THE STONE CHAMBER OF TAVERNDALE MANOR HOUSE,
by Lady Mabel Howard
I have been asked by so many friends to write down the following story that I have, under pressure, consented to do so. I therefore place the facts before my readers. I tell it exactly as it took place, and I leave it to you to decide as to its reason. The results, as you will see, were real and tangible; but the question will no doubt arise: “Did I dream what I saw?—or was it the spirit power, which, unable to rest, used me as its medium?—or did my imagination, aided and excited by my crystal-gazing, lead me to do as I did?”
Where do dreams and imagination end? And where does the real spirit power commence? And is it possible that we are mediums, good and bad, of another world? This is for you, not for me to decide. I will only tell you what happened.
In the early summer of 1893, in the month of June, I found myself (a widow of eight-and-twenty, with small means and no occupation) on a tourist steamer bound for a three-weeks’ trip to the fjords of Norway, in search of health and fresh air, after many months spent in a small and airless house in London. Among our many passengers, who included all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children, were a lady and gentleman—Lord and Lady Glencoine. They were middle-aged, pleasant, and inclined to be companionable. We were mutually attracted, and within a few days became quite friendly, and even intimate. It is wonderful on board ship how soon one gets to know people well; there is so little to do, and the life lends itself to companionship and conversation. We were lucky, too, in our weather, which no doubt aided our friendly instincts; and when we parted, at the end of three weeks, it was with mutual regrets, hopes of a speedy meeting, and a warm invitation from the Glencoines that I should visit them in their beautiful old Tudor house in Gloucestershire.
I returned to my little house in Chester Street; the weeks and months passed, and I had almost forgotten our trip and the invitation, when one morning in September, amongst other letters, one in a strange handwriting ran as follows:
Taverndale House, Gloucester.
Dear Mrs. Haywood,
I hope you have not forgotten your promise to pay us a visit. I am writing a line to say we shall be at home from the middle of October for a month, and do hope you will find it convenient to come during that time. Glencoine is longing to show you this house, knowing how you appreciate old buildings, and if only the frost will keep off, the garden may still be looking quite pretty.
Yours very sincerely,
I consulted my almanac; found, curiously enough, that I was engaged to pay another visit in Gloucestershire about that time, and that I could fit in a Friday till Tuesday at Taverndale with great pleasure and convenience to myself. So I wrote to Lady Glencoine proposing this time, and in two days received an answer warmly accepting my proposal, but regretting the shortness of my visit. On my arrival at their station, about half-past four in the afternoon, I found the carriage waiting, and was told by the coachman that it was a drive of two miles. We passed through a lodge, and up a large and beautiful avenue of elm trees, which were scattering their golden leaves with great rapidity; and as we suddenly swung round a sharp corner and the house came into view, I was lost in admiration. One of those early Tudor houses, with its gabled roofs and high windows and chimneys, branching out at the end into two wings, almost untouched by modern hands, except where, here and there, there was absolute need of restoration. I had hardly time to take it in before we stopped at the door, and I stepped through the vestibule into the hall, and again my eyes had a feast. The dark wainscoting of oak, with which it was entirely panelled, and the picturesque high windows, the shields and armour hanging from the wainscoting, all made a lovely picture in the setting sun which was pouring through the mullioned window.
The footman led me into another room, also all panelled, which I afterwards discovered was called “My lady’s parlour,” where the party were assembled for tea. Lady Glencoine rose and greeted me warmly; explained to me that Lord Glencoine was out shooting, and introduced me to several of the guests, among whom, much to my astonishment, I found some cousins of my own—a Mr. and Mrs. Broughton. She also informed me that, being the end of the week, several guests had gone that day, but that we were still a party of ten: a Sir Patrick and Lady Grantham; a brother and sister, Captain and Lady Mary Shelvey; and my cousins, making up the party, with Lord and Lady Glencoine and their son, a young man of twenty-four who had just left Oxford. We sat talking and drinking tea for some time, waiting for the shooters to return; but finally she rose and proposed taking me to my room. We passed up the wide staircase, hung with family portraits of many generations, and then into a long low passage, from which we emerged into the gallery, which seemed to occupy almost all one side of the house, being about eighty feet long. Here again the wainscoting of dark oak reached to the beautiful white cornice. The furniture was inlaid, unique of its kind; and the windows a beauty in themselves, with their bows and deep recesses. The daylight was dying away, and the whole place looked weird and ghostly, but very beautiful.
Lady Glencoine was, I think, quite amused by my enthusiasm, and said her husband would not forgive her for showing it to me without him, but she could not do otherwise, as it was the only means of approaching my room; and as she said this she threw open a door in the panelling, and ushered me into a large, bow-windowed room hung with tapestry, looking out, as did the gallery, on a broad terrace walled with a yew hedge, beyond which was an old-fashioned garden still bright with hollyhocks, dahlias, and gladioli. As soon as she had left me, I rushed to the window and sat revelling in the beauties before me, and I came to the conclusion that they were indeed lucky people to be possessed of such a house and surroundings.
Being tired with my journey, I accepted Lady Glencoine’s suggestion, and rested till I was roused by a dressing gong and my maid’s appearance. She, too, was much impressed by the magnificence of all she had seen, but also rather fearful at the size and apparent loneliness of my room, and expressed a wonder that I should venture to spend the night there. Fortunately for me, my nerves were not moulded in the same shape as my maid’s; and I congratulated myself that I was a person possessed of certainly average courage.
The dinner-bell rang, and I left my room, again traversing the long gallery, which was now lit. I met a footman at the far end, who was evidently deputed to conduct me to the drawing-room, where I was almost, if not quite, the last to appear.
I found myself taken in to dinner by Captain Shelvey, a young man who evidently had a good opinion of himself and no hesitation in displaying it. A place was left for me on one side of Lord Glencoine, and dinner commenced.
My neighbour kept me in close conversation; and Lady Mary, who occupied the right-hand seat opposite to me, also talked to our host without intermission, and it was not till dinner was half over that there was a pause, which enabled him to address me.
“Well, Mrs. Haywood,” he said, in his cheery tones, “and what, so far, do you think of my old house? Did l exaggerate its beauty when I romanced about it to you on the ship last summer?”
“Oh, no,” I exclaimed warmly; “of course I haven’t half seen it as yet, but it seems to me that nothing could be more beautiful, and that words are not half good enough to describe it.”
He smiled at my enthusiasm. “It’s very lucky you were able to come, because I am afraid this will be your first and last chance of seeing it.”