BokRobot reading edition
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FreeLost Hearts
M. R. (Montague Rhodes) James
Adapt
LOST HEARTS Så vidt jeg kan fastslå, var det i september 1811 at en postvogn trakk opp foran døren til Aswarby Hall, midt i hjertet av Lincolnshire.
Den lille gutten, som var den eneste passasjeren i vognen og som hoppet ut så snart den hadde stoppet, så seg rundt med den største nysgjerrighet i løpet av det korte øyeblikket som gikk mellom at klokken ble ringt og at døren til hallen ble åpnet. Han så et høyt, firkantet hus av rød murstein, bygget under dronning Annes regjeringstid; en veranda med stein-søyler var blitt tilføyd i den renere klassiske stilen fra 1790; husets vinduer var mange, høye og smale, med små ruter og tykk, hvit treverk. En fronton, gjennomhullet av et rundt vindu, kronet fasaden. Til høyre og venstre var det sidefløyer, forbundet med de sentrale blokkene gjennom merkelige, glassdekkede gallerier støttet av søylegang. Disse sidefløyene rommet tydeligvis stallene og kontorene til huset.
Hver av dem var kronet av en dekorativ kuppel med en forgylt værhane.
Et kveldslys skinte over bygningen og fikk vindusrutene til å gløde som mange små ildflammer. Lenger unna, foran hallen, strakte det seg en flat park, oversådd med eiketrær og kantet med grantrær som stod frem mot himmelen. Klokken i kirketårnet, gjemt blant trærne i utkanten av parken – bare dens gyldne værhane fanget lyset – slo seks, og lyden kom mykt bærende nedover vinden. Det var alt i alt et behagelig inntrykk, om enn farget av den slags melankoli som passer seg for en kveld tidlig på høsten, og dette var det inntrykket som ble formidlet til sinnet til gutten som sto i verandaen og ventet på at døren skulle åpnes for ham.
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# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 1 / 11
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
LOST HEARTS Så vidt jeg kan fastslå, var det i september 1811 at en postvogn trakk opp foran døren til Aswarby Hall, midt i hjertet av Lincolnshire. Den lille gutten, som var den eneste passasjeren i vognen og som hoppet ut så snart den hadde stoppet, så seg rundt med den største nysgjerrighet i løpet av det korte øyeblikket som gikk mellom at klokken ble ringt og at døren til hallen ble åpnet. Han så et høyt, firkantet hus av rød murstein, bygget under dronning Annes regjeringstid; en veranda med stein-søyler var blitt tilføyd i den renere klassiske stilen fra 1790; husets vinduer var mange, høye og smale, med små ruter og tykk, hvit treverk. En fronton, gjennomhullet av et rundt vindu, kronet fasaden. Til høyre og venstre var det sidefløyer, forbundet med de sentrale blokkene gjennom merkelige, glassdekkede gallerier støttet av søylegang. Disse sidefløyene rommet tydeligvis stallene og kontorene til huset.
Hver av dem var kronet av en dekorativ kuppel med en forgylt værhane.
Et kveldslys skinte over bygningen og fikk vindusrutene til å gløde som mange små ildflammer. Lenger unna, foran hallen, strakte det seg en flat park, oversådd med eiketrær og kantet med grantrær som stod frem mot himmelen. Klokken i kirketårnet, gjemt blant trærne i utkanten av parken – bare dens gyldne værhane fanget lyset – slo seks, og lyden kom mykt bærende nedover vinden. Det var alt i alt et behagelig inntrykk, om enn farget av den slags melankoli som passer seg for en kveld tidlig på høsten, og dette var det inntrykket som ble formidlet til sinnet til gutten som sto i verandaen og ventet på at døren skulle åpnes for ham.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 temperament. 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?” he said—“that is, you are not too tired from your journey to eat your supper, I hope?”
“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 dear 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.
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# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 2 / 11
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
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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 temperament. 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?” he said—“that is, you are not too tired from your journey to eat your supper, I hope?”
“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 dear 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 feel completely at home; they became great friends within 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 had lasted twenty years. 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, for 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 is as kind a soul as I’ve ever seen! Didn’t I ever tell you about the little boy he took in off the street, as you might say, seven years ago? And the little girl, two years after I first came here?”
“No. Do tell me all about them, Mrs Bunch—now, this minute!”
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-696317b13f034438a8f97867538c9d32
# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 3 / 11
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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“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 feel completely at home; they became great friends within 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 had lasted twenty years. 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, for 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 is as kind a soul as I’ve ever seen! Didn’t I ever tell you about the little boy he took in off the street, as you might say, seven years ago? And the little girl, two years after I first came 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 remember much about her. I know master brought her back with him from his walk one day, and gave orders to Mrs Ellis, who was housekeeper then, that she should be taken every care with. And the poor child had no one belonging to her—she told me so herself—and here she lived with us for about three weeks; and then, whether she was something of a gypsy by blood or what not, but one morning she was out of her bed before any of us had opened our eyes, and neither track nor yet trace of her have I set eyes on since.” Master was wonderfully put together, and had all the ponds dragged; but I am convinced she was taken away by those gypsies, for there was singing around the house for as much as an hour on the night she went, and Parkes declared that he heard them calling in the woods all that afternoon. Dear, dear!
She was a lovely child, so quiet in her ways and all, but I was wonderfully taken with her; she was so domesticated—surprising.
“And what about the little boy?” said Stephen.
“Ah, that poor boy!” sighed Mrs Bunch. “He was a foreigner—Jevanny he called himself—and he came strolling his hurdy-gurdy around the drive one winter day, and Master took him in that minute, and asked him all about where he came from, how old he was, how he made his way, and where his relatives were, and was as kind as heart could wish. But it went the same way with him. They’re a rowdy lot, those foreign nations, I suppose, and he was gone one fine morning just like the girl. Why he went and what he did was our question for as much as a year afterwards; for he never took his hurdy-gurdy, and there it lies on the shelf.”
Stephen spent the rest of the evening cross-examining Mrs Bunch and trying to coax a tune out of the hurdy-gurdy.
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# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 4 / 11
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
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“Well,” said Mrs Bunch, “the little girl—I don’t seem to remember much about her. I know master brought her back with him from his walk one day, and gave orders to Mrs Ellis, who was housekeeper then, that she should be taken every care with. And the poor child had no one belonging to her—she told me so herself—and here she lived with us for about three weeks; and then, whether she was something of a gypsy by blood or what not, but one morning she was out of her bed before any of us had opened our eyes, and neither track nor yet trace of her have I set eyes on since.” Master was wonderfully put together, and had all the ponds dragged; but I am convinced she was taken away by those gypsies, for there was singing around the house for as much as an hour on the night she went, and Parkes declared that he heard them calling in the woods all that afternoon. Dear, dear!
She was a lovely child, so quiet in her ways and all, but I was wonderfully taken with her; she was so domesticated—surprising.
“And what about the little boy?” said Stephen.
“Ah, that poor boy!” sighed Mrs Bunch. “He was a foreigner—Jevanny he called himself—and he came strolling his hurdy-gurdy around the drive one winter day, and Master took him in that minute, and asked him all about where he came from, how old he was, how he made his way, and where his relatives were, and was as kind as heart could wish. But it went the same way with him. They’re a rowdy lot, those foreign nations, I suppose, and he was gone one fine morning just like the girl. Why he went and what he did was our question for as much as a year afterwards; for he never took his hurdy-gurdy, and there it lies on the shelf.”
Stephen spent the rest of the evening cross-examining Mrs Bunch and trying to coax a tune out of the hurdy-gurdy.That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at the top of the house, where his bedroom was located, there was an old, disused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed, and since the muslin curtains that used to hang there had long since disappeared, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed to the wall on the right, with its head towards the window.
On the night in question, 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 lying 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 the 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”.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-696317b13f034438a8f97867538c9d32
# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 5 / 11
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at the top of the house, where his bedroom was located, there was an old, disused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed, and since the muslin curtains that used to hang there had long since disappeared, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed to the wall on the right, with its head towards the window.
On the night in question, 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 lying 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 the 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 always been 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 oppressive night that he had passed—though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had.
The following evening Mrs Bunch was busy mending his nightgown.
“Gracious me, Master Stephen!” she burst 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 mend. 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 complete 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 those 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 were girls together. I wouldn’t say anything to master, not if I were 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.”
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# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 6 / 11
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
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The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr Abney frequently reminded his cousin, adding that this had always been 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 oppressive night that he had passed—though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had.
The following evening Mrs Bunch was busy mending his nightgown.
“Gracious me, Master Stephen!” she burst 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 mend. 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 complete 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 those 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 were girls together. I wouldn’t say anything to master, not if I were 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.”With this, Mrs Bunch set to work mending the damaged nightgown, with intervals of meditation, until bedtime. 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’s a surprising place for the rats, isn’t it, 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 any confidence in that before; but tonight, if I’d demeaned myself to put my ear to the door of the further bin, I could pretty much have heard what they were 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 put 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, awakening to the consciousness of the boy’s presence. “Master Stephen knows well enough when I’m 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.
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# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 7 / 11
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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With this, Mrs Bunch set to work mending the damaged nightgown, with intervals of meditation, until bedtime. 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’s a surprising place for the rats, isn’t it, 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 any confidence in that before; but tonight, if I’d demeaned myself to put my ear to the door of the further bin, I could pretty much have heard what they were 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 put 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, awakening to the consciousness of the boy’s presence. “Master Stephen knows well enough when I’m 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, looking out into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne along irresistibly 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 countryside. Still as the night was, the mysterious inhabitants of the distant moonlit woods had not yet been 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 they not 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.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-696317b13f034438a8f97867538c9d32
# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 8 / 11
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
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, looking out into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne along irresistibly 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 countryside. Still as the night was, the mysterious inhabitants of the distant moonlit woods had not yet been 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 they not 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 a girl, as it seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows. Something in the form of the girl irresistibly recalled his dream of the figure in the bath. The boy inspired him with a more acute fear.
Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over her heart, the boy, a thin figure 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 wound; 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 across 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.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-696317b13f034438a8f97867538c9d32
# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 9 / 11
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
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 a girl, as it seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows. Something in the form of the girl irresistibly recalled his dream of the figure in the bath. The boy inspired him with a more acute fear.
Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over her heart, the boy, a thin figure 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 wound; 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 across 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.”
“Simon Magus is said to have been able to fly in the air, to become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by means 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 no fewer than three human beings below the age of twenty-one years. To testing the truth of this recipe 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.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-696317b13f034438a8f97867538c9d32
# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 10 / 11
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
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.”
“Simon Magus is said to have been able to fly in the air, to become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by means 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 no fewer than three human beings below the age of twenty-one years. To testing the truth of this recipe 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 philosophical temperament—to whom alone the experiment is appropriate—will be little inclined to attach importance to the feeble efforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him.
I contemplate with the livest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence which the experiment, if successful, will confer upon 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 wildcat 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.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-696317b13f034438a8f97867538c9d32
# book_title: Lost Hearts
# chapter_id: 1-lost-hearts
# chapter_title: Lost Hearts
# book_page: 11 / 11
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
“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 philosophical temperament—to whom alone the experiment is appropriate—will be little inclined to attach importance to the feeble efforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him.
I contemplate with the livest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence which the experiment, if successful, will confer upon 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 wildcat 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.
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