A Cavalier's Ladye: a romance of the Isle of Wight

Front matter

THE JOURNAL OF MISTRESS JUDITH DYONESIA DYLLINGTON. Knighton Gorges, Isle of Wight, 1632. Mistress JUDITH DYLLINGTON. A CAVALIER'S LADYE: A ROMANCE OP THE ISLE OF WIGHT. l:v CONSTANCE MACEWEN (MRS. A. C. DICKER), Autktrr of "Miss Beauchamp — a Plulixtinc ; " " Gin a Body SUc! a Body;" '' Not Every Day — a Love Octave ;" "Soap;" <tc. JOHN HEYWOOD, DBANSr;ATB AND RlDGEf IELD, MiNOnESTBE ; 1, PaIEBNOSTEB BUILDISOS, LONDON. DEDICATED TO Sir RICHARD WEBSTER, Q.C., THE ATTORNEY- GENERAL, AND MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR THE ISLE OF WIGHT. PEEFACE. Clothe a fact in fiction, and the fate of fact is as the fate of an oak, which the too fond ivy embraces. — Author. This Journal of Mistress Judith Dyonesia Dyllington, the only child of Sir Tristram Dyllington, Bart., of Knighton Gorges, Isle of Wight (the K Knighton of to-day), was discovered not long ago, in the course of some excavations which were going on, where once stood the grand mansion of the Lords of Knighton Gorges.

The Journal was found in a strong metal box, which also contained a portrait of the beautiful Judith, painted on pinewood. I have ventured to modernise the English peculiar to the period in which Mistress Dyllington lived, so the reader will be troubled with no olde English. This is a sixteenth century romance in a nineteenth century dress. Only a few weeks ago I stood on the spot from whence this record of the past was extracted. Nothing but a fine gateway, surmounted by the mutilated arms of the Dyllingtons, and a walled kitchen garden, with an ancient stone arbour built in, remains to indicate the approach and entourage of the mansion, except two large basins of water, which were ornamental lakes in the days when the haughty and splendid Sir Tristram Dyllington drove, like some Nimshi of old, eight horses on the road to Arreton, or, mounted on his favourite charger Thunderbolt, rode furiously down Knighton Shute and through the gates up the long avenue, which is still indicated by a few remaining trees.

Not a member of this once powerful family is in existence ; and it is impossible not to feel an "eerie" sensation, as thoughts of all the tumult and passion which filled their tragic lives rise before one. PEEFACE. Things remain ; people vanish ; but for these things which hands have fashioned, and these treasured records which are handed on, we in our faithlessness would believe in little else than we see. I had chosen a moonlight night in autumn for my inspection of Knighton Gorges. The very scenery mentioned by Mistress Judith lay before me — the peculiar softness of October moonbeams resting on the wide open downs, and deepening the shadows of the woods, while the encircling chalk pits gleamed lika silver mines. Beyond, perched high, rose the wooden spire of the ancient mother church of Ryde and Ventnor, Newchurch ; and buried within the chantry lay a long succession of the Knights of Dyllington.

Preface

. The Author, whose pleasant lot it has been to receive most delightful appreciation from the critics of her former works, is deeply sensible of her indebtedness to them, and takes this opportunity of saying so. FACTS. The picture in the Frontispiece of this book is photographed from an original oil painting of the beautiful Mistress Dyllington, which was dug up among the ruins of Knighton House some seventy or eighty years ago. The account given of Sir Tristram's suicide is substantially true. Knighton Gorges was said to be haunted, and a priest from Brading was engaged to exorcise the demons. Villagers to this day remember hearing their forbears talk of the "sweet music " which stole about the precincts of Knighton, played by no mortal hands. A few years ago the skeleton of a man of great stature was dug up in the walled garden at Knighton, probably that of Sir Tristram Dyllington, as evidence proves that he was not buried at Newchurch, though a stone records his memory in the Dyllington Chapel.

The skeleton was discovered in a kind of hollowed-out sarcophagus in the wall. Colonel Hammond was the governor of Carisbrooke during the time Charles I. was there. He married a daughter of the great Hampden. Sir Theobald Russel, who repulsed the French on the invasion of the Island, was carried, wounded, to Knighton House, and there died. The fight with the double-horned rams took place exactly as des cribed. Black Gang derives its name from the celebrated Black Gang of pirates who haunted its caves. The Druids constantly resorted to Chale (the Black Gang of to-day) or the performance of their rites. The sacred stone of " Ur " and the "Logan Stone" were the objects of their superstitious veneration at this wild, desolate, yet beautiful spot. X FACTS. Borthwood was celebrated for its red deer, and the Culvers for its breed of hawks.

For the account of Prince Rupert's dog I am indebted "to the Ladye Shakerlye." Mr. Eustace Mann, the owner of Austerborne (Osborne) in the reign of Charles I., really hid treasure under an oak, and to this day that spot goes by the name of Money Copse. The description of Knighton Gorges House is gathered from many sources. It is true that one room was called "The Room of Tears," the inscription being engraved above the doorway. The Dyllingtons were the most powerful family in the Isle of Wight, and renowned for their extravagance, beauty, and wild blood. Sir Tristram's racing stud was kept at Borthwood. He invariably drove eight horses in his coach. The murder of the bailiff, on account of his marriage with a servant in the employ of Sir John Oglander, of Nunwell, is true. For Cromwell's letter to Colonel Hammond I am indebted to Mr. Harrison's "Cromwell."

The engraving of Knighton House is taken from an original in the possession of Edward Carter, Esq., J.P., the present owner of the property. CONTENTS. CHAPTER pAGE I. A Child's Heart 1 II. The Monk's Blessing 10 III. A Room op Tears 16 IV. A Human Hedge ... ... ... ... ... 24 V. Truth Unfolded in a Dream 30 VI. The Depth of a Child 35 VII. Great Rejoicings — Great Fears 41 VIII. Revelations 53 IX. Love is Best op All 63 X. What the Trees Saw 77 XI. A Pirate's Confessions 99 XII. A Mermaid's Chamber ... 126 XIII. The Sea and I 168 XIV. For God and for the King 183 XV. A Creed 197 XVI. The Kino's Gaolers 209 XVII. A Talk with Nature from a Window at Carisbrooke .. 223 XVIII. Colonel Hammond tells me his Perplexity ... 233 XIX. The Magnetic Mr. Firebrace .. 240 XX. Roundhead Soldiers and I ... ... ... 258 XXI.

Booy Barnacle 271 XXII. Philosophy of Booy Barnacle 289 XXIII. Dear Olde London 297 XXIV. The Lord- General and I 307 XXV. I Sup with the Crom wells CONTENTS. XII CHAPTER PAGE XXVI. Mistress Dorothy Osborne tells me about Henry Cromwell 336 XXVII. My Lord-General says " No " 353 XXVIII. Pausanias Brings me News 366 XXIX. An Ugly Truth 376 XXX. Dorothy Osborne in Perplexity 387 XXXI. The Governor of the Marshalsea 391 XXXII. The Pirate's Trance 405 XXXIII. HEPHZIBAH 412 XXXIV. I Blame You— I Blame You Not 419 XXXV. A Woman's Heart 427 MUSIC. The Roundhead 430 Somebody's Nobody 431 Dm You See the Ladye Run 432 Hurrah! Charge! 433 ILLUSTRATIONS. Frontispiece — Mistress Judith Dyllington. Knighton House, Isle of Wight To face page 16 Newchurch, Isle of Wight „ MISTRESS JUDITH'S JOURNAL.

Chapter I

A CHILD'S HEART. The invisible and the visible are separated by the strength or weakness of our imagination. Open the windows of thine heart to nature. To-morrow thou shalt find the songs of birds therein. Only the intermediate varies. We begin and end alike. Surely this should extend our sympathies. — Author. Before commencing this Journal, I may as well say the word " Journal " must be taken in its most elastic sense. I don't intend to chronicle what I did yester day or to-day, except in as far as it tallies with my inclinations. I cannot be a numerical calendar. I must be unfettered as to days and dates, and the laborious seriousness of a journal. Yet a journal of events this will be, for tragedy was present at my cradle. But enough. Let me begin to narrate. When I, Judith Dyonesia Dyllington, was ten years old, a great trust was placed in my hands.

I never felt absolutely young after that. How could B I ? The fields had always the shadows of the grasses about them, and the trees sang with a new meaning. If an acorn dropped, I started ! If a rabbit hopped past me, I pursued him less fearlessly! I would peer down into the hole he had burrowed so cleverly, and, laying my mouth to it, whisper, " Are you happy and free, Bunny, or have you, too, a trouble ? " The ringed caterpillars, as they curled their lissom bodies round, like soft balls, in the hot palm of my hand, must have wondered why, after caressing them, I dropped them suddenly, and as suddenly picked them up again to caress them, but terfly fashion, and murmur, "Forgive me! I was wondering about my father." And then I would whisper that question (it seemed to my childish fancy I was left as a legacy to ask all things animate, inanimate, and, mounting higher, all things in heaven), "Did my father lose his life accidentally or not ?"

How well I remember the day when I was called to the bedside of my beautiful and gifted mother to take farewell. Not all the splendour of the surround ings in which she lay ; the exquisite canopy to the Florentine bed; the wonders in art which gave expression to the walls ; the magnificently carved prie Dieu standing before the painting which first set me wondering about the Christ Man, could for an instant distract my childish attention from the extraordinary magnetical force which had concen trated in her eyes, and which held me like a spell. I could not then analyse what caught my speech, and suffocated it. What child does analyse? I know now that it was the suffering of years, mani fested in unbridled outward semblance, grappling with fast vanishing control. Her long black hair lay loose about the pillow; her brow was knotted and knitted into strange convulsive tortuous lines.

Mental anguish seemed to outweigh and over balance all physical suffering. Mind had con quered matter, and compelled obedience to its will. For ten years she had borne sorrow with dignity ; facing the curious with impenetrable calm, the sympathetic with intangible acceptance of sympathy's inevitable awkwardness. And now, when she knew she must relinquish this embodied thing called grief, and abandon all hope of discovering the wherefore of her husband's strange death, leaving all further investigation of the matter to some other, who, would at the most, carry it out with the mathematical calculations born of duty, she fought for the dominion of something not earthly, to let the mantle of her strong desire fall upon me, her child, and make the seeking out of the raison d'etre of the tragedy what it had been to her — a way paved with the remoteness of a hope, which had the face of Death.

Not often did my mother send for me. However selfless a soul may be, when sorrow takes the form of isolation, it feeds itself. I was often told I resembled my father ; and on this account, I think, to look at me pained my mother. I am sure that I should have been a less fanciful child had she let me be more with her. To shut the. maternal doors of affection is to destroy spontaneity. Now, though I loved passionately, I could not express it. Love, in me, seemed to take the form of ice : habitual repres sion had congealed it. "Pull up the blind, child," she said in a whisper. " Once I was fond of shaded rooms, and artistic blendings of colour. Now I only ask for light! Tell me," she continued, " how the downs and woods look. Are the trees tinting ? " "Yes," I said, eagerly. "All the colours in my paint box are there.

The woods look like a dream far off." " Child," said my mother, " I see in you the poet and idealist, so beauty of thought will always be with you ; but I want you to turn away from dreams to reality, and this, I fear, will make you unhappy. Besides, the many are not like you, but the few ; and as you go on through life you will want to find those as sensitive to a high form of thought as yourself, and, failing that, you will be sad." " We are rich and powerful," I said half timidly, half vexedly ; for somehow my great idea was to be happy, and the notion of always playing and thinking alone did not please me. " Outward things are nothing," said my mother. "They are make-believes. The possessor of mind is rich — the possessor of force to carry out is powerful. ' All things are yours,' said one who had nothino-.

These are the mysteries unravelled by the spiritually minded. Child, be spiritual: this embraces the idylic." I remember after that deep silence fell upon us. I watched the sunlight glide away from the woods, and creep stealthily round to where the massive thorn crowned head of Murillo's Christ rose sublimely from a back-ground veiled in gloom. I saw it fleck the thorns till they seemed animated into life. I felt no inclination to break the stillness. Silence ushered in by thought has ever had for me a rare charm. It is precious as gold when it opens one's spirit, and leads on through the green valleys and by the still waters. At last my mother spoke again, " On just such a day as this, Judith, I saw your father for the last time. Every incident of that day stands out like something cut in stone.

I watched him ride off down the avenue on Thunderbolt — his favourite charger — a horse which had served him through manya dangerouscampaign; when your father, in command of his regiment, gained such a reputation for courage that he was called ' Inflexible,' a name that became him well, for he seemed to me to possess that kind of power which is more than courage, and gets away into those concentrated reaches of the soul which are, like the strong mountains, inflexible. Just at the corner of the avenue, where the two huge chestnuts stand like sentinels, he turned and waved to me. I was holding you in my arms, and the love of a father and husband shone out of his splendid eyes as he waved his mailed hand, and then, with a shake of the reins, cantered off across Arreton Down, in the direction of Carisbrooke.

The afternoon grew into evening, the evening into night, and still your father did not return ! How I lived through those hours of anxiety, I know not. I took up a position at the window, where you are now standing. The case ment was wide open, and the still September moon rose high, and silvered the tree tops, and flung long shadows on the broad pathway. It was a peculiarly still night. I could see a long distance. I craned my neck till it ached, with the effort to out-distance distance. Oh, child ! there is something awful in the silence of nature, when the human soul is wrestling with the unknown. I knew this stillness must be bringing me a great sorrow. Mentally I had gone forth to meet it. Suddenly my whole body tingled with a revulsion of feeling, which in its suddenness was more akin to pain intensified than pleasure dawning, so oddly do pain and joy twist in and out of one another.

I could hear the distant rhythm of Thunderbolt's furious pace. Far away across Arreton Down came the thud of his hoof, beating the herbage like a hollow drum. On ! on ! on ! my heart keeping pace with the measure. The avenue was reached, and still at his usual break-neck pace came your father. At the corner, where the avenue swerves to the left, I saw Thunderbolt rear as if goaded to mad ness by the touch of a spur, the next minute horse and rider were out of sight — I, drawing the natural conclusion that your father had ridden straight to the stables, instead of dismounting, as usual, at the hall door. I went down to the south-drawing room to await him, thinking in a few minutes he would be with me. Minutes again grew ; then a scurrying of feet in the hall; then whispers. 'What is it?' I screamed, as the door opened, and, instead of your father, Mr. Bayles and William Joliffe entered.

They were deadly pale, and I noticed, in all my dreadful anxiety, the same look of dogged determination on their faces. Mr. Bayles spoke first, and this is what he said — " ' Sir Tristram has accidentally ridden into the lake, and is drowned.' " 'Mr. Bayles speaks truth,' said William Joliffe. ' Sir Tristram is drowned.' " Here, the old horror and sense of irrevocable loss overpowered my mother. " Oh, God ! " she exclaimed, " even now I cannot bear it." Then, how I longed for a woman's mind, a woman's tact. I remember how helpless I felt. All I could do was to creep near to her, and beg her with tears not to cry. Perhaps I did good, for she stopped suddenly and continued — "Think you, Judith, that the uncouth sentences of a house steward and a kennel man could satisfy me? I say now what I said then, 'There must have been foul play.' Had I but seen the body of your father I might have believed the story, but I fell away into unconsciousness the moment the abrupt announcement was made to me.

A long illness supervened, and when I recovered sufficiently to resume the sad round of my desolated life, the inquest was, of course, over and the name of Sir Tristram recorded in the chantry at Newchurch. I have been told that the day after the accident both Mr. Bayles and William Jolliffe journeyed to Lon don, and had a long conference with your cousin Anthony. You have never seen him, child, but by-and-by you will be much thrown together. He succeeded to the title, but the lands are all yours. Anthony greatly resembles your father, except that Anthony's hair is of a curious gold colour, and clings close to his head in natural curls, like rings, while your father's hair was as black as a raven's wing; but the same marked outline of feature is there, and the wonderful Dyllington eyes, which you, dear Judy, have inherited.

Again and again I have closely questioned Mr. Bayles and Joliffe about the manner of the accident. I disdain myself for suspecting them, for no two men in their respective stations can be more 'attached to our family than they. Yet they will not meet my eye with perfect frankness. That they hide somewhat I am certain. Anthony, too, tender and charming as I have always found him, assumes an air of reserve when I ask him to repeat the account of the finding of the body which was narrated to him by Bayles and Joliffe. Now listen, Judith. You as a child might discover what I as a woman could not. Nobody fears a child. Anyhow," she continued, with rising passion, "to you I leave the unravelling of the mystery. Seek throughout the ends of the earth till you find out if your father perished by the hand of another or by accident."

At this juncture, Mrs. Maby, the nurse, stole into the room, and would have withdrawn me from the bedside, when my mother, with a grace of gesture (for which I have since been told she was celebrated at the court of Whitehall) indicated that the pre sence of Mrs. Maby was not needed, whereupon she withdrew, and my mother, lowering her voice, and drawing me close to her side, said : — " You have, as yet, seen no portrait of your father. There is a room in this house of which the greater part of the household are ignorant. I wish now to tell you where it is, but I wish you to keep your knowledge of its existence hidden. You know the oak chamber, where Father Hallam wrought his spell ? " " ' Yes,' I said. " On the sixth panel from the chimneypiece, if you observe closely, you will see a curious mark like a radius.

Press your fingers hard on the circle. The panel will slide back and admit you to a secret closet, where I have gathered everything that speaks most eloquently of your father. Kiss me, sweet child, and go. I am tired." Abruptly my mother ceased speaking, and hurriedly but obediently I crept from the room to do her bidding.

Chapter II. The Monk's Blessing

Human felicity must be stored as it comes, so that memories' best wardrobes may be filled. The secret of joy is from within, not from without. Be at peace in your own capital, and the capitals of the world may go by. Symbols, like moral guides, accompany us everywhere. — Author. When we quit the outward presence of grief, the first sensation is one of relief. Sorrow is now behind, not before us; feelings held in abeyance and manacled by its overawing presence begin to resume their power over us. We seem to shake our souls and bodies free from its cruel pressure, and to let the play of life begin once more. Sorrow in the heart of a child is peculiarly pathetic — it seems to bring deformity in its train. A sad child is a revolt against nature. I was not naturally sad, but gay ; and the burden of this trust, which was now so solemnly laid upon me, made me feel as though I had suddenly stopped growing — as though I had suddenly become grown up, with none of its dignity.

The oak chamber had always had for me a weird and curious charm. I knew very well that the maids could hardly be persuaded to enter it to dust the curious furniture which was relegated to this myste rious room. It had been called, from time imme morial, "The Room of Tears," and this inscription was carved, in curious oak letters, above the door. the monk's blessing. 11 Tradition had been busy with it since the famous Sir Theobald Russel, who married my ancestress, Dyonesia de Gorges, had been carried lifeless thither. He had repulsed, with great slaughter, a force of sea marauders — French, I believe — on their invasion of the Island in the year 1341, and at the moment of victory had been slain. Dyonesia had watched the battle rage from the wide seat in the mullioned window overlooking the high hill at the back of our house, where the fiercest part of the fight had taken place, and had seen the hot pursuit of the flying foe as they were beaten through the woods of Nunwell and onwards, till those who remained escaped, as best they might, to their vessels.

This hill, sheltering us so beautifully from the tempestuous winds which occasionally sweep over our fair Island, bending the trees eastward, is called to this day Cream Pot Castle, on account of the great ramparts of cream pots behind which the Islanders entrenched themselves, and which caused such dire alarm to the French. Often have I pictured what the scene must have looked like when the serene moon stared down on the slain dead. Dyonesia was inconsolable for the loss of her lord, and had refused to quit this chamber, where, for many days, Sir Theobald had lain in state, so that the grateful Islanders might view the slain hero, who had so brilliantly delivered them. Soon afterwards, Lady de Gorges died of a broken heart, showing, poor soul ! but little of the spirit which should animate a soldier's wife.

I have gone thus far into this remote history, because from that period the Oak Chamber was sup posed to be haunted by the strangest sounds. Rattle and clank of chains, the smiting of mailed hands, such clashing of fetters that the house from end to end would seem alive with prisoners. My mother had told me that, more than once, my father, Sir Tristram, had risen at midnight and rushed up the staircase, with drawn sword, and struck at these unseen foes. On one occasion he had called in the watch who guarded Knighton, and bade him keep his guard for one night at the approach to this terrible room, and the poor fellow had done so, and at the sound of the clashing of fetters had thrust open the door and entered, striking wildly with his sword at the forms which seemed to fill the room. 'Tis said, he came from the encounter a changed and timid man, refusing to say aught of what he had witnessed.

So altogether useless was he as a watch thereafter, that another had to be appointed in his place. At last, about a year before the period of which I am writing, my mother, wearied of the disturbance caused in the household by these terrifying agencies, determined to call in the aid of a holy man, named Father Halet, who led a hermit life,' not far from the spot where the brave "Oglander" dared to its depths the haunted well of " Brading." THE MONK'S BLESSING. 13 To my great delight, I was allowed to sit up and be a witness, with the rest, of the working of the spell wrought by this devout person. We were all gathered in the hall to receive him : he had walked from Brading. I remember noticing the extreme paleness of his countenance, which was one of great spiritual beauty, reminding me of my favourite St. Anthony which hangs just over the great fireplace in the south drawing-room ; for almost all the paintings in the house, which are not family portraits, are of the devout school.

Father Halet asked no questions, and herein he seemed to show his great confidence and power. He bade one and all desist when each, more eager than another, desired to pour forth their experi ences. Mr. Cope, our chaplain, was not altogether pleased at the step my mother had taken. He said, surely if he could not exorcise these sounds, Father Halet could not ; but my mother had silenced him by saying, "This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting," and as Mr. Cope's round cheeks and portly person showed no sign of abstinence, he was speechless, and only watched Father Halet with an expression which strove to be charitable. Signing to us all to remain in the hall, Father Halet had slowly mounted the staircase, kneeling on each separate stair and singing as he went. Here were no pleadings !

From first to last the spiritual weapon employed by this man was praise. On the landing, before entering the chamber, he prostrated himself, first blowing out the taper he had hitherto carried in his hand, and which had cast a weird and flickering light on the clear cut outline of his features. The moon had risen strangely red, methought, that night ; for, so constantly do I study the sky, that every formation of cloud, or expression (if I may so speak), of the moon or the sun seems known to me ; the whole landing and staircase was illuminated ; great slanting rays seemed to have gathered into a focus round the kneeling monk, and formed a complete radius about him. Never had such silence filled Knighton House as on that night. A silence which precedes the meeting of the great opposing forces of light and darkness, good and evil.

Suddenly the unseen battle commenced ; the clash and clatter of chains ; the smiting of mailed hands ; the low chuckle of derisive laughter. Up sprang the monk, and raised his crucifix high in the air, his sweet voice carolling like some bird which sings its untroubled song amid the tainted atmosphere of some unholy crew. To us, waiting below, the door of the haunted chamber seemed to open wide to receive him. Up and down we could hear him go, singing as he went, and gradually, like the sinking of wild billows before some soft and southern breeze, the fury and din sub sided. Then I crept out from my hiding-place in a recess close to where the monk had lain prostrate on the landing place, and heard him exclaim, "Once called a room of grief, from henceforth a room of THE MONK'S BLESSING. 15 joy," and saw him with his finger trace a legend on this very door, words of such blessed power, that from then till now all unholy sounds have ceased, and been succeeded by music so heavenly sweet, that many a villager on his way to Ryde has stopped to wonder at the .instruments which are played, by no human hands, at Knighton Gorges.

Chapter III

A ROOM OF TEARS. Silence sits down in the house of great sorrow; lamentation in a lesser one. So much loss for so much gain ; there is an equality in nature's law9 which upsets your calculations. Patience is the pale-browed child of experience; experience the rough-handed child of sorrow. Author. It was before this room, at the bidding of my mother, I now found myself standing. I paused for one moment, then entered. In rooms which are seldom used, where talking and laughing are never heard, what stillness seems to gather. This struck me forcibly as I glanced round. The declining sun had caught the lattice panes of the mullioned windows, and made them blaze like diamonds. The walls are hung with some fine tapestry, one piece representing the Queen of Sheba after witness ing all the wealth of Solomon.