Ghost Stories of an Antiquary | Page 9

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.
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