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Lost Hearts

Scary Books: Ghost Stories Of An Antiquary
: Montague Rhodes James

It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1811 that a

post-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart of

Lincolnshire. The little boy who was the only passenger in the chaise,

and who jumped out as soon as it had stopped, looked about him with the

keenest curiosity during the short interval that elapsed between the

ringing of the bell and the opening of the hall door. He saw a tall,

quare, 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?


'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 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


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


'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


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


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


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


'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


'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


'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. As Stephen stood by the fence of

the grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endless

procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind, borne on

resistlessly 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 country. Still as the night was, the mysterious

population of the distant moon-lit woods was not yet 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 not they 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 girl, as it seemed; they stood side by side, looking

up at the windows. Something in the form of the girl recalled

irresistibly his dream of the figure in the bath. The boy inspired him

with more acute fear.

Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over

her heart, the boy, a thin shape, 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 rent; 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 over 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.

'It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly in the air, to

become invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agency 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 not less than three human beings below the

age of twenty-one years. To the testing of the truth of this receipt 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

philosophic temperament--to whom alone the experiment is

appropriate--will be little prone to attach importance to the feeble

efforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him. I contemplate

with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence

which the experiment, if successful, will confer on 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 wild-cat 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.