthur, under the king's own hand and seal, with many of our old valued ser vants and retainers gathered round us again.

You, my two dear children," added the mother, as she embraced them fondly, " are my greatest earthly treasures, if I can but see you good and happy." The distant hills were tinged by the last rays of the setting sun, as Mrs. St. Clair and her children descended the Rayrigg Fell, and walked slowly homewards. During the walk the mother said — " You have never either of you had a near view of the sea, I think?" " No," said Arthur, " but I should like to visit it very much, for then I could sail my little boat, and pick up shells, and — " " And I," said his sister, interrupting him, " could climb up those rocks, and catch the sea birds, and bring them home to tame, and, above all, explore that lovely old castle." " Oh, how delightful it would be ! " cried both the children at once. Mrs. St. Clair smiled, and said that they should go soon for a few days to the sea, as they so much wished it.

" I wonder," pursued Isabel, " whether all the extraordinary things are true that I have been told about that castle ; that strange sounds are heard, and wonderful sights seen about its walls by night, that it is really haunted ?" She paused, then added, " I know, mamma, you have always taught us not to believe in ghosts or spectres. But I should like to see the castle, to explore it for myself, and perhaps have some romantic adventure. What say you, Arthur?" " I have no such wish," replied her more timid brother. " As you say, it may not be true, but still I had much rather keep out of the way. Grainger and Mrs. Smith say it is a dreadful old place this castle, one way and another ; they have heard of it all their lives." The trio walked on in silence for some time, when Mrs. St. Clair, seeing that the children were grave, and Arthur pale, and wishing to divert them from sad or gloomy thoughts, said kindly — " My dears, you must not forget the fete that is to be given next week in honour of Isabel's thirteenth birthday, and of our restoration to our beloved home."

" Oh no, mother," answered Isabel, and both children brightening up, talked of nothing but the approaching festivities during the remainder of their walk. On reaching home, they at once ran off to give further directions concerning a tent that was being erected in the grounds. Isabel had set her heart on having a tent, and had persuaded her indulgent mother that the arrangements of the day would be incomplete without one. She had read of some grand entertainment, in which a tent had held a prominent place, and the idea had taken possession of her imagination. The few days that intervened before this fete were chiefly spent in making preparations for it. Workmen from the neighbouring town of Stour bridge were constantly employed, and the culinary department was in a state of great activity.

Chapter II. The Fete

The much wished for, and long talked of day at length arrived. The children were dressed and ready long before the hour when the guests were expected to assemble. Their costume was as simple as the fashion of tbe clay permitted. Isabel wore a gown of bro caded white silk, with long pointed bodice, her dark glossy hair being suffered to fall in long natural curls to the waist, unconfined save by a single knot of ruby-coloured ribbon, while a lovely damask rose, reaied with great pains and skill by the Scotch gardener, was fastened in the bosom of her dress, as its sole ornament. She had on the high-heeled shoes with jewelled buckles, of the period. Arthur wore a suit os' azure blue velvet, with point lace collar and ruffles, which became his Saxon complexion and fair hair ; while a gold laced hat, and a small sword and sword belt, which, young as he was, he was on this occasion allowed to wear, as the representative of an ancient house, completed his costume.

Mrs. St. Clair had always, since her husband's melancholy death, worn mourning. On this important day, however, she so far departed from her ordinary costume as to wear a richly brocaded robe of black satin, while her head-dress was com posed of ostrich feathers, intermixed with strings of pearls, drawn together by a large diamond aigrette. Her children were delighted when they saw the graceful figure and sweet refined face, shown to advantage by this attire, aud declared that no one could possibly look more beautiful than their mother. The neighbourhood was not very populous, many of the guests had far to come, but all who could attend did so. It was a numerous assemblage ; there were homely country squires, with their rosy cheeked wives and daughters ; and some aristocratic looking children, bearing, as did their parents, the unmistakeable stamp of patrician birth and breeding.

Isabel and Arthur received their young guests with frank and gentle courtesy, not the less pleasing for a slight degree of shyness consequent on their retired life ; but their mother had early taught them that unselfish regard for the feelings and comfort of others, which is the basis of all true politeness. After a splendid banquet, served at noon in the old dining hall, where massive gold and silver salvers glistened, and where solid English fare, as well as a profusion of more recently introduced foreign delicacies, were offered to the guests ; the young people amused themselves with games, until summoned by lively music to the Oriel room, the largest in the house, the polished oak floor of which afforded excellent scope for the agility of the dancers. They performed minuets, corantos, and country dances, to their hearts' content, Isabel " opening the ball " — a term used with more correctness then than now — by danc ing a minuet and gavotte with Master Hugh Beverley, son of Sir Lionel Beverley, of Penwick Manor, one of the most distinguished guests present, a young gentleman some two years her senior ; both gaining deserved admiration for the graceful ease they displayed, whether in the stateli ness of the former, or the sprightliness of the latter movement.

When the dancers at length grew weary, and the little band who played for them paused for rest and refreshment, every one strolled out into the grounds. It was one of those delightful May evenings so often spoken of by poets, so rarely met with in England at this early season. The air on the terrace and lawn was sweet and refreshing, after the heated atmosphere of the ballroom, yet without danger of chill; and there was as yet no dew upon the smooth, beautifully kept lawn. A glorious full moon was just rising, and from the trees near the tent, towards which Isabel and Arthur led the way, hung long strings of many-coloured lamps, glistening among the leaves like soft gems of light, whilst, at intervals, pine torches illuminated the scene with dazzling brilliancy. It was a pleasing surprise for the guests, and then the tent itself was decorated with festoons and garlands of flowers aud evergreens, interspersed with rare exotics, so that altogether the scene had an enchanting fairylike effect.

Supper was laid in the tent, and at ten o'clock, a late hour in those days, all the party sat clown to partake of a substantial repast. The evening wore on, toasts were given, songs sung, and speeches made. The servants and tenants were gathered round the entrance of the tent, listening to the speeches, and joining in the cheers when Isabel's health was drunk, with " three times three and one cheer more." The feast was drawing to a close, yet the merriment was still at its height, when a strange discordant murmur, at first distant, then drawing nearer and nearer, broke in upon the sounds of gaiety and laughter. Presently fearful cries of " Fire, fire !" became audible. " Fire !" a cry terrible at any time, doubly fearful when it is heard at the dead of night, whether it bursts upon us in silence and solitude, or surprises us in the midst of mirth, music, and revelry. c

Chapter III. The Fire

Great was the consternation of the whole party at these cries. All started to their feet in an instant, and ran out of the tent. Some of the gentlemen and the servants hurried through the shrubberies, and one or two returning, told the terrified children that the intelligence was but too true. St. Clair Hall was on fire ! Ihey could soon see this for themselves; a lurid glare in the sky was visible above the high thick trees, and on reaching the lawn they saw flames issuing from the roof and most of the upper windows of the house. The scene that ensued was one of the greatest confusion, the servants and tenants hurrying backwards and forwards, endeavouring to save some of the most valuable books, pictures, and furniture, from risk of destruction by the devouring flames, the children crying and screaming, the horses in the carriages, which were waiting to convey the guests to their respec tive homes, frightened by the fire, kicking, rear ing, and plunging.

" Let us send to the village church for the water buckets and long ladders kept there !" said Mrs St. Clair; and Hugh Beverley, who was with that lady and her children, hastened off to des patch his own and other mounted servants. These were soon joined by some of the villagers, whom the noise and sight of the flames had brought out of their beds and cottages, and who lent willing aid. But the woodwork ot the house was old, and the fire was raging furiously before any well-organized attempt could be made to get it under. Buckets were filled from the large tank or reservoir of water in the yard at the back of the house ; these had to be passed on from hand to hand, by a line of people, up to those stationed on ladders— a slow and imperfect method, although the best, indeed the only one known, in those days.

Every man and boy helped with a will, but owing to the difficulty of getting the amateur fire brigade into working order, and to the limited supply of water, it was some time before much could be done to quell the fierce flames. There was fortunately not a breath of wind stirring, while the pale silvery rays of the moon contrasted strangely with the red glare of the fire. So great was the sympathy and respect felt for the poor lady and her children, that none of the guests, except a few elderly and nervous people, thought of leaving whilst the danger lasted ; all who were capable worked, the women ;,nd little ones standing in groups on the lawn, as near to the scene of action as was consistent with safety, watching the proceedings with eager interest. At length the persevering efforts of the zealous little band begun to tell, the violence of the fire gradually abated ; a murmur of rejoicing went round, in which workers and watchers joined, though the former showed symptoms of fatigue.

Some burns and other injuries had been received, while many a rich velvet coat was soiled and soaked with water, many a point lace ruffle singed and torn, and more than one gold-laced hat trodden under foot in the gallant service. Mrs. St. Clair now caused some barrels of ale to be brought out on to the lawn, which she, with other ladies, quickly dispensed to all who were thirsty and heated with labour, as one detach ment after another snatched a brief breathing time. All who had received hurts were carefully tended by the kind lady, aided by her old housekeeper. " Mother, I am sure Master Beverley's arm is "burnt," said Isabel, as he hastily quaffed a horn of ale she handed him, " see, his sleeve is all scorched and blackened !" " Nay, I must not wait at present," he answered, " there is so much still to do.

Indeed, I scarcely feel the hurt," and with a hasty bow and grateful look he ran off. Thanks to the zealous assistants, a great number of valuable articles had been brought out of the reach of clanger, as there was no know ing how far the fire might spread. Now that the worst seemed over, Mrs. St. Clair glanced at these, and discovered with regret that a casket, containing jewels of great value, and, what was of still more consequence, title deeds and docu ments relating to the estate, was missing. Inquiries were at once made, but no one had seen it. This casket was of exquisite foreign work manship, and the more noticeable that in those days, even amongst the nobles, articles of vertu were rare. She had herself placed it in an old cabinet, that stood in a room somewhat remote from those used on the present occasion, in the western wing of the building.

This was found to be only accessible by a ladder placed against a buttress, a pile of masonry still left standiug, which on account of the woodwork that supported it having been burnt away, seemed from its tottering appearance ready to fall and crush the first daring adventurer who should approach or try to mount the ladder. Mrs. St. Clair at once offered a large reward to any one who would bring her the casket. No one coming forward, she increased the reward, but this was also ineffectual, on account of the extremely dangerous situation of the ladder. It is true many of the men came to the spot, but after having examined the pile and ladder, they assured Mrs. St. Clair that the attempt was not practicable. " It is too fearful a risk," said they one and all, while some of the men commented freely enough on the absurdity of trying.

" Why all the gold the good lady could give us," said one, " would not pay us for being smashed to death or burned alive, would it now ?" "To be sure it would not," rejoined another. " Not all the caskets in the universe could'nt tempt me." " I don't think its over and above safe to stand here, much longer," muttered a third. " Nay, masters, I would not have one of you endanger life or limb for cause of mine," said the kind and gentle lady, advancing a step towards them. The fire, meanwhile, threatened to burn in two the only remaining rafter or crossbeam against which the ladder rested. Mrs. St. Clair entirely despaired of ever seeing the casket again, when, with the utmost horror and amazement, she beheld, not a stout fireman, but the slight form of little Isabel, ascending the dangerous ladder !

The spectators were for a moment mute with astonishment, but when they saw the young girl courageously cross the flaming rafter, and prepare to walk over the smoking, tottering ruins, which separated her from the casket, a universal shudder ran through the assembled crowd ; some would have shouted to her to desist, had not the old housekeeper darted from one to the other, by look and gesture, imploring silence. " You know that shouts and cries will only take away the poor child's presence of mind," she urged, " and can do no good. Don't you see it is now quite as dangerous for her to turn back as to go on ? " At all events, it was impossible to make her turn back, so all that remained was to watch the' event in breathless silence. Isabel now, after disappearing for a few seconds, emerged from the blazing rooms she had so daringly entered.

She had secured the precious casket ! and held it above her head exultingly. A hastily repressed cheer burst from those below, while Mrs. St. Clair, white and motionless as a statue, gazed on the scene with anxious eyes. She saw, as in a ghastly dream, the fearful abyss of flame and smoke, above which hovered the little white figure, standing out in strong relief against the dark night sky. The cheer sent a thrill through the mother's frame, but her joy, and that of the spectators, was of short duration, for as Isabel stood upon the smouldering ruins, and looked at the now actually rocking pile of masonry on one side, and the flame and smoke that separated her from the ladder on the other, her heart appeared to sink within her, she held out her dis engaged hand imploringly to the spectators, as it were begging for help — for help that could not he given — though many a one amongst the crowd below felt as though they would have died to render aid to the brave child who stood in such desperate peril.

Isabel paused for a moment. If she stood where she was, she must inevitably perish, for the ruins threatened every instant to give way beneath her feet. Already she was scorched and half suffocated. It had occurred to her, when she first started, that she might, the casket once secured, pass through the room to a winding back staircase that was near, and so descend. But on opening the door, such a volume of smoke rushed in, as to bewilder and almost overpower her. The only chance of escape, then, was to recross the flaming rafter, though it was very doubtful if that would now bear her weight. Grasping the casket with both hands, she made a desperate rush towards the ladder, and was for a moment enveloped in a cloud of smoke. A dead silence followed; the bystanders gave her up for lost. But no — she reappeared.

The anxious throng below breathed again. " She's safe, she's safe !" resounded on all sides. A moment later she was seen close to the ladder, her foot was on the topmost round, when the beam against which it rested, at length gave way, and the whole pile fell with a tremendous crash, burying the unfortunate Isabel in the ruins ! All present were so paralysed by this dreadful catastrophe, that no one made any effort to do anything for some time, until they were again addressed and roused by the old housekeeper, who had before remonstrated with them. " What do you all stand here for," exclaimed she, " like a parcel of foolish staring idiots ! Why don't you set to work and see if you can't help?" This appeal, as well as the distress of poor Mrs. St. Clair, and the cries of poor little Arthur, recalled the crowd to their senses.

They quickly began to remove the stones and rubbish which covered poor Isabel. " We cannot save her life," said one of the men, " she must be killed with the weight of this huge pile of ruins." With feelings of heart-sickening sorrow, the work was proceeded with. The moon had set, but the scene was lighted by torches and lanterns. Not one of the men and boys, gentle or simple, but assisted ; even some of the stronger amongst the women ; others held lights. The rest of the ladies and children huddled together under a tree, while amongst the workers, and in and out amongst those who kept their dreary watch, flitted the tall stiff form of the poor old house keeper, her high " mob " cap, and muslin ker chief, gleaming white and ghostly, as she now mourned and lamented for her poor lost child ; now encouraged the labourers to still more strenuous exertions.

At last, after removing stone after stone, for a long time, the end of a white scarf was visible, and Isabel's mother, who till then had been look ing on in silent agony, exclaimed — " It is my child's ! For mercy's sake, make haste !" The workers redoubled their exertions, a faint scream was heard, and Isabel was discovered, not crushed and lifeless as was expected, but perfectly safe and uninjured ! She was lying under neath a large beam, which had fallen in a sloping direction, and which had sheltered her from the rest of the falling ruins ! It is impossible to des cribe the joy of Mrs. St. Clair, at this wonderful escape ; she clasped her child in her arms, and embraced her with rapture, while all present sympathized in her joy. " Thank you all, my friends," said the mother at length, looking round with streaming eyes, and — she added reverently — " I thank God."