The strange transfiguration of Hannah Stubbs
curtain that divided them. He was quite alone--Steinberg was miles
away and Hannah lay unconscious in her chair--there was none but
Heaven to listen to what he might say to his lost wife.
“Leonora!” he exclaimed, “my one, only Darling! Come to me and lay
your cheek on mine! Whatever you were, whatever you did, you are still
the same to me--the peerless, beautiful bride, whom I held to my heart
during so many blissful years! Do you remember the villa down in
Parma, to which I took you for our honeymoon, Leonora? Do you recall
the happy evening that we were first man and wife--how we wandered
into the gardens, and sat down on a bank, covered with delicious
violets whose breath intoxicated us with pleasure. You cast yourself
across my knees, and laid your lovely head upon my breast--then I
seemed to realise, for the first time, that you were all my own. Our
lips met--I drank in your sweet breath, sweeter than the violets upon
which we sat--and we mutually trembled with the ecstasy of the
contact. Ah! Leonora, my dearest, that was twenty-five long weary
years ago! I am an old man now, but I have never forgotten--I never
shall forget! Come once more and press your sweet lips to mine as you
did in that unforgotten moment, and I shall be rewarded for all the
efforts I have made--the sacrifice I have gone through--in order to
draw you once more to my heart again!”
The tantalising face peeped out from the curtain--the lips pouted--but
as Ricardo drew near to kiss her, Leonora darted like an arrow into
the cabinet and evaded him. It was like the cup of Tantalus, ever
presented, brimming with sparkling liquid, only to be withdrawn as
soon as approached.
The Professor breathed a heart-felt sigh as he leaned against the
curtain, to see if he could hear any movement going on behind it. But
all was still as the grave!
“My wife--my wife----” moaned the unhappy man, “speak to me, if you
cannot touch me. I feel the reason. My contact is too earthly for you,
pure as you have become!--the hands that slew you are too foul to
clasp with yours. But tell me--Leonora! I am hanging on your
words--tell me the whole truth. You know I could not be angry with you
now! _Were you guilty with Centi?_”
The mobile face again appeared round a corner of the curtain, and the
rosy lips murmured, “No!”
“_No?_ O! my God! then I am a murderer of the deepest dye! I have
slain my other half--she, whom I had sworn to love and cherish! What
Hell will be deep enough for me? What devil urged me on to strike that
fatal blow? Heavens! I can see it now, your pallid, startled face--the
crimson blood that stained your white breast--that issued from your
livid lips--can hear the sigh with which your pure spirit took wing,
to bear witness against me before the Throne! O! Leonora, my wife! my
angel! say that you forgive my rash act--my unfounded jealousy!”
The Spirit again appeared, and nodded its head solemnly.
“I knew you would forgive, dear Angel, who were so much too good for
such a wretch as I am, but will Heaven forgive? that is the question?
Shall I join you wherever you may be? Shall we be lovers and friends
again in the Eternal World?”
But to this question there was no reply. Ricardo knelt where he had
stood, and wept like a child. His life had been one long suffering for
the awful deed he had committed, and now, to hear that it had been
done in vain--that he had murdered an innocent woman--she, who, but
for his insensate jealousy and fury, might have lived to be the mother
of his children and the pride and comfort of his old age--was too
much. It smote him to the ground, and struck a blow at his heart, from
which he never recovered.
He felt that he could bear no more and left the séance room, without
further comment. Even to Steinberg, he never revealed what had taken
place between himself and Leonora that day, but he seized every
opportunity of communicating with her, until he came to spend half his
leisure moments in the séance chamber.
Doctor Steinberg perceived the alteration in his friend’s spirits, but
attributed it to his health, which was not satisfactory. The Professor
still went about his daily work, but he taught in a spiritless,
listless fashion, and his pupils were not so quick to follow his
instructions as they were wont to be. When he returned home, instead
of interesting himself in a book, as he had been used to do, he would
sit for hours with folded arms, silent and meditative. The only times
when he evinced any enthusiasm, were those spent in the séance
chamber, though Leonora came no oftener than the other influences who
controlled Hannah, and when she did come, gave scarcely any
information on subjects connected with her present life.
But if the Professor’s health and spirits appeared to fail, those of
Mrs. Ricardo rose in proportion. She seemed to have entirely overcome
her dread of the “sperrits” and “shadders” and “woices”, and often
said it was unfair that the Doctor or the Professor did not sit in
their turn, and let her share their privilege of interviewing the
friends from the other World. From having been heavy and somewhat
sullen, she developed quite a lively disposition, and Steinberg was
astonished sometimes on reaching home, to hear her singing over her
work, an accomplishment for which she had never exhibited any taste
before.
She became less shy also of remaining in the society of her husband
and his friend, and made a point of taking her meals with them, by
which means she soon got in the way of joining in the conversation,
and dropped many of her coarse sayings and mispronounced words.
She improved so quickly indeed, as to surprise Steinberg, who had
imagined her hitherto to be one of the dullest mortals in creation. It
was not long before he mentioned the subject to the Professor.
“How wonderfully Hannah has improved in her pronunciation, lately,” he
remarked. “I couldn’t have believed it possible that any one could
have made such rapid strides. Have you been giving her private lessons
during my absence, Ricardo?”
“No! indeed,” answered the Professor, in the weary tone he had assumed
of late, “I seldom see her, except in the séance room. Has she
improved, Steinberg? I had not noticed it. But there was room for it,
Heaven knows! I suppose it is listening to our conversation.”
“I suppose so too, but Hannah must be very clever naturally, to have
caught our accent so soon. And she is so much more lively into the
bargain. I heard her singing, or rather humming, the air of ‘_Au clair
de la lune_,’ yesterday. Now, where can she have caught that up? It is
essentially French. She must have heard you, or me, whistling it. And
did you observe this evening that she has plaited that mass of hair of
hers, and twisted it round her head at the back? We shall see her
wearing kid boots with heels next. Bravo! Hannah!”
“You look at her more than I do,” replied Ricardo. “She is a good
enough girl, and I have no fault to find with her. But I hope she will
not get any extravagant ideas, because I cannot afford to humour them.
I wonder who can have been putting such absurd notions into her head.”
“No one, unless it be yourself. You should feel flattered, Ricardo,
that your wife shows any wish to please you. She is certainly vastly
improved. You cannot find fault with her for that! What have you been
doing with yourself to-day? Talking with Leonora, eh?”
“I entered the séance room, but she did not come,” replied Ricardo,
in a discontented tone, “she has not been so regularly lately. I
cannot understand the reason. Can it be any falling-off in the medium?
Would her want of interest in Spiritualism account for it?”
“No! no! certainly not!” Steinberg quickly exclaimed. “How can you
expect the poor girl to take any interest in it, when she is under
control all the time, and knows nothing of what occurs. Hannah has
more than once expressed her disappointment to me, that she should be
so completely shut out from what seems to give us so much pleasure. I
think it is most unselfish of her to sit so often and so cheerfully.
Besides, she is as strong in health as ever! How can she be
responsible for Leonora not coming so often?”
“I don’t know,” said Ricardo, peevishly, “but the fact remains. An old
woman whom I cannot recognise, seems to have taken her place the last
few days. I dare not show my impatience at the change, but I am
longing all the time for her to go away and let my wife come instead.”
“Ah! my friend, you are not a Scientist! You do not pursue this
interesting study in order to find out the secret of Everlasting Life,
but only to gratify your personal longing to see your dead wife again.
And now that she has come, you are less satisfied than before. What is
the reason? Has she not spoken to you? Has she not solved the mystery
that oppressed you? Are you not yet aware whether that blow was struck
with justice, or not?”
“If I were, I should not feel inclined to discuss the question with
one who was a stranger to her,” said Ricardo, in a tone very unlike
himself. “The confidences which pass between husband and wife should
be sacred.”
“I agree with you there, so let us say no more about it. You mooted
the subject to me, or I should not have presumed to mention it again.
But I think you sit too often. These researches, if carried to
extremes, are apt to prove harmful to both mind and body. Come to the
theatre with me this evening! It will divert you. I have a box for the
Adelphi. Let us take Hannah with us. She is so much more lively
lately, that I think it will interest her. She seems to be enjoying
life, poor child, for the first time.”
The Professor being agreeable, Steinberg’s plan was carried out, and
Hannah thoroughly enjoyed her evening. The Doctor was not mistaken.
The change in her was quite as palpable as that in her husband. Live
as long as she might, she would never have a lissom figure, nor a
beautiful face, but a kind of brightness had settled over her
features, which much redeemed their homeliness, and her attempts at
tidiness did not at all events deteriorate from them.
She laughed and cried at all the right places throughout the melodrama
and returned home in high good humour with both her friends.
But what still more surprised Steinberg, as time went on, was to see
the gross humility that had overpowered the girl, entirely disappear,
to give place to a species of pride in her attainments as a medium--as
if she had suddenly waked up to a consciousness of the value she was
to Ricardo, and the difficulty he would find in replacing her, if she
were gone.
“I can’t sit to-day,” he overheard her say to the Professor, “so it’s
no good your asking me! Can’t you see that I’m dead tired from sitting
so long yesterday? Do you suppose that I don’t waste my strength, as
well as yours, over these séances? And what is it all for?--so that
you may see the woman you cared for, and talk love nonsense to her! I
tell you, Professor, there ain’t many wives in this world who would do
as much for their husbands. You treats me as if I had no feelings. I’m
making a dress for Sundays, and haven’t been able to put a stitch in
it all the week, so you must wait for your séance till I choose to
give it you.”
“Very well,” Steinberg heard Ricardo answer meekly, “never mind, my
dear! I’ll go for a little walk instead.”
As soon as he had left the house, Steinberg took Hannah to task for
her treatment of him.
“I am surprised to hear you speak like that to your husband, Hannah!
Do you know what I should have done if you had been my wife?”
“But I ain’t your wife,” replied Hannah, with a certain arch look that
startled him--so little had he considered the girl capable of giving
it with her usually dull, lack-lustre eyes.