The strange transfiguration of Hannah Stubbs
“I am quite aware of that! You’d have to obey me if you were! But you
have no right to speak so rudely to the Professor, especially when you
consider that you owe everything to him.”
“Do I?” retorted the girl, “I think the boot’s on the other foot! I
consider that he owes everything to me! Haven’t I brought his wife
back to him, that he was hankering after for years. Who else could
’ave done that, eh? Why! I’ve heard you say yourself, that I’m the
most wonderful medium in the world! I think it’s six of one and half a
dozen of the other, when you come to look at it.”
“Maybe, Hannah, and I know you make him a good kind wife on the whole.
But you mustn’t forget that he’s an old man now, and has broken down
considerably during the last few months. So you must be more
considerate of him than ever. He works too hard for his strength.
Sometimes I am afraid it will not hold out much longer!”
“O! he’s all right,” said Hannah, with a lack of feeling that struck
the Doctor as not only very unlike her usual disposition, but very
contemptible into the bargain. “Them old men never die! Though I don’t
s’pose there’d be much left for me, if he did!”
“You are unfeeling--unnatural--I am ashamed of you, Hannah,” exclaimed
Steinberg, as he rose to leave her, “and you forget that you are
speaking of _my friend_. I have a great affection for the Professor,
and if anything happened to him, I should be deeply grieved.”
“Well, I didn’t say any ’arm,” replied the girl sullenly, as she
returned to her work.
This conversation did not seem to make any coolness on Hannah’s part
towards the Doctor--on the contrary, she appeared to like him all the
better for speaking in defence of his friend. She commenced to hang
about him more than usual, on the occasions of his being at home, and
once or twice Steinberg detected a tone in her voice, or a glance in
her eye, which struck him unpleasantly at the moment, and still more
so, when he came to reflect upon the cause. What could she mean by
them? Surely, she could never imagine that he would play his nearest
friend false, for the sake of a face and figure like hers?
He put the idea away from him, again and again, as derogatory to
himself and the honour of Ricardo’s wife--but it haunted him all the
same. Has the reader ever encountered pictured eyes of villainy or
lust which have seemed to follow him wherever he went? So did the eyes
of Hannah Ricardo follow Steinberg, until he was fain to remember
them, whether he would or no. She never betrayed herself, nor said a
word that might be construed to her own undoing--but she gave
Steinberg the impression, that the feeling was there, all the same.
He began to avoid her, as much as possible, leaving the cottage as
early as he could, and returning late. He was rather an attractive
young man, as has been said before--being only thirty years old, and
having a fair German face, which struck most people as pleasant to
look upon.
He was just pondering upon the best excuse for dissolving partnership
with the Ricardos altogether, when the Wheel of Fortune did for him
what he was contemplating doing for himself. He had come to London
poor and without expectations, when by one of those strokes of good
fortune that do occasionally happen in this world, a rich uncle of his
died suddenly in Berlin, and left him his entire fortune. He rushed to
the Professor with the news, almost unable to believe it to be true.
“My dearest friend, I am a wealthy man! My good uncle the Baron von
Steinberg, who was the richest publisher in Berlin, has died and left
me everything--everything! Congratulate me! Give me your hand! Let me
feel that my best friend is glad with me! _Ach! Himmel!_ we will be
happy now, and have a good time together.”
“A thousand congratulations, my dear Steinberg,” cried the Professor,
warmly wringing his hand.
“But I must leave you! I must go to Berlin without delay. The lawyers
have written for me. As yet I know nothing but the fact, but when I
get there, I will write to you, dear Ricardo, and tell you all.”
“And won’t you come back to the cottage?” inquired Hannah.
“I do not know, Hannah. All is vague at present, except that this good
luck has befallen me! My uncle’s fortune amounted, so I am told, to
many thousand pounds a year, so perhaps I may have to live in Berlin.
I cannot tell, but be sure of one thing--that I will never forget you,
my dear Ricardo, nor all the interest you have shown in me. Farewell!”
The men grasped hands again, whilst Hannah looked on and murmured,
“Thousands of pounds a year! Some people are lucky! Why didn’t _he_
take a fancy for me, instead of the other?”
CHAPTER XI.
The Professor felt very dull for the first few days after Karl
Steinberg had left them for Berlin. He rejoiced at the good fortune
that had befallen his friend, but he feared it might prove a
separation between them. With only Hannah to talk to, he felt more
lonely than he had ever done in Mrs. Battleby’s apartments.
He watched for the post eagerly, to bring him news of his absent
companion, and in about ten days his patience was rewarded by
receiving a letter from Steinberg.
The Doctor wrote gaily and enthusiastically. He seemed not to have a
care left in the world.
“Congratulate me, my very kind friend,” he commenced; “I am a
wealthier man than I imagined. We laid my good uncle to rest in the
family vault of the Von Steinbergs, three days after my arrival in
Berlin. He was a childless man, and when the will was read I found
that (with the exception of a liberal life-allowance to his widow) he
had left everything, without reserve, to your humble servant. His
house in Berlin--his château at Wiesbaden--his fortune, amounting to
between three and four thousand a year--and all his personal property,
which includes one of the finest private picture galleries in the
country.
“Am I not lucky? I feared at first lest this generous bequest should
involve my living in Germany, perhaps looking after landed estate or
farming country property (which is not at all in my line, my dear
Ricardo, as you are aware). But no! Even here, I am fortunate, as the
greater part of the legacy is in hard cash, and the houses can readily
be disposed of. I am free, therefore, to do as I like and live where I
choose, and all my wishes tend towards London, the grandest city in
the world. You may expect, therefore, before very long, to see me
again.
“I shall take a house in Town, and collect around me all those whom I
love, or take an interest in. And for the future, I shall resume my
right of writing ‘von’ before my name, which I dropped when I entered
on my duties at the Hospital. Ah! those dreary days and sleepless
nights! Thank Heaven! they are over for ever! I can, at least, live
the remainder of my life as best pleases myself. But I can never,
never, under any circumstances, forget my very best friend, and you
know what his name is, without my telling you.
“The first place I visit on my return, will be the little cottage at
Hampstead, when, tell Mrs. Ricardo, I shall expect her to brew the
very best cup of tea of which she is capable, in honour of my uncle’s
fortune and title.
“Ever yours, with warm affection,
“Karl von Steinberg.”
The Professor read this letter to himself--then aloud to
Hannah--finally laying it down upon the table with a deep sigh.
“Ain’t you glad?” demanded his wife, shrewdly regarding the old man,
“the Doctor’ll ’ave a fine ’ouse now, and everythink of the best, and
that’s as good as saying as you’ll ’ave it,--and me, too, eh?”
“I don’t know, Hannah,” he replied; “when men grow rich, they are too
often apt to forget their poorer friends. Besides, Von Steinberg’s
fortune will attract people of equal position round his table, and we
are not fit to associate with such.”
“Why not?” asked Hannah, broadly.
She had a household broom in her hands at the time, and she leant her
chin upon the handle, and stared the Professor well in the face.
“Why ain’t we as good as any other of ’is friends--let them be who
they may?” she asked, fixing her large eyes upon him.
“Well! my dear, it is rather unnecessary to put such a question,”
replied Ricardo, “money makes money, you know, and we have none. Karl
will have a grand house, doubtless, and give big parties, and rich and
titled people will attend them--people with whom you and I have
nothing to do! He is not only rich, you see! He is no longer a doctor,
but a Baron, and can hold his own with any one in the land.”
“Ain’t a Markiss higher than a Baron?” demanded Hannah, and her
husband, not dreaming in what direction the conversation was tending,
answered gravely, “Why! of course!”
“Then, you’re higher than him,” retorted his wife, “so why shouldn’t
you mix with any nobs as he gets round him?”
Ricardo looked up in amazement.
“_I_ am higher than Von Steinberg? What do you mean?” he said.
“Why! ain’t you a Markiss?” reiterated Hannah, still sturdily
regarding him from over the broom; “the Markiss of Sorrento? If you’re
bigger than the Doctor, why should you mind going among ’is friends?
Money don’t count beside name. I’ve often ’eard you say that to me.”
“But who--_who_--” said the Professor, stammering, “ever told you
anything about my having a title? Has Steinberg betrayed my trust? You
have never known me, except as Professor Ricardo! What do you mean by
all this talk about a Marquis?”
Hannah looked as if she had been suddenly struck foolish. The light
faded out of her flat, unmeaning face--she seemed as if she were
scared at what she had been led into saying.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she replied, with a quivering lip, as if she
were about to cry, “unless I dreamt it! Some one must ’ave told it me.
Markiss dee Sorrento! Yes! that’s it! Markiss dee Sorrento! There’s a
woice repeating it in my ears now! And--and--_the proof of it_ is in
that drawer,” she continued rapidly, as she slapped her hand down upon
a small writing-table where the Professor kept his private papers.
Now the title deeds of the marquisate and lands of Sorrento were still
in the Professor’s possession, lest a change of dynasty might restore
his family rights to him. But he always kept them in a small iron safe
under his bed. He had destroyed every other trace of the rank and
position he had once held amongst men, and felt certain that nothing
could be found in his desk to betray them. So he answered, somewhat
pettishly,
“These voices in your ears, Hannah, are not telling you the truth! You
had much better go and attend to your household duties, and leave off
talking rubbish!”
But at these words Hannah turned a face upon him, which he could
hardly recognise as her own. Her usually dull eyes were blazing with
passion--and her tones were loud and authoritative, as she exclaimed,
“It is _you_ who are not telling the truth! The proofs of what I say
are in that drawer, and I will not leave the room until you open it!”
The Professor was really frightened. He felt confident that nothing
was in the drawer that could identify his name and title, so, more to
pacify her and restore peace between them than to prove his word, he
drew forth his bunch of keys, and inserting one in the keyhole, pulled
the drawer open. It apparently contained nothing but odd sheets of
writing paper, and a few old letters.
“Now! are you satisfied that you are wrong?” he said, turning to his
wife.
But Hannah seemed possessed by the fury of a demon. She flew at the
papers and scattered them all over the floor by a twist of her hand.
Still she was not content, but scratched about the bottom of the
receptacle as if she were blind or acting under some spell, when she