“Why did Hannah pretend to have forgotten the fact that she had ever
known Joseph Brushwood? What was her motive in refusing the prayer of
her dying mother, to see her once again? Had her unexpected rise in
life and position really made her oblivious of all that had gone
before, or had her heart grown callous to the sufferings of her
fellow-creatures?”
These were the questions that puzzled the brain of Karl von Steinberg,
as he walked meditatively down to his club that night.
He had read the smeared epistle that Brushwood had sent in to his
wife, from beginning to end. There was no mistaking its import. It
stated plainly, that Mrs. Stubbs was in the last stage of
disease--that the husband and children were in want--and that they
only asked a little help from their rich daughter, to enable them to
tide over the difficulty.
Why had not Hannah sent them money for their need? She knew that she
had but to ask him, to obtain any reasonable sum for the purpose.
Karl von Steinberg had an affectionate nature--rather weak indeed, but
gentle and kind-hearted. He could not bear to think that his wife had
been wilfully guilty of such negligence and indifference. When he
reached his club, he drew four five-pound banknotes from his purse,
and putting them into an envelope, addressed it to Mr. Stubbs,
Settlefield and wrote the pardonable fiction inside, “With Hannah’s
love.”
The reception of this munificent gift made a great revolution of
feeling in the Stubbs’ family, whither Joe Brushwood had preceded it,
with an exaggerated account of his interview with Hannah.
“I sent in my note, quite respectful,” he had told them on his return,
“and thought if I didn’t get a ’earty welcome, she’d at least talk
friendly-like about ’er people! But not a bit of it! In she sails in a
gownd like a peacock, trailing on the floor, and ‘What may be your
business with me, young man?’ she says, as proud as a cat with a tin
tail. ‘Lor! Hannah!’ I says, and she turns on me like a tiger, ‘Oo are
you a’speakin’ to?’ she says, ‘and you’ll please to say “my Lady” when
you opens your mouth in my presence?’ I did feel pretty well shut up,
I can tell you!”
Mrs. Stubbs, who was sitting in an arm-chair, supported by pillows,
looked incredulous at this account.
“Lor! Joe Brushwood,” she said, “it couldn’t never ’ave been our
Hannah! You must ’ave gone to the wrong ’ouse!”
At this surmise, Joe himself turned pale.
“O! that’s unpossible!” he exclaimed, “for ’twas Mrs. Battleby as give
me the address. Baron von Stumbug, 2000 Portland Place. I writ it down
in my pocket book. And I arsked for Lady von Stumbug, and the feller
as answered the door, understood me quite well. Sich a grand ’ouse,
Mrs. Stubbs, as you never see--all marble and picters and
statties,--and Hannah in a yaller satin gownd, with black lace like
cobwebs over it, and ’er ’air--well! you did ought to ’ave seen ’er
’air--’twas a transformation scene and no mistake!”
“I don’t care nothing about ’er ’air,” replied Mrs. Stubbs, “but I
can’t never believe as our Hannah, as was so meek and simple-like,
would denige ’er own father and mother! You must ’ave mistook ’er
words! I allers said as father ought to ’ave gone, instead of you.”
“I didn’t mistake nothing,” said Joe, doggedly, “she’s just as cold
and ’eartless as they’re made, and I’m werry glad as she never was my
missus. She stood there, a’glaring at me, and she says, ‘I ain’t got
no father nor mother,’ she says, ‘and you’re a himpostor,’ and she
just rings the bell and orders the feller in green to put me out of
the ’ouse, and mind I never enters it again. That’s your Hannah, and
that’s gospel truth!”
“I can’t never believe it!” repeated poor Mrs. Stubbs, “she was allays
so humble, was our Hannah! I take blame to myself as I ever left ’er
at Mrs. Battleby’s, pore gal, and with all them devils about ’er too.
I did ought to ’ave brought ’er ’ome, and exercised them out of ’er!
But to speak in that rumptious manner! No! I can’t never believe it!
She was sich a simple one, was our Hannah--allays ready to cry if
spoke to, almost a natural as you may say, but never ’aughty or proud.
You went to the wrong ’ouse, Joe Brushwood! I’ll maintain it to the
last day of my life, which it won’t be long!” she added, with a sigh.
“O! well! Missus,” exclaimed Joe, rather nettled, “I ’opes as Mr.
Stubbs will do ’is own work another time, for ’twasn’t a pleasant job,
I can tell ye. To ’ave to encounter a young ’ooman as you’ve rejected
in marriage, and ’ear all the nasty things she may choose to say to
you, ain’t all jam, I’d rather meet the old gentleman myself any day.”
“Well! you could ’ardly expect ’er to shake you by the ’and, and she a
markiness and a baroness both in one, Joe Brushwood! You was a fool to
reject ’er, that you was, and to lose the chance of being a baron
yourself! Of course I know as ’er position and fortune ’ave set ’er
above us, but I’ll never believe but what my Hannah--as was so good
’earted and simple, though a bit slow--Lord! ’ow my arms ’ave ached
trying to shake that gal up!--remembers ’er pore father and mother,
who never fell out with ’er, until she took up with the Devil and hall
’is imps!”
Joe Brushwood had left the cottage, grumbling at their incredulity and
ingratitude, but the next day made him regret he had said so much. The
postman brought Stubbs that wonderful letter, enclosing twenty pounds,
with Hannah’s love. The poor mother, who was really in the last stage
of an internal disease, against which she had borne up bravely, until
no longer able to stand, wept tears of thankfulness over her
daughter’s generosity, and quite forgot that she had been so sure that
Joe had gone to the wrong house.
That young man was so beset with reproaches, when he next showed his
face in their midst, that he fled incontinently from the cottage, and
left the Stubbs’ family to manage their own affairs for the future.
And they--relieved from present necessity--sat down quite contented
with spending their twenty pounds and talking of their daughter, the
markiness, to any neighbour who might chance to look in.
Meanwhile, the Baron, puzzled and grieved as the days went on, to see
no sign of repentance in Hannah, for the cruel part she had played
with regard to her family, began to frequent his club more often than
before. His wife had not yet quite lost her old fascination for
him--it was misery to him to believe her cold-hearted and unfilial.
He never asked her to sit with him now--had almost given up talking of
Spiritualism before her. Slight suspicions had crept into his mind of
late, that the office of mediumship had not improved Hannah, in mind
or manners--that she was more defiant and bold, and less grateful and
submissive, than she used to be. Success in life could not alone have
had the power to change her character thus, and he hoped by keeping
her quiet and free from all these trances and controls, to see her one
day return to the amiable and child-like disposition she had enjoyed.
His longing to see his old friend Ricardo was very keen, and if he
could have found another medium through whom to communicate with him,
he would have gladly availed himself of the opportunity. But he was
unable to do so, and he would not urge Hannah to sit for him.
Sometimes the longing was very great--sometimes he felt sure that
Ricardo shared his anxiety and wished to speak to him.
More than once, as his wife slumbered by his side, he had fancied he
heard a faint, gasping whisper on the air, in the tones of his old
friend. But it had never culminated beyond that, and Hannah’s
objection to holding a séance with him was so palpably expressed,
that he did not care to urge her to do that which was unpalatable to
her.
Indeed, at this time, her arguments against the practice of
Spiritualism both in public and private, were so severe, that Von
Steinberg honestly believed she had come to look upon it as something
unlawful and forbidden. But his eyes were to be opened, and in a
manner he little suspected.
On a certain afternoon, in summer, he was seated at his club in one of
those deep arm-chairs with a high back, which, when turned from the
company, entirely conceal their occupant. The day was warm, and the
Baron had lunched and felt sleepy. He wheeled his chair into a corner
of the club room, and turning its back to the centre of the apartment,
prepared to indulge in a snooze. Men entered and left--the buzz of
voices went on around him, but still he dozed--half awake and half
asleep--too lazy to shake himself into complete consciousness.
By and by his first irresistible desire to slumber wore off, and he
sat there, listening to what went on around him. Whilst in this
condition he heard two men conversing together a few paces off, and
soon recognised one voice as that of Major Maitland, who was a
frequent visitor in Portland Place.
“I cannot understand what they see in her--a beastly, fat woman,” he
was saying, “and as vulgar as she can be! But she has got up this new
fad of Spiritualism, and the women are all crazy about it--my wife
amongst the rest. She professes to bring back their lovers and
children and fathers and mothers, and there they all are, weeping and
snivelling together, and swearing she is the grandest medium under the
sun, and the most marvellous woman they have ever seen.
“I believe it is all humbug! She dresses up her housemaids and footmen
to represent the dear departeds, and women are such hysterical
creatures, they will declare they see anything which you may tell them
is there! I have forbidden Mrs. Maitland visiting her, but it is of no
use! I don’t really know what has come to the women nowadays! They
treat us, as if we were nobody! She’s off this very afternoon to some
big séance that this Marchesa is giving!”
“But who _is_ she?” demanded the other speaker, “Marchesa--of what?”
“The Lord knows! _I_ don’t! She calls herself Marchesa di Sorrento,
but who Sorrento was, she knows best. She is the wife--or is supposed
to be--of a German, the Baron von Steinberg, who is really a very
decent fellow, for a German--and he seems to let her do just as she
likes! Finds it’s of no use speaking to her, I suppose, poor devil!
Where he picked her up I can’t think! If you could only see her,
Durant! She looks exactly like a cookmaid. A great, red, flat face
with a turned-up nose, and a wide mouth! No more a lady than you are,
but she is the women’s new plaything, and they howl if you try to take
her from them.”
“It is all very strange,” said Durant, “are you going to the séance
this afternoon?”
“No! I’m black-balled, because I struck a match the last time I was
there! I’m rather sorry. It was good fun, and really the most curious
things happen. I’ve seen an old man appear there, looking just like
one of Velasquez’s portraits--with a pointed Venetian beard, and
grizzled hair--not a bit like an Englishman--and, each time, he has
asked for Von Steinberg--that’s the husband, you know--but I suppose
my lady doesn’t let him hear of her little pranks, for I have never
met him there!”
“Then I suppose you _do_ believe something of this black art,
Maitland. An Italian out of an old picture could hardly be
impersonated by a footman, or a housemaid!” observed his companion.
“My dear fellow! to tell you the honest truth, I don’t know _what_ to
believe! There may be something in it and there may not! All I know
is, that women have grown so deuced clever in these days, that I think
they are capable of anything--especially of deceit!”
Karl von Steinberg thought the same, as he lay back in his arm-chair,
and listened to this conversation. Another man might have sprung up in
a rage, and challenged the two gossips to prove what they asserted,
but his was a phlegmatic temperament, which thought more than it said,
and did more than it threatened. The day was over, when either Major
Maitland or his wife would gain admittance to the house in Portland
Place, but he did not tell them so.
On the contrary, he waited patiently until the two friends had
adjourned to the billiard room, before he left his hiding-place, and
hailing a cab, drove to his home.
His reflections on the way were not pleasant ones. Hannah, then, had
deceived him! Whilst she had been denouncing Spiritualism, and
declaring it was sinful and she would never have anything more to do
with it, she had been giving séances to strangers, which she denied
to himself.
He had no idea why this should be so, but he determined it should be
so no more. He would demand to participate in that which she showered
lavishly upon her acquaintances. Before he reached his house, he had
determined on his action.
The séance would have commenced, doubtless, and the boudoir door
would be locked. But he had a second key to the bedroom, which opened
from the boudoir, and he could let himself into the house with his
latchkey, without anyone being the wiser for it.
He used the greatest caution as he did so, and crept upstairs without
meeting anyone on the way. As he entered the bedroom and turned the
key behind him, he heard that the séance in the next apartment, which
was in total darkness, had already commenced.
Murmurings of low voices--sundry questions from the sitters--and
occasionally a half-stifled sob--told him that his anticipations were
correct.
Cautiously approaching the intervening door, which was ajar, Von
Steinberg joined the circle, without his entrance being perceived by
any one. One lady asked another if she had moved from her seat, and
being answered in the negative, declared that the spirits must be
walking about the room, but no further notice was taken of his
arrival. He stood aloof from the company, and observed all that was
taking place.
Hannah had evidently had regular preparations made for this assembly,
for a proper cabinet was erected in one corner, and the windows were
covered with some black material to exclude every ray of light.
“How unkind to take all this trouble for mere strangers, and to refuse
my making one of the party,” thought Karl von Steinberg, sadly, as he
stood quietly in his corner. “How could my seeing dear old Ricardo
again, do her any harm? If _she_ did not love him, she knows that _I_
did! This is the worst proof that Hannah has ever given me, of her
ingratitude for all I have done for her.”
But though his meditations were gloomy, the Baron was yet alive to all
that was passing before him. He saw Lady Loreley’s little daughter
appear between the velvet curtains that formed the cabinet, and heard
her mother’s grateful thanks for having been accorded such a
privilege--he watched Mrs. Maitland embrace the apparition of her
brother, who had been lost at sea, and heard her comment on the fact
that she could recognise the very clothes he wore.
Hannah’s powers had evidently not decreased from want of practice.
What a wonderful, marvellous medium she was! All his old astonishment
at her powers--and all his old enthusiasm for the occult Sciences,
came back to Von Steinberg, as he stood and watched and listened.
There appeared to be no end to the forms that peeped from between the
cabinet curtains, or advanced, more bravely, into the centre of the
room. Young men and young women--little children and hoary-headed
fathers and mothers--even a negro boy, whom the sitters addressed by
the name of Cicero, came, grinning from ear to ear, before them. What
a gift she possessed! What a power to set her above the ordinary run
of women! In that moment, Karl von Steinberg felt proud again to
remember that she was his--that no one could take her from him--that
Hannah was his wife, and his medium for ever more.
Presently his attention was arrested by a murmur amongst the sitters.
A luminous mist appeared at the entrance of the cabinet, and some one
whispered, “It is the old man again!”
Karl von Steinberg stretched his neck forward and strained his eyes to
see the visitant from the other world. It was undoubtedly the form and
face of Ricardo--his familiar features, shrunken and yellow, as they
looked in death, appeared before him. Von Steinberg gave a start of
surprise--an exclamation of pleasure--and went up to the curtains.
“Ricardo! Ricardo! my dear old friend,” he exclaimed, “how
delighted--how thankful--I am to see you again!”
“Can you see me? Do you recognise me? Am I like myself?” demanded the
apparition.
“Just like! Exactly as I saw you last, dear old fellow!” replied the
Baron, warmly. “I have longed to see you again--to hear if you
entirely approve of what I have done, since you left us!”
The form held the curtains apart and beckoned to the Baron to
accompany it inside the cabinet.
“Do you wish me to go inside there with you?” exclaimed Von Steinberg.
“Why, of course I will, dear friend! I consider it an honour that you
should ask me.”
He passed within the velvet curtains as he spoke, and the sitters
questioned each other who he was, and how he had got in there.
“I never saw him when we entered the room,” said one lady to another,
“I wonder if the Marchesa knows he is here!”
“O! she must! He would not have presumed to come without an
invitation. I just caught a glimpse of his features as he entered the
cabinet, by the old man’s spirit light, and I fancied he was very much
like the Baron himself!”
“But I thought the Baron never came to the Marchesa’s séances. Does
she not say that he disapproves of Spiritualism?”
“Well! I would not be sure--I may be mistaken--but he is a man of much
the same build. Why! there is Cicero! But where can the gentleman be?
I hope the spirits have not carried him away!”
They proceeded to amuse themselves with Cicero, who was one of those
influences who seem sent on this earth simply to prove that they can
come, and whilst they were pulling his woolly hair, and putting their
fingers into his mouth, to see if he had any teeth, a hollow groan
from the cabinet was succeeded by the sudden reappearance of the
unknown gentleman, who, passing rapidly through their midst, vanished
into the bedroom, and let himself out by the further door. His
unaccountable exit left a sort of gloom and distrust behind it, which
seemed to have a discouraging effect upon the spirits, for none else
appeared that afternoon.
The sitters after waiting for half an hour in silence, resolved that
they had better separate, and rising, created a little disturbance,
which served to bring the medium to herself. She gave three or four
extensive yawns--opened her eyes--closed them again--and finally,
leaving her seat, walked out into the assembly, and asked,
“Well! have you had a good séance?”
Everybody was vehement in their assertions that nothing could have
been more successful or delightful, until Lady Loreley said,
“Except for one poor gentleman, whom the spirits took into the
cabinet, and what they said to him there we do not know, but as soon
as he emerged again, he left the room, and has not returned since.”
“But _what_ gentleman?” asked the Marchesa, “I think all whom I
invited are present!”
“We do not know! None of us have seen him before! It was dark when he
joined the circle, or I should have said he was the Baron. He was very
like him in shape and build!”
“And which Spirit took him into the cabinet?” demanded Hannah,
breathlessly.
“O! the old man who has come so often, and asked for the Baron! We
have told you about him, dear Marchesa! An old man with grey hair, and
piercing eyes, and a pointed beard like Vandyke’s. A nice face, he
has, but very attenuated. He reminds me of that figure in Madame
Tussaud’s, of some old man who was starved to death in the Bastille!”
“But what does he say?” said the Marchesa, who seemed strangely
agitated.
“O! he has never said anything until this afternoon--only looked round
the circle as if in search of somebody, and called ‘Karl’ once or
twice.”
“Is the Baron’s name, ‘Karl’, Marchesa? Anyway, the gentleman who
joined our circle in the dark to-day, was evidently the person the
Spirit was in search of, for directly he appeared, he beckoned to him
to approach the cabinet. The stranger called the Spirit, ‘Ricardo’--I
heard him more than once--and said how glad he was to meet him again,
and then the old man drew him into the cabinet and they were talking
there for more than ten minutes. Not entirely on pleasant subjects
either, I imagine, for we heard the gentleman groan several times, and
as soon as he emerged, he went straight through your bedroom, and we
have not seen him since. Could it have been the Baron, do you think,
Marchesa?”
But the Marchesa stood before her, trembling.
“Yes! yes! no doubt,” she contrived at last to utter; “who else could
have passed through my bedroom? The Baron has a private key to my
apartments. What a fool I was not to think of it!” she added to
herself.
“And was ‘Ricardo’ an old friend of yours?” persisted the lady.
“He was a great friend of the Baron’s,” replied her hostess, whilst a
pallid hue stole over her features; “they often talk together! I am
surprised to hear that my husband seemed nervous! He is too well used
to spiritualism for that, though, as a rule, he does not approve of
it. What could Ricardo have said to him, to overcome him as you say?”
“Ah! that we cannot tell you, dear Marchesa, but if you had heard him
groan! I only hope it was not the Baron. But you look quite
tired--much more wearied than usual, so perhaps we had better leave
you to rest! Good-bye! Such a delightful afternoon!”
_Such a delightful afternoon!_ It looked like it, as Hannah stood in
her bedroom free and alone, and reviewed the events of the day.
Ricardo and Von Steinberg had met again at last. Notwithstanding her
caution and her secrecy, they had met, face to face, and conversed
with one another. What had they said?--what revealed?--what had her
husband heard about her Past or Present? She stood there, sick with
apprehension, until she heard a footstep approach her door, and felt
that her hour had come.