A Thin Ghost | Page 6

the nineteenth in; for Mr. Hindes, the
successor of Ashton, became prebendary at nine-and-twenty and died at
nine-and-eighty. So that it was not till 1823 or 1824 that any one
succeeded to the post who intended to make the house his home. The
man who did was Dr. Henry Oldys, whose name may be known to
some of my readers as that of the author of a row of volumes labelled
Oldys's Works, which occupy a place that must be honoured, since it is

so rarely touched, upon the shelves of many a substantial library.
Dr. Oldys, his niece, and his servants took some months to transfer
furniture and books from his Dorsetshire parsonage to the quadrangle
of Whitminster, and to get everything into place. But eventually the
work was done, and the house (which, though untenanted, had always
been kept sound and weather-tight) woke up, and like Monte Cristo's
mansion at Auteuil, lived, sang, and bloomed once more. On a certain
morning in June it looked especially fair, as Dr. Oldys strolled in his
garden before breakfast and gazed over the red roof at the minster
tower with its four gold vanes, backed by a very blue sky, and very
white little clouds.
"Mary," he said, as he seated himself at the breakfast table and laid
down something hard and shiny on the cloth, "here's a find which the
boy made just now. You'll be sharper than I if you can guess what it's
meant for." It was a round and perfectly smooth tablet--as much as an
inch thick--of what seemed clear glass. "It is rather attractive at all
events," said Mary: she was a fair woman, with light hair and large
eyes, rather a devotee of literature. "Yes," said her uncle, "I thought
you'd be pleased with it. I presume it came from the house: it turned up
in the rubbish-heap in the corner." "I'm not sure that I do like it, after
all," said Mary, some minutes later. "Why in the world not, my dear?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps it's only fancy." "Yes, only fancy and
romance, of course. What's that book, now--the name of that book, I
mean, that you had your head in all yesterday?" "The Talisman, Uncle.
Oh, if this should turn out to be a talisman, how enchanting it would
be!" "Yes, The Talisman: ah, well, you're welcome to it, whatever it is:
I must be off about my business. Is all well in the house? Does it suit
you? Any complaints from the servants' hall?" "No, indeed, nothing
could be more charming. The only soupçon of a complaint besides the
lock of the linen closet, which I told you of, is that Mrs. Maple says she
cannot get rid of the sawflies out of that room you pass through at the
other end of the hall. By the way, are you sure you like your bedroom?
It is a long way off from any one else, you know." "Like it? To be sure
I do; the further off from you, my dear, the better. There, don't think it
necessary to beat me: accept my apologies. But what are sawflies? will

they eat my coats? If not, they may have the room to themselves for
what I care. We are not likely to be using it." "No, of course not. Well,
what she calls sawflies are those reddish things like a daddy-longlegs,
but smaller,[1] and there are a great many of them perching about that
room, certainly. I don't like them, but I don't fancy they are
mischievous." "There seem to be several things you don't like this fine
morning," said her uncle, as he closed the door. Miss Oldys remained
in her chair looking at the tablet, which she was holding in the palm of
her hand. The smile that had been on her face faded slowly from it and
gave place to an expression of curiosity and almost strained attention.
Her reverie was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Maple, and her
invariable opening, "Oh, Miss, could I speak to you a minute?"
A letter from Miss Oldys to a friend in Lichfield, begun a day or two
before, is the next source for this story. It is not devoid of traces of the
influence of that leader of female thought in her day, Miss Anna
Seward, known to some as the Swan of Lichfield.
"My sweetest Emily will be rejoiced to hear that we are at length--my
beloved uncle and myself--settled in the house that now calls us
master--nay, master and mistress--as in past ages it has called so many
others. Here we taste a mingling of modern elegance and hoary
antiquity, such as has never ere now graced life for either of us. The
town, small as it is,