Ghost Stories of an Antiquary

  LOST HEARTS

  It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1811 that apost-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart ofLincolnshire. The little boy who was the only passenger in the chaise,and who jumped out as soon as it had stopped, looked about him with thekeenest curiosity during the short interval that elapsed between theringing of the bell and the opening of the hall door. He saw a tall,square, red-brick house, built in the reign of Anne; a stone-pillaredporch had been added in the purer classical style of 1790; the windows ofthe house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes and thick whitewoodwork. A pediment, pierced with a round window, crowned the front.There were wings to right and left, connected by curious glazedgalleries, supported by colonnades, with the central block. These wingsplainly contained the stables and offices of the house. Each wassurmounted by an ornamental cupola with a gilded vane.

  An evening light shone on the building, making the window-panes glow likeso many fires. Away from the Hall in front stretched a flat park studdedwith oaks and fringed with firs, which stood out against the sky. Theclock in the church-tower, buried in trees on the edge of the park, onlyits golden weather-cock catching the light, was striking six, and thesound came gently beating down the wind. It was altogether a pleasantimpression, though tinged with the sort of melancholy appropriate to anevening in early autumn, that was conveyed to the mind of the boy who wasstanding in the porch waiting for the door to open to him.

  The post-chaise had brought him from Warwickshire, where, some six monthsbefore, he had been left an orphan. Now, owing to the generous offer ofhis elderly cousin, Mr Abney, he had come to live at Aswarby. The offerwas unexpected, because all who knew anything of Mr Abney looked upon himas a somewhat austere recluse, into whose steady-going household theadvent of a small boy would import a new and, it seemed, incongruouselement. The truth is that very little was known of Mr Abney's pursuitsor temper. The Professor of Greek at Cambridge had been heard to say thatno one knew more of the religious beliefs of the later pagans than didthe owner of Aswarby. Certainly his library contained all the thenavailable books bearing on the Mysteries, the Orphic poems, the worshipof Mithras, and the Neo-Platonists. In the marble-paved hall stood a finegroup of Mithras slaying a bull, which had been imported from the Levantat great expense by the owner. He had contributed a description of it tothe _Gentleman's Magazine_, and he had written a remarkable series ofarticles in the _Critical Museum_ on the superstitions of the Romans ofthe Lower Empire. He was looked upon, in fine, as a man wrapped up in hisbooks, and it was a matter of great surprise among his neighbours that heshould ever have heard of his orphan cousin, Stephen Elliott, much morethat he should have volunteered to make him an inmate of Aswarby Hall.

  Whatever may have been expected by his neighbours, it is certain that MrAbney--the tall, the thin, the austere--seemed inclined to give his youngcousin a kindly reception. The moment the front-door was opened he dartedout of his study, rubbing his hands with delight.

  'How are you, my boy?--how are you? How old are you?' said he--'that is,you are not too much tired, I hope, by your journey to eat your supper?'

  'No, thank you, sir,' said Master Elliott; 'I am pretty well.'

  'That's a good lad,' said Mr Abney. 'And how old are you, my boy?'

  It seemed a little odd that he should have asked the question twice inthe first two minutes of their acquaintance.

  'I'm twelve years old next birthday, sir,' said Stephen.

  'And when is your birthday, my dear boy? Eleventh of September, eh?That's well--that's very well. Nearly a year hence, isn't it? I like--ha,ha!--I like to get these things down in my book. Sure it's twelve?Certain?'

  'Yes, quite sure, sir.'

  'Well, well! Take him to Mrs Bunch's room, Parkes, and let him have histea--supper--whatever it is.'

  'Yes, sir,' answered the staid Mr Parkes; and conducted Stephen to thelower regions.

  Mrs Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephen had asyet met at Aswarby. She made him completely at home; they were greatfriends in a quarter of an hour: and great friends they remained. MrsBunch had been born in the neighbourhood some fifty-five years before thedate of Stephen's arrival, and her residence at the Hall was of twentyyears' standing. Consequently, if anyone knew the ins and outs of thehouse and the district, Mrs Bunch knew them; and she was by no meansdisinclined to communicate her information.

  Certainly there were plenty of things about the Hall and the Hall gardenswhich Stephen, who was of an adventurous and inquiring turn, was anxiousto have explained to him. 'Who built the temple at the end of the laurelwalk? Who was the old man whose picture hung on the staircase, sitting ata table, with a skull under his hand?' These and many similar points werecleared up by the resources of Mrs Bunch's powerful intellect. There wereothers, however, of which the explanations furnished were lesssatisfactory.

  One November evening Stephen was sitting by the fire in the housekeeper'sroom reflecting on his surroundings.

  'Is Mr Abney a good man, and will he go to heaven?' he suddenly asked,with the peculiar confidence which children possess in the ability oftheir elders to settle these questions, the decision of which is believedto be reserved for other tribunals.

  'Good?--bless the child!' said Mrs Bunch. 'Master's as kind a soul asever I see! Didn't I never tell you of the little boy as he took in outof the street, as you may say, this seven years back? and the littlegirl, two years after I first come here?'

  'No. Do tell me all about them, Mrs Bunch--now, this minute!'

  'Well,' said Mrs Bunch, 'the little girl I don't seem to recollect somuch about. I know master brought her back with him from his walk oneday, and give orders to Mrs Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as she shouldbe took every care with. And the pore child hadn't no one belonging toher--she telled me so her own self--and here she lived with us a matterof three weeks it might be; and then, whether she were somethink of agipsy in her blood or what not, but one morning she out of her bed aforeany of us had opened a eye, and neither track nor yet trace of her have Iset eyes on since. Master was wonderful put about, and had all the pondsdragged; but it's my belief she was had away by them gipsies, for therewas singing round the house for as much as an hour the night she went,and Parkes, he declare as he heard them a-calling in the woods all thatafternoon. Dear, dear! a hodd child she was, so silent in her ways andall, but I was wonderful taken up with her, so domesticated shewas--surprising.'

  'And what about the little boy?' said Stephen.

  'Ah, that pore boy!' sighed Mrs Bunch. 'He were a foreigner--Jevanny hecalled hisself--and he come a-tweaking his 'urdy-gurdy round and aboutthe drive one winter day, and master 'ad him in that minute, and ast allabout where he came from, and how old he was, and how he made his way,and where was his relatives, and all as kind as heart could wish. But itwent the same way with him. They're a hunruly lot, them foreign nations,I do suppose, and he was off one fine morning just the same as the girl.Why he went and what he done was our question for as much as a yearafter; for he never took his 'urdy-gurdy, and there it lays on theshelf.'

  The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen in miscellaneouscross-examination of Mrs Bunch and in efforts to extract a tune from thehurdy-gurdy.

  That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at the topof the house, in which his bedroom was situated, there was an old disusedbathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed,and, since the muslin curtains which used to hang there had long beengone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed to the wallon the right hand, with its head towards the window.

  On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott found himself, as hethought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shining throughthe window, and he was gazing at a figure which lay in the bath.

  His description of what he saw reminds me of what I once beheld myself inthe famous vaults of St Michan's Church in Dublin, which possesses thehorrid property of pres
erving corpses from decay for centuries. A figureinexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour, enveloped in ashroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked into a faint and dreadfulsmile, the hands pressed tightly over the region of the heart.

  As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issuefrom its lips, and the arms began to stir. The terror of the sight forcedStephen backwards and he awoke to the fact that he was indeed standing onthe cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light of the moon. Witha courage which I do not think can be common among boys of his age, hewent to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if the figure of his dreamswere really there. It was not, and he went back to bed.

  Mrs Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story, and went so faras to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of the bathroom. MrAbney, moreover, to whom he confided his experiences at breakfast, wasgreatly interested and made notes of the matter in what he called 'hisbook'.

  The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr Abney frequently reminded hiscousin, adding that this had been always considered by the ancients to bea critical time for the young: that Stephen would do well to take care ofhimself, and to shut his bedroom window at night; and that Censorinus hadsome valuable remarks on the subject. Two incidents that occurred aboutthis time made an impression upon Stephen's mind.

  The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that he hadpassed--though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had.

  The following evening Mrs Bunch was occupying herself in mending hisnightgown.

  'Gracious me, Master Stephen!' she broke forth rather irritably, 'how doyou manage to tear your nightdress all to flinders this way? Look here,sir, what trouble you do give to poor servants that have to darn and mendafter you!'

  There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton series of slitsor scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly require a skilfulneedle to make good. They were confined to the left side of thechest--long, parallel slits about six inches in length, some of them notquite piercing the texture of the linen. Stephen could only express hisentire ignorance of their origin: he was sure they were not there thenight before.

  'But,' he said, 'Mrs Bunch, they are just the same as the scratches onthe outside of my bedroom door: and I'm sure I never had anything to dowith making _them_.'

  Mrs Bunch gazed at him open-mouthed, then snatched up a candle, departedhastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs. In a fewminutes she came down.

  'Well,' she said, 'Master Stephen, it's a funny thing to me how themmarks and scratches can 'a' come there--too high up for any cat or dog to'ave made 'em, much less a rat: for all the world like a Chinaman'sfinger-nails, as my uncle in the tea-trade used to tell us of when we wasgirls together. I wouldn't say nothing to master, not if I was you,Master Stephen, my dear; and just turn the key of the door when you go toyour bed.'

  'I always do, Mrs Bunch, as soon as I've said my prayers.'

  'Ah, that's a good child: always say your prayers, and then no one can'thurt you.'

  Herewith Mrs Bunch addressed herself to mending the injured nightgown,with intervals of meditation, until bed-time. This was on a Friday nightin March, 1812.

  On the following evening the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs Bunch wasaugmented by the sudden arrival of Mr Parkes, the butler, who as a rulekept himself rather _to_ himself in his own pantry. He did not see thatStephen was there: he was, moreover, flustered and less slow of speechthan was his wont.

  'Master may get up his own wine, if he likes, of an evening,' was hisfirst remark. 'Either I do it in the daytime or not at all, Mrs Bunch. Idon't know what it may be: very like it's the rats, or the wind got intothe cellars; but I'm not so young as I was, and I can't go through withit as I have done.'

  'Well, Mr Parkes, you know it is a surprising place for the rats, is theHall.'

  'I'm not denying that, Mrs Bunch; and, to be sure, many a time I've heardthe tale from the men in the shipyards about the rat that could speak. Inever laid no confidence in that before; but tonight, if I'd demeanedmyself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin, I could pretty muchhave heard what they was saying.'

  'Oh, there, Mr Parkes, I've no patience with your fancies! Rats talkingin the wine-cellar indeed!'

  'Well, Mrs Bunch, I've no wish to argue with you: all I say is, if youchoose to go to the far bin, and lay your ear to the door, you may provemy words this minute.'

  'What nonsense you do talk, Mr Parkes--not fit for children to listen to!Why, you'll be frightening Master Stephen there out of his wits.'

  'What! Master Stephen?' said Parkes, awaking to the consciousness of theboy's presence. 'Master Stephen knows well enough when I'm a-playing ajoke with you, Mrs Bunch.'

  In fact, Master Stephen knew much too well to suppose that Mr Parkes hadin the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, not altogetherpleasantly, in the situation; but all his questions were unsuccessful ininducing the butler to give any more detailed account of his experiencesin the wine-cellar.

  * * * * *

  We have now arrived at March 24, 1812. It was a day of curiousexperiences for Stephen: a windy, noisy day, which filled the house andthe gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by the fence ofthe grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endlessprocession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne onresistlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to catchat something that might arrest their flight and bring them once againinto contact with the living world of which they had formed a part. Afterluncheon that day Mr Abney said:

  'Stephen, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to me tonight aslate as eleven o'clock in my study? I shall be busy until that time, andI wish to show you something connected with your future life which it ismost important that you should know. You are not to mention this matterto Mrs Bunch nor to anyone else in the house; and you had better go toyour room at the usual time.'

  Here was a new excitement added to life: Stephen eagerly grasped at theopportunity of sitting up till eleven o'clock. He looked in at thelibrary door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw a brazier, whichhe had often noticed in the corner of the room, moved out before thefire; an old silver-gilt cup stood on the table, filled with red wine,and some written sheets of paper lay near it. Mr Abney was sprinklingsome incense on the brazier from a round silver box as Stephen passed,but did not seem to notice his step.

  The wind had fallen, and there was a still night and a full moon. Atabout ten o'clock Stephen was standing at the open window of his bedroom,looking out over the country. Still as the night was, the mysteriouspopulation of the distant moon-lit woods was not yet lulled to rest. Fromtime to time strange cries as of lost and despairing wanderers soundedfrom across the mere. They might be the notes of owls or water-birds, yetthey did not quite resemble either sound. Were not they coming nearer?Now they sounded from the nearer side of the water, and in a few momentsthey seemed to be floating about among the shrubberies. Then they ceased;but just as Stephen was thinking of shutting the window and resuming hisreading of _Robinson Crusoe_, he caught sight of two figures standing onthe gravelled terrace that ran along the garden side of the Hall--thefigures of a boy and girl, as it seemed; they stood side by side, lookingup at the windows. Something in the form of the girl recalledirresistibly his dream of the figure in the bath. The boy inspired himwith more acute fear.

  Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped overher heart, the boy, a thin shape, with black hair and ragged clothing,raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and ofunappeasable hunger and longing. The moon shone upon his almosttransparent hands, and Stephen saw that the nails were fearfully long andthat the light shone through them. As he stood with his arms thus raised,he disclosed a terrifying spectacle. On the left side of his chest thereopened a black and gaping rent; and there fell upon Stephen's brain,rather than upon his ear, the i
mpression of one of those hungry anddesolate cries that he had heard resounding over the woods of Aswarby allthat evening. In another moment this dreadful pair had moved swiftly andnoiselessly over the dry gravel, and he saw them no more.

  Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined to take his candle andgo down to Mr Abney's study, for the hour appointed for their meeting wasnear at hand. The study or library opened out of the front-hall on oneside, and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not take long in gettingthere. To effect an entrance was not so easy. It was not locked, he feltsure, for the key was on the outside of the door as usual. His repeatedknocks produced no answer. Mr Abney was engaged: he was speaking. What!why did he try to cry out? and why was the cry choked in his throat? Hadhe, too, seen the mysterious children? But now everything was quiet, andthe door yielded to Stephen's terrified and frantic pushing.

  * * * * *

  On the table in Mr Abney's study certain papers were found whichexplained the situation to Stephen Elliott when he was of an age tounderstand them. The most important sentences were as follows:

  'It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients--ofwhose wisdom in these matters I have had such experience as induces me toplace confidence in their assertions--that by enacting certain processes,which to us moderns have something of a barbaric complexion, a veryremarkable enlightenment of the spiritual faculties in man may beattained: that, for example, by absorbing the personalities of a certainnumber of his fellow-creatures, an individual may gain a completeascendancy over those orders of spiritual beings which control theelemental forces of our universe.

  'It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly in the air, tobecome invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agency of thesoul of a boy whom, to use the libellous phrase employed by the author ofthe _Clementine Recognitions_, he had "murdered". I find it set down,moreover, with considerable detail in the writings of HermesTrismegistus, that similar happy results may be produced by theabsorption of the hearts of not less than three human beings below theage of twenty-one years. To the testing of the truth of this receipt Ihave devoted the greater part of the last twenty years, selecting as the_corpora vilia_ of my experiment such persons as could conveniently beremoved without occasioning a sensible gap in society. The first step Ieffected by the removal of one Phoebe Stanley, a girl of gipsyextraction, on March 24, 1792. The second, by the removal of a wanderingItalian lad, named Giovanni Paoli, on the night of March 23, 1805. Thefinal "victim"--to employ a word repugnant in the highest degree to myfeelings--must be my cousin, Stephen Elliott. His day must be this March24, 1812.

  'The best means of effecting the required absorption is to remove theheart from the _living_ subject, to reduce it to ashes, and to minglethem with about a pint of some red wine, preferably port. The remains ofthe first two subjects, at least, it will be well to conceal: a disusedbathroom or wine-cellar will be found convenient for such a purpose. Someannoyance may be experienced from the psychic portion of the subjects,which popular language dignifies with the name of ghosts. But the man ofphilosophic temperament--to whom alone the experiment isappropriate--will be little prone to attach importance to the feebleefforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him. I contemplatewith the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existencewhich the experiment, if successful, will confer on me; not only placingme beyond the reach of human justice (so-called), but eliminating to agreat extent the prospect of death itself.'

  * * * * *

  Mr Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his face stampedwith an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In his left side wasa terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood on hishands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly clean. Asavage wild-cat might have inflicted the injuries. The window of thestudy was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr Abney hadmet his death by the agency of some wild creature. But Stephen Elliott'sstudy of the papers I have quoted led him to a very different conclusion.