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.