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Some
few miles from Huddersfield, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and on the
borders of the ‘black country,' stands Woodsome Hall, an old-fashioned
country house, which has been from time almost immemorial the property of
the Legges, now Earls of Dartmouth. A propos of the old manor, there is a
good story told by tradition in the Legge family respecting the sister of
an ancestor of Lord Dartmouth, who lived some two hundred years ago. She
was a grand old dame, and had outlived her youth and prime many years, and
had resided alone in one wing of the house. Old Miss Susan, for such was
the lady s Christian name, sooth to say, was very proud, and fond of
having her own way, and in her own establishment she was perhaps more
feared than loved. She lived in tolerable state, being rich as the world
then considered wealth, though probably, at the rate at which we live
now-a-days, she would be said to have had little more than a competency.
It so happened that one of her body-servants, Simon Jenkins, in a fit
of despondency at having so little, or rather nothing, to do---a fault of
which modern retainers are not in the habit of complaining---committed
suicide by hanging himself to the bedstead of his room, on the northern
side of the house. The chamber in which this happened is still pointed
out. The sudden death of Simon caused, as may be easily supposed, no
little stir and consternation among the inmates of Woodsome Hall. A
coroner's inquest followed in due course, and a solemn verdict of
‘temporary insanity' was returned; so in due course he was buried in the
parish church, within the precincts of her ladyship's park. The funeral,
very naturally, was at once attested and attended by a large gathering of
the household of which Simon had been so important a member. In the
afternoon of the day on which the funeral took place (for Jenkins had been
a great favorite with his mistress) Miss Susan commanded the attendance of
all her domestics in her chamber, and when they were assembled, addressed
them as follows: ' Simon Jenkins, as you all know, was a worthy servant,
and knew and did his duty well. I was very fond of him, and much regret
his loss. But I do not wish, and indeed I should be much afraid, to see
him in the flesh; so, if anyone of you shall see him walking about the
corridors, as suicides are often reported to do, I tell you plainly that
he or she shall quit my service. And now you may all go.’ Her sermon
ended, the proud old lady took up her walking-cane leisurely, and retired
to her own chamber, where she probably seated herself in her high-backed
arm-chair---I can scarcely call it an easy-chair---to take her post-prandial
snooze. And now comes the Nemesis of the story.
One evening in the same week Miss Susan had dined alone, so far as
guests were concerned, but with half-a-dozen powdered lacqueys waiting
upon her in their full liveries, under the orders of the new butler. The
lady took a nap, if the truth must be told, in her chair, and slept for
half-an-hour or so, when she gave a sudden start and scream and rang the
bell furiously. Alarmed at the violence of her ringing, in came the
servants to hear what was the matter, when they found their mistress quite
pale and haggard, her eyes staring wildly. It was with difficulty that at
last they succeeded in composing her, when she sat up and said, in her own
dignified way, ‘Let this room henceforth be ever kept locked.' And with
that she went upstairs to her own bedroom.
Whether Miss Susan had been dreaming, or whether she had actually
seen Simon Jenkins again in the flesh, is one of those mysteries which
will never be known, for the domestics stood so much in awe of their
mistress that they were afraid to ask her. But, at all events, in spite of
the threats of the old lady, the story was noised abroad, and the
mysterious act of locking up the chamber became a topic of conversation in
the neighborhood. What became of the lady herself is a question that has
been often asked, but is known only to the family, even if it is known to
them. It is often told by Lord Dartmouth to a circle of intimate friends
and visitors to the grand old mansion under the title of ‘Nemesis, or the
Butler's Ghost.’ And I may add that mine is the authentic version, for I
tell the tale as Lord Dartmouth himself told it to one of my oldest and
most trusty friends.
The Susan Legge, whose
servant's fate I have recorded, was probably one of the five daughters of
George Legge, Master-General of the Ordnance, and also admiral in the
British Fleet, whose name is known to history as the captor of Tangier. He
was created Lord Dartmouth in 1682; and his son and successor, William,
second baron, having filled many important posts in the government under
Queen Anne, was raised to the Viscountcy of Lewisham and Earldom of
Dartmouth in 1711.
Chapters From the Family Chests, 1887
Chapters From the Family Chest |
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