He saw a tall,
square, red-brick house, built in the reign of Anne; a stone-pillared
porch had been added in the purer classical style of 1790; the windows
of the house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes and thick
white woodwork. A pediment, pierced with a round window, crowned the
front. There were wings to right and left, connected by curious glazed
galleries, supported by colonnades, with the central block. These wings
plainly contained the stables and offices of the house. Each was
surmounted by an ornamental cupola with a gilded vane. An evening light shone on the building, making the window-panes glow
like so many fires. Away from the Hall in front stretched a flat park
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 weather-cock catching the light, was striking
six, and the sound came gently beating down the wind. It was altogether
a pleasant impression, though tinged with the sort of melancholy
appropriate to an evening in early autumn, that was conveyed to the
mind of the boy who was standing in the porch waiting for the door to
open to him. 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 temper. 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?” said he—“that is,
you are not too much tired, I hope, by your journey to eat your
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, my 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 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.