“It’s of no good crying over it now,” taunted Hannah, as the unhappy
man stirred in his seat; “you didn’t mind how much _she_ cried--did
you? You found her on a sofa with young Centi, singing a song for him,
maybe, or playing at cat’s-cradle, like a couple of babies
together--and you took out your knife, and ran her through the ’eart,
without a thought, or a pang----”
“No! no! not without a pang, God knows!” moaned the unfortunate
Professor.
“You drove your murdering weapon through ’er ’eart,” continued the
girl, without noticing his interpolation, “with no more mercy, than if
she had been a dangerous animal.
“She ’ad youth and beauty, and all ’er life before ’er, but you cut it
short, without waiting for an explanation of what you saw! Do you know
what she was thinking of, just as she was dying, and you watched the
film steal over her eyes and the blood spirting in little jets from
her blue lips. If she could ’ave spoke to you in that moment, ’er last
words would ’ave been, ‘_I ’ate you!_’”
“Let me go! Let me go! I can stand no more!” cried Ricardo, as he
rushed past her, and mounted the stairs to his own room.
Even there, Hannah would have followed him, and continued her mental
torture, but he was too quick for her, and had locked the door before
she reached it. So she was compelled to go downstairs again, and think
of some way of passing the afternoon.
The Baron had begged her to provide a tasty supper for Ricardo, and
she would not have liked him to hear that she had neglected his
advice, so she arrayed herself in her walking attire and sallied forth
to purchase it.
The Markiness had made quite a little circle of acquaintances in
Hampstead, where her manners and her title, so incongruous with each
other, had excited a great amount of curiosity and interest. Mrs.
Barnett, the grocer’s wife, declared that she had quite turned her
ideas regarding the aristocracy, she was so affable and friendly-like,
and Mrs. Thomson, the butcher’s lady, said that if she had not known
that she was a marchioness, she should have taken her for one of
themselves.
So Hannah, after having enjoyed an hour or two of converse with these
amiable creatures, returned to the Cottage with her little basket on
her arm, well primed for supper.
First, there was a fowl, ready roasted, which she had bought at the
ham and beef shop, with a pound of cut ham to eat with it--a crisp
lettuce and some ruddy tomatoes, which were Ricardo’s greatest
luxuries--and half a dozen cheese-cakes--which were hers.
When, with the aid of her little maid, Charlotte, who numbered fifteen
years, she had set these dainties forth upon the table, Hannah sent a
message up to her husband to say that his supper was ready, but in a
few minutes Charlotte returned, gaping, with the intelligence that the
Markiss wouldn’t answer her, and she thought he must be asleep. Then
Hannah piled a plate with something of everything on the table, and
carrying it upstairs herself, thundered such a tattoo upon the
Professor’s door, that he was obliged to answer it.
“Who is there?” he inquired.
“It’s me--Hannah!--I’ve brought you up your supper!”
“I don’t want it! I don’t want anything! Go away!” was the reply.
“Come on! Don’t be foolish! You’d better eat it!” said his wife.
“No! no! All I want is to be left alone!”
“All right!” exclaimed Hannah, as she placed the plate with a loud
clatter on the floor, “there it is, anyway, so don’t go and say you
haven’t had it!”
She bounced downstairs again, with the tread of an elephant, which
Ricardo, hearing, turned on his bed and sighed.
Hannah, however, did not sigh, but applying herself to the remains of
the supper, soon left nothing but the chicken bones for Charlotte to
dispose of. Then she took out some of her needle-work, and toiled
industriously for the best part of an hour.
But her mind was not entirely easy the while. She was fidgety and
anxious. More than once she rose from her chair and, casting the
embroidery aside, paced up and down the little room.
“What a fool I am!” she thought, “why should I have any scruples on
the matter? Had _he?_ Ha! ha! ha! had he?”
When nine o’clock struck, she took a spirit flask from the cellaret
and called to her little maid to bring hot water.
“I am going to mix the Markiss a glass of whiskey and water, he is
sure to drink it during the night, if not now, and he will want
something to make him sleep. Go and fetch a tray--now, make haste, and
bring it to me!”
“Yes! Mum--my lady!----” replied Charlotte, who had never been able to
acquire the proper method of addressing a Marchioness.
When she had left the room, Hannah put sugar and lemon and whiskey and
hot water into the tumbler--but then she seemed to hesitate for a
moment.
“Folly!” she said to herself, “_che sarà, sarà!_ I _must_ be free!”
She dashed a small quantity of white powder into the glass, as she
thought thus, and a moment later Charlotte appeared with the tray.
“Take that up to the Markiss,” she said; “and if he don’t answer you,
say you’ve a message for him from the Baron, and when he opens the
door tell him the Baron ordered me to send him up that the last thing.
Do you understand?”
“Yes! Mum--my lady!”
“Now, don’t forget. Say first--‘Please, Markiss, the Baron has sent
you a message’--and when he opens the door, hand him the tray and say,
‘The Baron begged as you would drink this,’ and leave it there.”
“Yes! Mum--my lady!” repeated the child.
The ruse succeeded. Ricardo at first refused to unlock his door,
declaring he wanted nothing more that night, but when he heard that
Von Steinberg had a message for him, he left his bed to hear what it
was.
When Charlotte, faithful to her orders, thrust the tray and tumbler
into his hands, and repeated the message, Hannah heard him grumble,
“What did you disturb me for such nonsense for? Here! put the tray
down, and don’t you dare to come near me again to-night, or I’ll send
you home to your mother. Do you understand?”
“Yes! Markiss--yes! my lord!” stammered the child, as she scuttled
down the stairs again, and ran into the kitchen.
All was silent in the Professor’s room, and Hannah went back to her
needlework. It was the time that she usually went to bed, but she did
not feel as if she could sleep that night. At ten o’clock her little
maid crept into the parlour, white and trembling.
“Please, Mum--my lady----” she commenced, half crying, “there’s sich a
rum noise going on upstairs--like a dog moaning. Please, do you think
it can be the Markiss!”
“The Markiss, child!” said Hannah, who had also suddenly gone
unaccountably white, “why! what do you mean? Why should the Markiss
make a noise? It’s most likely the wind you hear through the trees!”
“O! no! Mum--my lady--please! there’s no wind to-night, and I’m afraid
to go up to bed,” continued Charlotte, weeping.
“What nonsense!” exclaimed her mistress, “I’ll go with you, then, but
what you have to look so scared for, I can’t imagine!”
In consequence, she mounted to the upper storey, with the shrinking
little maid in front of her. Since Von Steinberg’s departure, Hannah
had occupied the room which had been his, whilst her servant slept in
that which had been hers. As they gained the head of the stairs, a
deep, low groan issued distinctly from Ricardo’s apartment, and made
Charlotte burst out afresh.
“O! please, Mum, please, Mum--there it is again! O! I’m sure the pore
Markiss must be very bad in his insides! Won’t you knock at the door
and see?”
“Yes! yes! as soon as you have gone to bed,” replied Hannah, who was
looking almost as frightened as her handmaid. She pushed the girl into
her chamber and turned the key on the outside. Whatever was happening
in her husband’s room, she would see by herself. She tapped lightly on
the door, but no answer proceeded from the bed, only another low
half-stifled moan, as though an animal lay dying there.
Hannah flew downstairs again and passed out of the front door into the
fresh evening air. She was not afraid of Charlotte turning witness
against her; she would accept any explanation she chose to give--she
was only afraid of encountering those hollow groans again.
After half an hour’s suspense, she re-entered the cottage. A violent
tapping was proceeding from Charlotte’s door. Hannah went first to
inquire why she made such a noise.
“O! please, Mum--my lady--’is groans is dreadful! Won’t you give ’im a
drop of ile, or a pennorth of peppermint?”
“He has locked his door, Charlotte, you know, and I can’t get in. But
if he is not quiet soon, I must send for the Doctor!”
She conjured her little maid to be easy, and went downstairs in search
of a box of carpentering tools. Here she found a crowbar, with which
she knew she could force the Professor’s door. She crept up again with
it in her hand, and listened attentively. There was not a sound in the
room of any kind.
“Either it is over,” she thought, “or he is asleep! Ought I to send
for assistance, or force the door myself? Should I not be justified in
any circumstances in entering the room, considering the groans that
have proceeded from it? Charlotte will be my witness to them! And if a
stranger went in, and _he_--should--should be still alive--alive
enough to give evidence against me--O no! at all risks, _I_ must be
the one to see him first, and then I can judge what is best to be
done.”
She applied the crowbar to the door with her vigorous hand as she
thought thus, and the lock gave way before it. For an instant, she
hesitated on the threshold--then summoning her courage, dashed in and
approached the bed.
The Professor was just dying--his eyes were glazed--his hands fallen
lifeless by his side. The sight, instead of inspiring pity in Hannah’s
breast, roused a demoniacal fury there. Her husband looked at her as
though to say “_You have done this_”, and she bent over him and hissed
one word into his ear--“_Leonora!_”
At the mention of that name, which had been his pride and his shame
throughout his life, the Professor gave a final moan and slightly
turning over--_died!_ His wife gazed at him for a moment, as if she
could not believe the truth--then, with a shudder, she flung the
blanket over his staring eyes, and rushed from the room.
Her next move was to unlock Charlotte, and order her to dress herself
as soon as possible and go to Portland Place to summon the Baron.
“To Portland Place, Mum--my lady!” exclaimed the little maid, who had
hardly ever walked out by daylight, alone.
“Yes! the Markiss is very ill! You must take a cab and go there as
quickly as you can, and beg the Baron to come to me at once! Say that
your master is in terrible pain--tell him of the moans you heard--and
that I am very unhappy about it, and must have a doctor at once. Mind
you say how dreadfully anxious I am, Charlotte, and that I have done
everything I can, but it is of no good!”
“’Ave you been into ’is room, Mum?” demanded Charlotte, with surprise.
“Yes! yes! but don’t stand chattering there! Go as quick as ever you
can, and don’t forget one word of what I have told you.”
When the child was gone, Hannah sat down in the parlour to await the
issue of events. She could not return to the bedroom nor draw the
blanket off those staring eyes. There Von Steinberg found her, an hour
later, when he returned with the little maid.
“Why! what is this?” he exclaimed, as he took her hand; “is my poor
friend ill? Where is he? Let me see him at once!”
“There!” replied Hannah, pointing upwards with her finger; “He looks
dreadful! I can’t stand it! Whatever has happened, that he should be
like this?”
“And you have left him alone, when he is so ill?” said the Baron,
reproachfully, “O! Hannah! I did not think you would do that!”
“He has locked himself into his room all day--Charlotte will tell you
so--and wouldn’t come down to supper, or take anything--and just now I
forced open the door, and he swore at me--so I was frightened, and
sent for you!”
“You did right!” said Von Steinberg, as he ran up the stairs to
Ricardo’s room.
But the first glance told him that his services would be of no avail.
The Professor was dead as a doornail. His head was thrown back--his
eyes were wide open and starting from their sockets--his body had half
fallen from the bed.
Karl von Steinberg felt his heart--pressed his eyeballs--laid his hand
on his pulse--and uttered a deep sigh.
“Gone! my poor Ricardo!” he exclaimed, “and I fear, by your own hand!”
He caught sight of the tumbler, which had contained the whiskey and
water, and raising it to his nose, shook his head mournfully.
“As I thought!” he mused. “O! I should not have left him alone, after
what he said to me this morning! It is half my fault that this has
happened. I shall never forgive myself!”
He lifted the poor wasted carcase on to the bed, closed the eyelids,
laid the arms by his side, and softly closing the door, went
downstairs again.
“My poor girl!” he exclaimed, as he rejoined Hannah, “you must prepare
yourself for a great shock. Our good friend has left us, Hannah! He is
dead!”
“Quite dead,” repeated, Hannah; “are you sure?”
“Quite sure! and, what is worse, I am certain he took his own life! O!
I blame myself so much for leaving him, after the conversation we held
this morning. I should have watched over him better. But I did not
think he was really in earnest. My poor Ricardo! I think his work and
these séances have been too much for him, and over-taxed his brain.
He was the last man that I thought would have contemplated suicide!
But it is too evident! The glass on his table contains the remains of
arsenic--I could tell it at a glance!”
“Arsenic!” echoed Hannah, “but where can he have got arsenic?”
“Anywhere! It is used for so many things. Doubtless he bought it
to-day whilst he was out. How did he appear on his return home?”
“Very queer!” replied Hannah, “he wouldn’t speak to Charlotte or me,
but went straight up to his room and locked the door. I went out and
got him a nice little supper, as you told me----”
“Good girl!” interpolated the Baron----
“But he wouldn’t touch it, though I took it up to him myself, but I
thought he would like some whiskey and water. So Charlotte and me, we
mixed it for him--didn’t we, Charlotte?--and she carried it up, but
even then he wouldn’t open his door, until she told him that _you_ had
ordered him to take it! And then I suppose he--he----”
“Yes! there is no question about it. He mixed the poison he had
purchased, with the whiskey, and drank it off. My poor friend! Little
did I think he would come to so sad an end! Well! I suppose the
hankering to rejoin his Leonora was too strong for him. I only hope he
is happy with her now!”
“I fancy she has had enough of him,” remarked Hannah.
“Anyway we shall hear the truth from him when he comes back to us! I
should think he was sure to come back through you, Hannah!”
Hannah gave a visible shudder.
“O! don’t speak of such a thing, pray! I shouldn’t like him to come
back. I don’t think he behaved well to me at the last! I don’t never
want to see him again.”
“Don’t say that! You will think differently after a time. You mustn’t
blame him, Hannah! The very fact that he has taken his own life should
convince you that he was not completely in his right mind. Poor
Ricardo! He suffered much in his lifetime, and endured many losses. We
must think as kindly of him now, as we can.”
She seemed so visibly affected, and displayed such a horror of going
upstairs, that the Baron took all the arrangements that were necessary
in his own hands. Before nightfall, everything was settled regarding
the inquest, which was to take place on the following day--the remains
of the poor Professor were placed in a coffin--and the ground was
purchased wherein he was to be laid.
Von Steinberg had sufficient influence to prevent a verdict of _felo
de se_, being brought in, and his friend was allowed to be buried with
the rites of the Church.
As soon as it was possible, he erected a handsome monument above his
grave, which detailed his real name and rank, and then the Baron
turned his attention to Hannah. She still remained in the Cottage and
appeared to have no intention of leaving it.
Von Steinberg knew that in order to accomplish this, she must have
some assistance. All the Professor’s modest savings did not amount to
a couple of hundred pounds, and these the widow was very anxious
should be deposited in a bank for her against a time of need.
“But how are you to live meanwhile, Hannah?” questioned Von Steinberg
who was most anxious for her welfare; “you have never kept house for
yourself yet, you know, and money goes a very little way in London.
You must let me help you! I will take no denial! Look on me as a
brother, and let me have the pleasure of doing for you, what dear old
Ricardo would have done for a friend of mine, left in similar
circumstances.”
“But I do not need it. I shall have enough!” persisted Hannah.
“How do you intend to get it? What do you mean to do?” he asked.
“Heaps of things,” she replied; “I am a good needlewoman and a good
cook!”
“Needlewoman! Cook!” exclaimed the Baron, indignantly, “do you suppose
for an instant, that I will allow the widow of my dear friend Ricardo
to engage in such menial pursuits? You are much mistaken if you do.
Besides, you have adopted his title. How do you suppose that will
accord with the occupations you speak of?”
“Never mind!” said Hannah, decidedly, “I know what I’m about, and I
don’t want any money from you.”
She was obstinate, and he ceased to worry her on the subject. All the
same, he often wondered how it was, that she continued, without aid,
to occupy the cottage and retain the services of her little maid.
Once or twice he questioned Charlotte, but could get no satisfactory
information from her. “The Markiness goes out to see her friends in
the evenings mostly,” she said, “and all day she works at her dresses,
and shows me how to cook the dinner.”
This reticence on the part of the Marchesa di Sorrento, made Von
Steinberg all the more eager to pursue her and win her to be his.
Perhaps she knew this, as well as he did himself, at any rate it had
the effect of binding him more closely to her.
Shortly after the Professor’s death, his friend felt anxious to
communicate with him. It would be the best test he had ever had in his
life, he thought, if dear old Ricardo would come back in a
recognisable form and assure him of his identity.
He never doubted but that Hannah, when the first shock of her
husband’s death was over, would gladly fall in with his wishes and
hold a séance, so that the Professor might have an opportunity of
communicating with them both again.
But, to his surprise, she steadfastly opposed the idea.
She didn’t want to sit at all, she said. She had had more than enough
of that sort of thing during her married life, and never even wished
to hear the subject mentioned. She no longer believed in it--the
spirits were not the people they professed to be--she had come to the
conclusion that her father and mother were right, and that they were
devils sent by the Evil One himself to lure her soul to hell.
Von Steinberg reasoned and argued with her to no effect. She remained
unmoved by all his persuasions, and since he had only pursued the
subject, as a science and not a sentimentality, he gave in to her
wishes and said no more about it.
He was convinced that Spiritualism was a fact, and resolved to remain
satisfied with that knowledge. So--although he longed to see his old
friend again, and learn the true reason of his rash act--he decided
that it was not worth while annoying Hannah to obtain it.
The circumstance, however, made him turn his attention in the
direction of other mediums, and in talking with his acquaintances he
said, more than once, how anxious he was to fall in with a reliable
one.
In consequence of this, a man named Colonel Roster said to him one
day,
“By the way, Von Steinberg, my wife has got hold of a most wonderful
medium, and she is to sit at our house this evening. Would you care to
join the party?”
“Thanks! I should like it exceedingly! There is nothing interests me
more. Does this medium produce materialisations?”
“O dear yes! Nothing else, I believe! The last time she sat with us,
my sister appeared, exactly as she was in life. I could have sworn to
her anywhere, and several of our friends have seen their relations. Do
come! Mrs. Roster will be delighted to see you!”
“I will, with pleasure!” replied the Baron.
At the appointed time, he presented himself at the Rosters’ house, and
found a large party assembled there, all of whom were talking of
nothing but the marvellous powers of Mrs. Brown, the medium who was
expected that evening.
“Where did you pick her up?” asked the Baron, of the lady of the
house.
“Through an advertisement in one of the spiritualistic papers,” she
replied, “she is rather uncouth at times, but essentially reliable.
Indeed, I never met anyone like her before. But here she comes!”
Von Steinberg looked up with curiosity, and encountered the form and
face of Hannah.