THE OAK STAIRCASE

A Narrative of the Times of James II.

BY

M. AND C. LEE

AUTHORS OF 'JOACHIM'S SPECTACLES' 'ROSAMOND FANE' ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY J. AYTON SYMINGTON

GRIFFITH FARRAN BROWNE & CO. LIMITED 35 BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN LONDON

PREFACE.

In the following narrative we have made use of two entirely distinct anecdotes: the history of the 'Maids of Taunton'—which is a well-known episode in the record of the Duke of Monmouth's Rebellion—and the romantic story of the marriage between Lord Sunderland's daughter and the Earl of Clancarty. But although these incidents have in reality no connection with each other whatever, we have ventured to combine the two, and found upon them the adventures of the young Lord Desmond and Frances Dalrymple.

M. AND C. LEE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

A WET HALF-HOLIDAY

CHAPTER II.

LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY

CHAPTER III.

LADY GREENSLEEVES' STORY (CONTINUED)

CHAPTER IV.

THE MAIDS OF TAUNTON

CHAPTER V.

BLUE-COAT'S STORY

CHAPTER VI.

THE MAID OF HONOUR'S STORY

CHAPTER VII.

UNCLE ALGERNON'S LAST STORY

THE OAK STAIRCASE.

CHAPTER I. A WET HALF-HOLIDAY.

It was the opinion of Robin Dalrymple that Mangnall was a humbug. Such, at least, was the fact that he announced, in tones both loud and decided, as he closed a somewhat battered copy of that author's works with a tremendous clap, and tossed it contemptuously on the table. Lessons were over in the schoolroom at Horsemandown; and Miss Gregory, at the writing-table in her own peculiar corner, was doing her best to be deaf for a few moments to her pupils' clamour, while she tried to finish a letter in time for the post. Now the Horsemandown schoolroom was hardly the place one would choose for the purpose of writing a letter at any time—much less at four o'clock in the afternoon, when the operation of 'clearing away' was taking place. Fortunately, however, Miss Gregory was used to it; and her pen continued to scratch away valiantly, in spite of the opening and shutting of drawers, the tumbling of books or slates on the floor, the heavy bang of the piano lid, and the uproar of shrill voices that almost drowned the rest of the clatter around her. 'Yes,' repeated Robin, taking

up a perilous position on the table between two inkstands: 'Mangnall is a humbug! Silvia, don't you agree with me?'

But Silvia was busily engaged with a sponge and a gallipot of water, generally known in the family as 'the schoolroom jam-pot;' and as she never could answer when appealed to suddenly, she was obliged to pause in her occupation of washing the slates, and lean both elbows on the table in order to meditate. Whereupon Sydney burst in: 'Humbug, of course! All lessons are humbug, except perhaps geography. That's the only one that has something like sense in it.'

Robin raised his eyebrows incredulously. 'Sense in geography! Why, Syd, if there is a thing that's utterly abominable and senseless, that's it. To have to remember what's the capital of what, and where rivers "take their source," and to find out the latitude and longitude of wretched places where one never goes, and never wants to go!'

'But that is the very thing,' said Sydney. 'I do want to go there; and, what is more, I mean to go some day when I'm a sailor, and sail round the world. I want to go to China and India and South America—Egypt, of course (not Europe. I don't care for stupid, civilised places).'

'Oh Syd!' interrupted Silvia's deliberate little voice. 'Not care to see Edinburgh or Rome! Think of Horatius. Don't you care to see places where things happened long ago, or where celebrated people used to live? I did so like going over the Tower last year, and seeing where the poor little princes were murdered, and where Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned, and putting my hand on the very same stone that perhaps his had been on.'

'But why?' asked Sydney. 'It makes no difference. The stone looks just the same, whether he touched it or not.'

Silvia could not tell why. She could only knit her brows, and repeat in a meditative tone her favourite phrase, 'Somehow—I don't know,' till Sydney grew tired of waiting for an answer, and began again.

'Well, all that I can say is, that I don't care a farthing for the Tower of London, or Horatius, or Sir Walter Raleigh, or any of those people. I never can remember which is which, or what they did. I want to travel, and discover new countries, and fight wild beasts and savages, and see all sorts of extraordinary plants and animals, and forests full of poisonous snakes and fire-flies, and tremendously big ferns, and humming-birds, and get into all sorts of dangers, and go where no one has ever been before. Oh, that would be glorious!'

'Somehow,' began Silvia, rousing herself from a reverie, and going on rather languidly with her slate-cleaning duties—'I don't know—(well, you needn't laugh whenever I open my mouth, Sydney). I mean to say, I should like to have the "goloshes of fortune."'

'What! Like the people in Robin's fairy-book?' said little Dolly.

'Yes: who always got whatever they wished for, directly they put the goloshes on. I should like to jump back into the Middle Ages, like the old Professor.'

'But you know, Silvia,' Robin remarked, with a very sagacious look in his round brown eyes: 'you know how much the Professor hated the Middle Ages when he got into them.'

'That,' rejoined Silvia, 'was because he managed so badly. He didn't know he was in the Middle Ages at all. I should know where I was, and not be surprised at everything looking different and odd. I should keep wishing myself first in one century and then in another, I think——'

'Yes. And only imagine,' said Sydney, 'how Queen Elizabeth would open her eyes when you told her about railways, and the penny post, and balloons, and photographs, and velocipedes!'

'Oh, Syd, I wish you wouldn't! As if I should tell her anything about those stupid things! Of course I shouldn't talk about what wasn't invented—then-a-days,' finished Silvia, after pausing in vain for a suitable expression.

'Well, do you know,' announced Robin, putting his hands in his pockets, and nodding his head emphatically, 'I think the "goloshes of fortune" would be awfully wasted on you two. Such stupid things to wish! I know what would be much jollier than journeying back into the Middle Ages among all those ridiculous people in Mangnall; or going to places where one never can find their latitude or longitude.'

'My dear Robin,' cried Christie, 'your grammar is getting perfectly wild.'

'Pooh! Bother grammar. Because Christie happens to be twelve, she is always setting-up to be as clever as Miss Gregory. As if one could worry one's self about grammar out of school hours. Now, Silvia, I'll tell you where I'd go if I had those goloshes: I'd go right into fairy-land, and see all the people in the Arabian Nights and the Midsummer Night's Dream, and Hans Andersen's stories. They would be much better worth seeing than your Sir Walter Raleighs and Horatiuses and Syd's savages. I shouldn't care to see real people; they would put me so in mind of Mangnall.'

'I don't much like Mangnall,' Silvia confessed. 'But I tell you what: it would be rather nice to be put into it one's self when one is grown up. I mean to write books some day; and then, perhaps, I might be put into the British Biographies!'

'Oh Silvia, and have a portrait like this!' cried Robin, opening the ill-used book at a page where Miss Mitford was depicted in company with other worthies, whose heads had been adorned by Sydney with cocked hats, and whose eyes had been altered by Robin to a size and blackness appalling to behold.

'Come, boys,' said Christie, after there had been a general laugh at Silvia's ambition, 'make haste and finish putting away, and then we'll go and have some fun in the long garret.'

This suggestion cleared the room very speedily; for the long garret was much esteemed by the young Dalrymples, on a wet afternoon like the present, as a capital substitute for the garden or the park. Here they had a long and exciting game of hide-and-seek; and it was not till the autumn afternoon was near its close, and twilight was gradually creeping on and filling the corners of the garret with gloom, that Silvia, the least active of the party, and tired of the sport, stole away by herself to one of her favourite haunts. This was the top step of the fine old oak staircase, which formed one of the chief beauties of the house of Horsemandown. From there she could peep through the carved, twisted bannisters, and watch whatever went on in the hall below. Sometimes it was Sir Bernard Dalrymple's brown setter and Robin's little rough terrier romping on the mat by the hall door which engaged her attention; sometimes it was her mother watering the flowers, that seemed to bloom perpetually in the sunny hall window; and sometimes it was Sydney and Christie having one of their most exciting

games of battledore, which were really worth looking at, so well did they both play.

When these amusements failed, and the hall was deserted, as was the case at present, Silvia found plenty of companions in the pictures, which covered the walls around her. Beyond the fact that they were most of them portraits of her own ancestors, she knew very little about them. But that did not matter, for she used to find names for them all out of whatever book she was reading. These names generally had nothing to do with their style of dress, which Silvia considered a matter of no consequence: she only cared for some imaginary likeness of feature or expression. Thus, a tall, thin, dark-eyed gentleman with a Vandyke beard had been christened by turns 'Hamlet,' 'Prince Giglio,' or 'Osmond de Centeville,' according to whether Silvia was absorbed in Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, The Rose and the Ring, or The Little Duke; while a severe-looking dame, with powdered hair and an unmistakable hoop, did duty with equal faithfulness for 'The Lady of Branksome Tower,' or the Witch Aunt in Mrs Leicester's School.

On the present occasion Silvia was not left long in undisturbed possession of her favourite nook, for on the dispersion of the garret-party she was joined by Robin; who, after remarking with a yawn that prisoners'-base indoors was decidedly slow, tried to get rid of his superfluous energy by sliding down the bannisters to the bottom of the staircase. Silvia felt obliged to put down her book, and watch him as he climbed slowly up again outside the railing, and felt much relieved when he appeared at the top.

'What book are you poring over now?' he inquired with some contempt, peeping over his sister's shoulder. 'History! Oh Silvia, how can you—in play-time?'

'It's not history; it's a story,' said Silvia indignantly; 'at least it is just like a story. And it is so interesting.'

'But it's all true?' said Robin, with a face of great disgust.

'Well, it is just as nice as if it wasn't,' replied his sister. 'And besides, I think I rather like books to be true, or, at any rate, to think that they might be true. I can't think why you hate all the people in history so, Robin!'

'I don't hate them all,' said Robin, after pondering the subject with a very grave face. 'I like them when they do something uncommonly jolly; and, besides, there certainly are some that I want to know about very much indeed. One's own relations, I mean. I know they are in history books—that is, some of them: relations who lived a long time ago. What do you call them?'

'Ancestors do you mean?' said Silvia. 'I want to know about them too; for Uncle Algernon once told me that there were some very curious stories about the pictures in this house, especially those on the staircase.'

'Did he?' said Robin. 'Then that's what papa meant when I asked who that boy was.' (Robin pointed, as he spoke, to a picture that hung on the wall opposite.) 'He said I must ask Uncle Algernon, for he was a namesake of his, and knew all about him. I always call him "Bluecoat," and I want to know about him more than any of them.'

Silvia surveyed the picture in question with a great deal of interest. It represented a boy of about Robin's age, with dark, bright eyes, handsome features and chestnut curls, which hung down as low as the rich lace scarf which was tied round his neck. He wore lace ruffles at his wrists, and the blue velvet coat which had earned him Robin's nickname was adorned with the most elaborate embroidery.

'I wonder when he lived,' said Silvia thoughtfully. 'But, Robin, I should like to know still better about that little girl next him. Do you think she is his sister?'

'They are not a bit alike,' pronounced her brother. 'Oh Silvia, she's got regular green sleeves, don't you see, like that old woman in Granny's Wonderful Chair?'

'Yes; I found that out long ago. I always call her "Lady Greensleeves,"' replied Silvia.

'She is very pretty, I think, in spite of that funny dress. But she looks very proud and dignified.'

'I suppose she was some grand lady. How she stares at one!' added Silvia, hastily turning her eyes away, but only to meet the gaze of other generations of Dalrymples, who frowned or smiled on her in all directions. 'It is very odd that they should look at one so hard, isn't it?' she said in a half-whisper to Robin. 'I always notice it, especially when I am coming up to bed.'

'Yes,' replied her brother, 'It was Bluecoat staring at me so, that first made me notice him; and now I don't mind it a bit, but always nod to him and say good-night when I come up-stairs. I wish I knew all about him. Now, if we had but the goloshes of fortune, Silvia, what fun it would be! We would make all the pictures tell us their stories.'

'How would it be if I was to ask them?' said a voice just above the children.

Silvia started and looked round. Some one was leaning over the balustrade in the passage behind them.

'Why, Uncle Algernon!' exclaimed Robin after a pause of surprise; 'you haven't heard all we have been saying?'

'Well, I don't know about all,' said Uncle Algernon, laughing; 'but I heard about Bluecoat and Lady Greensleeves and the goloshes of fortune. So you want the portraits to tell you their stories, do you, Silvia?'

'Oh Uncle Algernon, do you think us very silly? But papa says you know their stories. Do you really? And how did you find them out?'

'How do you know that I haven't a pair of those goloshes hidden away in that cupboard in my dressing-room?'

'I wish you had!' sighed Silvia, looking wistfully at Lady Greensleeves' mischievous brown eyes and rosy smiling mouth.

'Well, but if you do know the stories, why shouldn't you tell them to us?' suggested Robin. 'It would be almost as jolly as if the pictures were to speak themselves; wouldn't it, Silvia?'

'Not quite, I think,' Silvia said, with a doubtful glance at Uncle Algernon. 'You see, it would be so nice to hear all that they used to think, and how Horsemandown looked in those days,—all in their own words, you know, Robin.'

'Ah, but then they would talk in an old way, like the people in history books,—"hath," and "natheless," and "by my halidome." I can't bear coming to those kind of words in Mrs. Markham.'

'Well, Silvia, what do you say to this?' said Uncle Algernon after a moment's silence, during which he had seated himself between his nephew and niece on the broad step. 'Lady Greensleeves and I are very old friends. I am going to take down her portrait to-night and clean it in my dressing-room. Now, suppose I were to ask her, as a very particular favour, to tell her story to you and Robin in her own words.'

'Oh uncle!' cried both children at once; 'how delightful! Will you really? But what do you mean? How can she, in her own words?'

'Never mind,' quoth Uncle Algernon, nodding significantly. 'As I said before, she is a very old friend of mine, and I have a strong persuasion that she won't refuse me this; besides, you forget the goloshes of fortune. Nothing can be refused to one, you know, when one has those goloshes on.'

'But, uncle, how can you make her tell it us?'

'Never mind,' said Uncle Algernon again, 'you will see all in good time. Only come to my dressing-room to-morrow when lessons are finished,—you and Robin, nobody else,—and I'll tell you what comes of my interview with her ladyship.'

The dinner-bell rang at this moment, whereupon Uncle Algernon jumped up and beat a hasty retreat into the said dressing-room.

'How does he mean to do it?' asked Silvia, after pondering for a whole minute without speaking.

'I don't know, I can't think, unless he means to write a story about her. You know he does write books; so perhaps——'

But at this juncture the discussion came to an end, for the lamp blazed up in the hall below, and Christie came rushing along the gallery, crying, 'Silvia, Robin, have you really been sitting here in the dark all this time? Why, the tea-bell rang a quarter of an hour ago. There are muffins; and Sydney is eating all the blackberry jam!'

The next morning Lady Greensleeves had disappeared from the staircase. Uncle Algernon had a passion for cleaning oil-paintings, and one or other of the family portraits was always to be found in his room whenever he came to stay at Horsemandown.

Not a moment was lost by Robin and Silvia when four o'clock struck that afternoon, and lessons were over, in rushing to the bright, pleasant room which was always called Uncle Algernon's dressing-room, and held sacred to him, even when he was away on his travels on the other side of the world.

There he sat in the midst of his books and drawings, and cases of stuffed birds and curiosities, brought from all parts of the globe. He was in a big arm-chair on one side of the fire-place, and the sofa was drawn up on the other. The portrait of Lady Greensleeves was in the room too, looking much fresher and brighter than she had done ever since the children could remember.

'Well, Silvia, here we are, you see, both at your service,' said Uncle Algernon as they entered. 'Make yourselves comfortable on the sofa; only, first allow me to introduce you to her ladyship, Frances Countess of Desmond, the wife of your old friend Bluecoat; or rather, to give him his proper name and title, Algernon Carey Earl of Desmond.'

'His wife!' ejaculated Robin, staring with a puzzled air, first at Uncle Algernon, and then at Lady Greensleeves' picture. 'But she is a little girl!'

'Oh, Robin,' said Silvia reproachfully, 'don't you know people used to marry when they were children long ago? Don't you remember about Jeanne D'Albret?'

'Used they?' asked Robin vaguely. 'Oh well, I never remember about people in history, so I daresay they did. But, Uncle Algernon, I thought Lady Greensleeves was an ancestor of ours, and that her name was Dalrymple?'

'So it was, before she married,' replied his uncle. 'But you shall hear all about it if you will sit down and listen. She has graciously consented to your wish, that she should tell you her history in her own words, but——'

'Oh, Uncle Algernon! Not really. I can't believe it. What do you mean?' cried Silvia, jumping upon her uncle's knee and putting both hands on his shoulders, while she gazed into his eyes to see if he were laughing or not.

'Are you in fun, Uncle Algernon?' said Robin, looking doubtfully from his uncle to Lady Greensleeves.

'No, indeed I am quite in earnest. Lady Greensleeves is going to tell you her history, only through me; for, you see, she only condescends to speak directly to a very old intimate friend like myself; so she has dictated it to me, and I will tell it in her own words exactly as she said it.'

'Oh, I understand!' exclaimed Robin, clapping his hands. 'It will be an I story, you know, Silvia—as if she had written it herself, like Robinson Crusoe.'

'Exactly,' said Uncle Algernon, laughing. 'And at my special request she has addressed it to you and Silvia, and has kindly consented to bring in as little of "natheless" and "by my halidome" and "in good sooth" as she can possibly help.'

'Oh, thank you, Uncle Algernon, how nice it will be! Please go on.'