It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1811 that a
post-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart of
Lincolnshire. 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 the
keenest curiosity during the short interval that elapsed between the
ringing 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-pillared
porch had been added in the purer classical style of 1790; the windows
of the house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes and thick
white woodwork. A pediment, pierced with a round window, crowned the
front. There were wings to right and left, connected by curious glazed
galleries, supported by colonnades, with the central block. These wings
plainly contained the stables and offices of the house. Each was
surmounted by an ornamental cupola with a gilded vane.
An evening light shone on the building, making the window-panes glow
like so many fires. Away from the Hall in front stretched a flat park
studded with oaks and fringed with firs, which stood out against the
sky. The clock in the church-tower, buried in trees on the edge of the
park, only its golden weather-cock catching the light, was striking
six, and the sound came gently beating down the wind. It was altogether
a pleasant impression, though tinged with the sort of melancholy
appropriate to an evening in early autumn, that was conveyed to the
mind of the boy who was standing in the porch waiting for the door to
open to him.
The post-chaise had brought him from Warwickshire, where, some six
months before, he had been left an orphan. Now, owing to the generous
offer of his elderly cousin, Mr Abney, he had come to live at Aswarby.
The offer was unexpected, because all who knew anything of Mr Abney
looked upon him as a somewhat austere recluse, into whose steady-going
household the advent of a small boy would import a new and, it seemed,
incongruous element. The truth is that very little was known of Mr
Abney’s pursuits or temper. The Professor of Greek at Cambridge had
been heard to say that no one knew more of the religious beliefs of the
later pagans than did the owner of Aswarby. Certainly his library
contained all the then available books bearing on the Mysteries, the
Orphic poems, the worship of Mithras, and the Neo-Platonists. In the
marble-paved hall stood a fine group of Mithras slaying a bull, which
had been imported from the Levant at great expense by the owner. He had
contributed a description of it to the _Gentleman’s Magazine_, and he
had written a remarkable series of articles in the _Critical Museum_ on
the superstitions of the Romans of the Lower Empire. He was looked
upon, in fine, as a man wrapped up in his books, and it was a matter of
great surprise among his neighbours that he should ever have heard of
his orphan cousin, Stephen Elliott, much more that he should have
volunteered to make him an inmate of Aswarby Hall.
Whatever may have been expected by his neighbours, it is certain that
Mr Abney—the tall, the thin, the austere—seemed inclined to give his
young cousin a kindly reception. The moment the front-door was opened
he darted out 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 in
the 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 his
tea—supper—whatever it is.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the staid Mr Parkes; and conducted Stephen to the
lower regions.
Mrs Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephen had as
yet met in Aswarby. She made him completely at home; they were great
friends in a quarter of an hour: and great friends they remained. Mrs
Bunch had been born in the neighbourhood some fifty-five years before
the date of Stephen’s arrival, and her residence at the Hall was of
twenty years’ standing. Consequently, if anyone knew the ins and outs
of the house and the district, Mrs Bunch knew them; and she was by no
means disinclined to communicate her information.
Certainly there were plenty of things about the Hall and the Hall
gardens which Stephen, who was of an adventurous and inquiring turn,
was anxious to have explained to him. “Who built the temple at the end
of the laurel walk? Who was the old man whose picture hung on the
staircase, sitting at a table, with a skull under his hand?” These and
many similar points were cleared up by the resources of Mrs Bunch’s
powerful intellect. There were others, however, of which the
explanations furnished were less satisfactory.
One November evening Stephen was sitting by the fire in the
housekeeper’s room 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 of
their elders to settle these questions, the decision of which is
believed to be reserved for other tribunals.
“Good?—bless the child!” said Mrs Bunch. “Master’s as kind a soul as
ever I see! Didn’t I never tell you of the little boy as he took in out
of the street, as you may say, this seven years back? and the little
girl, 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 so
much about. I know master brought her back with him from his walk one
day, and give orders to Mrs Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as she
should be took every care with. And the pore child hadn’t no one
belonging to her—she telled me so her own self—and here she lived with
us a matter of three weeks it might be; and then, whether she were
somethink of a gipsy in her blood or what not, but one morning she out
of her bed afore any of us had opened a eye, and neither track nor yet
trace of her have I set eyes on since. Master was wonderful put about,
and had all the ponds dragged; but it’s my belief she was had away by
them gipsies, for there was 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 that afternoon. Dear, dear! a hodd child she
was, so silent in her ways and all, but I was wonderful taken up with
her, so domesticated she was—surprising.”
“And what about the little boy?” said Stephen.
“Ah, that pore boy!” sighed Mrs Bunch. “He were a foreigner—Jevanny he
called hisself—and he come a-tweaking his ’urdy-gurdy round and about
the drive one winter day, and master ’ad him in that minute, and ast
all about 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 it went 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 year after; for he never took his ’urdy-gurdy, and there it lays on
the shelf.”
The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen in miscellaneous
cross-examination of Mrs Bunch and in efforts to extract a tune from
the hurdy-gurdy.
That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at the top
of the house, in which his bedroom was situated, there was an old
disused bathroom. 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 been gone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed
to the wall on the right hand, with its head towards the window.
On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott found himself, as
he thought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shining
through the 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
in the famous vaults of St Michan’s Church in Dublin, which possess the
horrid property of preserving corpses from decay for centuries. A
figure inexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour,
enveloped in a shroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked into a faint
and dreadful smile, the hands pressed tightly over the region of the
heart.
As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issue
from its lips, and the arms began to stir. The terror of the sight
forced Stephen backwards, and he awoke to the fact that he was indeed
standing on the cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light of
the moon. With a courage which I do not think can be common among boys
of his age, he went to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if the
figure of his dream were really there. It was not, and he went back to
bed.
Mrs Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story, and went so far
as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of the bathroom.
Mr Abney, moreover, to whom he confided his experiences at breakfast,
was greatly interested, and made notes of the matter in what he called
“his book”.
The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr Abney frequently reminded his
cousin, adding that this had been always considered by the ancients to
be a critical time for the young: that Stephen would do well to take
care of himself, and to shut his bedroom window at night; and that
Censorinus had some valuable remarks on the subject. Two incidents that
occurred about this time made an impression upon Stephen’s mind.
The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that he had
passed—though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had.
The following evening Mrs Bunch was occupying herself in mending his
nightgown.
“Gracious me, Master Stephen!” she broke forth rather irritably, “how
do you 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 mend after you!”
There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton series of
slits or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly require a
skilful needle to make good. They were confined to the left side of the
chest—long, parallel slits, about six inches in length, some of them
not quite piercing the texture of the linen. Stephen could only express
his entire ignorance of their origin: he was sure they were not there
the night before.
“But,” he said, “Mrs Bunch, they are just the same as the scratches on
the outside of my bedroom door; and I’m sure I never had anything to do
with making _them_.”
Mrs Bunch gazed at him open-mouthed, then snatched up a candle,
departed hastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs.
In a few minutes she came down.
“Well,” she said, “Master Stephen, it’s a funny thing to me how them
marks 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’s
finger-nails, as my uncle in the tea-trade used to tell us of when we
was girls 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
to your 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’t hurt you.”
Herewith Mrs Bunch addressed herself to mending the injured nightgown,
with intervals of meditation, until bed-time. This was on a Friday
night in March, 1812.
On the following evening the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs Bunch was
augmented by the sudden arrival of Mr Parkes, the butler, who as a rule
kept himself rather _to_ himself in his own pantry. He did not see that
Stephen was there: he was, moreover, flustered and less slow of speech
than was his wont.
“Master may get up his own wine, if he likes, of an evening,” was his
first remark. “Either I do it in the daytime or not at all, Mrs Bunch.
I don’t know what it may be: very like it’s the rats, or the wind got
into the cellars; but I’m not so young as I was, and I can’t go through
with it as I have done.”
“Well, Mr Parkes, you know it is a surprising place for the rats, is
the Hall.”
“I’m not denying that, Mrs Bunch; and, to be sure, many a time I’ve
heard the tale from the men in the shipyards about the rat that could
speak. I never laid no confidence in that before; but tonight, if I’d
demeaned myself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin, I could
pretty much have heard what they was saying.”
“Oh, there, Mr Parkes, I’ve no patience with your fancies! Rats talking
in the wine-cellar indeed!”
“Well, Mrs Bunch, I’ve no wish to argue with you: all I say is, if you
choose to go to the far bin, and lay your ear to the door, you may
prove my 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
the boy’s presence. “Master Stephen knows well enough when I’m
a-playing a joke with you, Mrs Bunch.”
In fact, Master Stephen knew much too well to suppose that Mr Parkes
had in the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, not
altogether pleasantly, in the situation; but all his questions were
unsuccessful in inducing the butler to give any more detailed account
of his experiences in the wine-cellar.
We have now arrived at March 24, 1812. It was a day of curious
experiences for Stephen: a windy, noisy day, which filled the house and
the gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by the fence
of the grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endless
procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne
on resistlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to
catch at something that might arrest their flight and bring them once
again into contact with the living world of which they had formed a
part. After luncheon that day Mr Abney said:
“Stephen, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to me tonight
as late as eleven o’clock in my study? I shall be busy until that time,
and I wish to show you something connected with your future life which
it is most important that you should know. You are not to mention this
matter to Mrs Bunch nor to anyone else in the house; and you had better
go to your room at the usual time.”
Here was a new excitement added to life: Stephen eagerly grasped at the
opportunity of sitting up till eleven o’clock. He looked in at the
library door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw a brazier, which
he had often noticed in the corner of the room, moved out before the
fire; 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 sprinkling
some 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. At
about ten o’clock Stephen was standing at the open window of his
bedroom, looking out over the country. Still as the night was, the
mysterious population of the distant moon-lit woods was not yet lulled
to rest. From time to time strange cries as of lost and despairing
wanderers sounded from across the mere. They might be the notes of owls
or water-birds, yet they 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 moments they seemed to be floating about among the
shrubberies. Then they ceased; but just as Stephen was thinking of
shutting the window and resuming his reading of _Robinson Crusoe_, he
caught sight of two figures standing on the gravelled terrace that ran
along the garden side of the Hall—the figures of a boy and girl, as it
seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows. Something
in the form of the girl recalled irresistibly his dream of the figure
in the bath. The boy inspired him with more acute fear.
Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over
her heart, the boy, a thin shape, with black hair and ragged clothing,
raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and of
unappeasable hunger and longing. The moon shone upon his almost
transparent hands, and Stephen saw that the nails were fearfully long
and that 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 there opened a black and gaping rent; and there fell upon
Stephen’s brain, rather than upon his ear, the impression of one of
those hungry and desolate cries that he had heard resounding over the
woods of Aswarby all that evening. In another moment this dreadful pair
had moved swiftly and noiselessly over the dry gravel, and he saw them
no more.
Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined to take his candle
and go down to Mr Abney’s study, for the hour appointed for their
meeting was near at hand. The study or library opened out of the
front-hall on one side, and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not
take long in getting there. To effect an entrance was not so easy. It
was not locked, he felt sure, for the key was on the outside of the
door as usual. His repeated knocks 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? Had he, too, seen the mysterious
children? But now everything was quiet, and the door yielded to
Stephen’s terrified and frantic pushing.
On the table in Mr Abney’s study certain papers were found which
explained the situation to Stephen Elliott when he was of an age to
understand them. The most important sentences were as follows:
“It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients—of
whose wisdom in these matters I have had such experience as induces me
to place confidence in their assertions—that by enacting certain
processes, which to us moderns have something of a barbaric complexion,
a very remarkable enlightenment of the spiritual faculties in man may
be attained: that, for example, by absorbing the personalities of a
certain number of his fellow-creatures, an individual may gain a
complete ascendancy over those orders of spiritual beings which control
the elemental forces of our universe.
“It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly in the air, to
become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agency of
the soul of a boy whom, to use the libellous phrase employed by the
author of the _Clementine Recognitions_, he had ‘murdered’. I find it
set down, moreover, with considerable detail in the writings of Hermes
Trismegistus, that similar happy results may be produced by the
absorption of the hearts of not less than three human beings below the
age of twenty-one years. To the testing of the truth of this receipt I
have devoted the greater part of the last twenty years, selecting as
the _corpora vilia_ of my experiment such persons as could conveniently
be removed without occasioning a sensible gap in society. The first
step I effected by the removal of one Phoebe Stanley, a girl of gipsy
extraction, on March 24, 1792. The second, by the removal of a
wandering Italian lad, named Giovanni Paoli, on the night of March 23,
1805. The final ‘victim’—to employ a word repugnant in the highest
degree to my feelings—must be my cousin, Stephen Elliott. His day must
be this March 24, 1812.
“The best means of effecting the required absorption is to remove the
heart from the _living_ subject, to reduce it to ashes, and to mingle
them with about a pint of some red wine, preferably port. The remains
of the first two subjects, at least, it will be well to conceal: a
disused bathroom or wine-cellar will be found convenient for such a
purpose. Some annoyance may be experienced from the psychic portion of
the subjects, which popular language dignifies with the name of ghosts.
But the man of philosophic temperament—to whom alone the experiment is
appropriate—will be little prone to attach importance to the feeble
efforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him. I contemplate
with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence
which the experiment, if successful, will confer on me; not only
placing me beyond the reach of human justice (so-called), but
eliminating to a great extent the prospect of death itself.”
Mr Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his face stamped
with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In his left side
was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood
on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly
clean. A savage wild-cat might have inflicted the injuries. The window
of the study was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr
Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature. But
Stephen Elliott’s study of the papers I have quoted led him to a very
different conclusion.