Heart

Mrs Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephen

had as yet met at 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 possesses 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 dreams

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.