R. Lafferty - The 7th Ghost Story Megapack

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.”

“Why?” I asked curiously, thinking what a very odd thing it was for him to say.

“Because,” he answered, smiling rather sadly, “I am afraid I shall have to sell it I have struggled on a long time in the hopes of better things, but bad times and rents going down as they have done, almost to nothing, make it impossible, and much as it grieves me, I am afraid it will have to go. Charlie and I cut off the entail some time ago, and it is already advertised.”

“It is too sad!” I exclaimed. “It does seem such a grievous pity that an old family place like this should go away into the hands of strangers.”

“Yes, it’s not exactly nice,” he answered, “and it was a long time before I could make up my mind to it; but it is what a great many people have come to, and nothing short of a miracle will save landed property in England now. And,” he continued, “the maddening part of this place is, that we believe somewhere here, either in the house or grounds, there are jewels and treasure hidden, and we can’t find them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, with astonishment.

“Well,” said Lord Glencoine, “about fifty years ago my grandfather was turning out old boxes and safes, and he found a record, or rather diary, of an ancestress of ours, a Lady Glencoine in her own right, who was the owner of this house at the time when Cromwell was making havoc in all the English places. She had kept this diary for years; and the last record in it is an account of Cromwell having arrived at Gloucester, and a report of an intended raid on this house, and she writes that she is, at that moment, about to hide what she calls her ‘priceless jewels’ in a place only known to herself, so that they may be safe. Whether she did or did not was never known, and the only other entry in the diary is a few lines, written evidently by the maid, who tells of the soldiers’ invasion that night, and that ‘my lady’ disappeared, and was never seen again; so whether she and the jewels were carried off by Cromwell’s men, or whether she was murdered for the sake of them, remains a mystery; only my grandmother was so bent on trying to find them, that she sent for several architects and archaeologists from London, who searched all over the house, and did succeed in discovering two secret staircases, but there was nothing in them, and no one ever found anything.”

“How very, very extraordinary!” I exclaimed, “and how deeply interesting! But were none of the jewels ever found again?”

“Nothing,” he answered—“in fact, till my grandfather bought a few there were no ornaments in the family of any sort; and that there were plenty in the old days is a certainty, because all the ladies whose pictures I will show you tomorrow have extraordinarily beautiful jewels on their heads and necks up to the time I told you of, and since then all those whose portraits have been painted have been noticeably without any.”

“One feels inclined to go and have a search,” I said, laughing, as we all rose to leave the dining-room.

“I know,” he answered, “as boys, we used to be forever looking and hoping, but we were always disappointed, and gave it up in despair at last.”

We passed out of the dining-room into the drawing-room, which was hung with old English tapestry, in wonderful preservation. We clustered round the large wood fire, for it was a chilly evening late in October, with a slight frost.

“Didn’t I hear Glencoine telling you about the lost jewels?” asked Lady Glencoine, as she knelt on the rug, and threw another log on to the already blazing fire.

“Yes,” I answered, “and I was immensely interested. It sounded such a wonderful tale—rather like a fairy story, I think.”

“I cannot help believing,” she answered, “that they are somewhere here, and that some day they will be found; only I am afraid it will be too late for us,” she added sadly. Then suddenly she turned to me: “Mrs. Haywood, do you believe in ghosts?”