Lost Hearts

It was, as far as Ican ascertain, in September of the year 1811 that a
postchaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heartof
Lincolnshire. The little boy who was the only passenger in thechaise, and
who jumped out as soon as it had stopped, looked about him withthe keenest
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-pillared porch hadbeen added in
the purer classical style of 1790; the windows of the house weremany, tall
and narrow, with small panes and thick white woodwork. Apediment, pierced
with a round window, crowned the front. There were wings to rightand left,
connected by curious glazed galleries, supported by colonnades,with the
central block. These wings plainly contained the stables andoffices of the
house. Each was surmounted by an ornamental cupola with a gildedvane.
An evening light shone on the building, making the window-panesglow
like so many fires. Away from the Hall in front stretched a flatpark 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
weathercock catching the light, was striking six, and the soundcame gently
beating down the wind. It was altogether a pleasant impression,though tinged
with the sort of melancholy appropriate to an evening in earlyautumn, that
was conveyed to the mind of the boy who was standing in the porchwaiting for
the door to open to him.
The post-chaise had brought him from Warwickshire, where, somesix
months before, he had been left an orphan. Now, owing to thegenerous 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 lookedupon him as
a somewhat austere recluse, into whose steadygoing household theadvent 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 moreof the
religious beliefs of the later pagans than did the owner ofAswarby.
Certainly his library contained all the then available booksbearing 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 abull, 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, andhe had
written a remarkable series of articles in the Critical Museum onthe
superstitions of the Romans of the Lower Empire. He was lookedupon, in fine,
as a man wrapped up in his books, and it was a matter of greatsurprise among
his neighbours that he should even have heard of his orphancousin, Stephen
Elliott, much more that he should have volunteered to make him aninmate of
Aswarby Hall.
Whatever may have been expected by his neighbours, it is certainthat
Mr Abney - the tall, the thin, the austere - seemed inclined togive his
young cousin a kindly reception. The moment the front door wasopened 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 eatyour 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, myboy?'
It seemed a little odd that he should have asked the questiontwice 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? Ilike - ha,
ha! - I like to get these things down in my book. Sure it'stwelve? Certain?'
'Yes, quite sure, sir.'
'Well, well! Take him to Mrs Bunch's room, Parkes, and let himhave his
tea - supper - whatever it is.'
'Yes, sir,' answered the staid Mr Parkes; and conducted Stephento the
lower regions.
Mrs Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephenhad as
yet met in Aswarby. She made him completely at home; they weregreat friends
in a quarter of an hour: and great friends they remained. MrsBunch had been
born in the neighbourhood some fifty-five years before the dateof 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 andthe district,
Mrs Bunch knew them; and she was by no means disinclined tocommunicate her
information.
Certainly there were plenty of things about the Hall and the Hall
gardens which Stephen, who was of an adventurous and inquiringturn, was
anxious to have explained to him. 'Who built the temple at theend of the
laurel walk? Who was the old man whose picture hung on thestaircase, sitting
at a table, with a skull under his hand?' These and many similarpoints were
cleared up by the resources of Mrs Bunch's powerful intellect.There were
others, however, of which the explanations furnished were lesssatisfactory.
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 suddenlyasked,
with the peculiar confidence which children possess in theability of their
elders to settle these questions, the decision of which isbelieved to be
reserved for other tribunals.
'Good? - bless the child!' said Mrs Bunch. 'Master's as kind asoul as
ever I see! Didn't I never tell you of the little boy as he tookin out of
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 torecollect so
much about. I know master brought her back with him from his walkone day,
and give orders to Mrs Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as sheshould be 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 afore anyof us had
opened a eye, and neither track nor yet trace of her have I seteyes 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 there wassinging 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 waswonderful 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 roundand about
the drive one winter day, and master 'ad him in that minute, andast all
about where he came from, and how old he was, and how he made hisway, and
where was his relatives, and all as kind as heart could wish. Butit went the
same way with him. They're a hunruly lot, them foreign nations, Ido suppose,
and he was off one fine morning just the same as the girl. Why hewent and
what he done was our question for as much as a year after; for henever took
his 'urdy-gurdy, and there it lays on the shelf.'
The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen inmiscellaneous
cross-examination of Mrs Bunch and in efforts to extract a tunefrom the
hurdy-gurdy.
That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage atthe top
of the house, in which his bedroom was situated, there was an olddisused
bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door wasglazed, 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 wall onthe right
hand, with its head towards the window.
On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott foundhimself, as
he thought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shiningthrough 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 beheldmyself
in the famous vaults of St Michan's Church in Dublin, whichpossess the
horrid property of preserving corpses from decay for centuries. Afigure
inexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour,enveloped in a
shroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked into a faint anddreadful smile,
the hands pressed tightly over the region of the heart.
As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed toissue
from its lips, and the arms began to stir. The terror of thesight forced
Stephen backwards, and he awoke to the fact that he was indeedstanding on
the cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light of themoon. 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 dreamwere really
there. It was not, and he went back to bed.
Mrs Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story, and wentso far
as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of thebathroom. Mr
Abney, moreover, to whom he confided his experiences atbreakfast, was
greatly interested, and made notes of the matter in what hecalled 'his
book'.
The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr Abney frequentlyreminded his
cousin, adding that this had been always considered by theancients to be a
critical time for the young: that Stephen would do well to takecare of
himself, and to shut his bedroom window at night; and thatCensorinus had
some valuable remarks on the subject. Two incidents that occurredabout this
time made an impression upon Stephen's mind.
The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night thathe had
passed - though he could not recall any particular dream that hehad had.
The following evening Mrs Bunch was occupying herself in mendinghis
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 darnand mend
after you."
There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton seriesof
slits or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly requirea skilful
needle 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 his entireignorance of
their origin: he was sure they were not there the night before.
'But,' he said, 'Mrs Bunch, they are just the same as thescratches on
the outside of my bedroom door; and I'm sure I never had anythingto 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 wayupstairs. In a
few minutes she came down.
'Well,' she said, 'Master Stephen, it's a funny thing to me howthem
marks and scratches can 'a' come there - too high up for any cator dog to
'ave made 'em, much less a rat: for all the world like aChinaman's
fingernails, as my uncle in the tea-trade used to tell us of whenwe was
girls together. I wouldn't say nothing to master, not if I wasyou, Master
Stephen, my dear; and just turn the key of the door when you goto 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 noone
can't hurt you.'
Herewith Mrs Bunch addressed herself to mending the injurednightgown,
with intervals of meditation, until bed-time. This was on aFriday night in
March, 1812.
On the following evening the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs Bunchwas
augmented by the sudden arrival of Mr Parkes, the butler, who asa rule kept
himself rather to himself in his own pantry. He did not see thatStephen was
there: he was, moreover, flustered, and less slow of speech thanwas his
wont.
'Master may get up his own wine, if he likes, of an evening,' washis
first remark. 'Either I do it in the daytime or not at all, MrsBunch. I
don't know what it may be: very like it's the rats, or the windgot into the
cellars; but I'm not so young as I was, and I can't go throughwith 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 timeI've
heard the tale from the men in the shipyards about the rat thatcould speak.
I never laid no confidence in that before; but tonight, if I'ddemeaned
myself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin, I couldpretty much have
heard what they was saying.'
'Oh, there, Mr Parkes, I've no patience with your fancies! Ratstalking
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, youmay prove my
words this minute.'
'What nonsense you do talk, Mr Parkes - not fit for children tolisten
to! Why, you'll be frightening Master Stephen there out of hiswits.'
'What! Master Stephen?' said Parkes, awaking to the consciousnessof
the boy's presence. 'Master Stephen knows well enough when I'm a-playinga
joke with you, Mrs Bunch.'
In fact, Master Stephen knew much too well to suppose that MrParkes
had in the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, notaltogether
pleasantly, in the situation; but all his questions wereunsuccessful in
inducing the butler to give any more detailed account of hisexperiences 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 thehouse and the
gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by the fenceof the
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 catch atsomething that
might arrest their flight and bring them once again into contactwith the
living world of which they had formed a part. After luncheon thatday Mr
Abney said:
'Stephen, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to metonight
as late as eleven o'clock in my study? I shall be busy until thattime, and I
wish to show you something connected with your future life whichit is most
important that you should know. You are not to mention thismatter to 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 graspedat the
opportunity of sitting up till eleven o'clock. He looked in atthe library
door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw a brazier, whichhe had often
noticed in the corner of the room, moved out before the fire; anold
silver-gilt cup stood on the table, filled with red wine, andsome written
sheets of paper lay near it. Mr Abney was sprinkling some incenseon the
brazier from a round silver box as Stephen passed, but did notseem 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 hisbedroom,
looking out over the country. Still as the night was, themysterious
population of the distant moonlit woods was not yet lulled torest. From time
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? Nowthey sounded
from the nearer side of the water, and in a few moments theyseemed to be
floating about among the shrubberies. Then they ceased; but justas Stephen
was thinking of shutting the window and resuming his reading ofRobinson
Crusoe, he caught sight of two figures standing on the gravelledterrace that
ran along the garden side of the Hall - the figures of a boy andgirl, 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 inthe bath.
The boy inspired him with more acute fear.
Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands claspedover
her heart, the boy, a thin shape, with black hair and raggedclothing, raised
his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and ofunappeasable hunger
and longing. The moon shone upon his almost transparent hands,and Stephen
saw that the nails were fearfully long and that the light shonethrough them.
As he stood with his arms thus raised, he disclosed a terrifyingspectacle.
On the left side of his chest there opened a black and gapingrent; and there
fell upon Stephen's brain, rather than upon his ear, theimpression of one of
those hungry and desolate cries that he had heard resounding overthe woods
of Aswarby all that evening. In another moment this dreadful pairhad moved
swiftly and noiselessly over the dry gravel, and he saw them nomore.
Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined to take hiscandle
and go down to Mr Abney's study, for the hour appointed for theirmeeting was
near at hand. The study or library opened out of the front hallon one side,
and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not take long ingetting there. To
effect an entrance was not so easy. The door was not locked, hefelt sure,
for the key was on the outside of it as usual. His repeatedknocks produced
no answer. Mr Abney was engaged: he was speaking. What! why didhe try to cry
out? and why was the cry choked in his throat? Had he, too, seenthe
mysterious children? But now everything was quiet, and the dooryielded 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 ageto
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 asinduces me to
place confidence in their assertions - that by enacting certainprocesses,
which to us moderns have something of a barbaric complexion, avery
remarkable 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 complete ascendancyover those
orders of spiritual beings which control the elemental forces ofour
universe.
'It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly in theair, to
become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agencyof the soul
of a boy whom, to use the libellous phrase employed by the authorof the
Clementine Recognitions, he had "murdered". I find itset down, moreover,
with considerable detail in the writings of Hermes Trismegistus,that similar
happy results may be produced by the absorption of the hearts ofnot less
than three human beings below the age of twenty-one years. To thetesting of
the truth of this receipt I have devoted the greater part of thelast twenty
years, selecting as the corpora vilia of my experiment suchpersons as could
conveniently be removed without occasioning a sensible gap insociety. The
first step I effected by the removal of one Phoebe Stanley, agirl of gipsy
extraction, on March 24, 1792. The second, by the removal of awandering
Italian lad, named Giovanni Paoli, on the night of March 23, 1805.The final
"victim" - to employ a word repugnant in the highestdegree 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 removethe
heart from the living subject, to reduce it to ashes, and tomingle them 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, whichpopular
language dignifies with the name of ghosts. But the man ofphilosophic
temperament - to whom alone the experiment is appropriate - willbe little
prone to attach importance to the feeble efforts of these beingsto wreak
their vengeance on him. I contemplate with the liveliestsatisfaction the
enlarged and emancipated existence which the experiment, ifsuccessful, will
confer on me; not only placing me beyond the reach of humanjustice
(so-called), but eliminating to a great extent the prospect ofdeath itself.'

Mr Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his facestamped
with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In his leftside was a
terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no bloodon 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 thestudy was open,
and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr Abney had met hisdeath by the
agency of some wild creature. But Stephen Elliott's study of thepapers I
have quoted led him to a very different conclusion.