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.
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