The strange transfiguration of Hannah Stubbs
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.
CHAPTER XVI.
As is usual in such cases, the woman was the first to regain her
presence of mind. The encounter was as unexpected to Hannah, as to the
Baron, but she evinced no visible sign of surprise. She only stood
quite still, as if she had never seen him before.
Von Steinberg, on the contrary, was nearly betraying her and himself.
He stammered and stuttered and coloured rosy red, but at last managed
to utter,
“Ah! Mrs. Brown! Of course! I think we have had the pleasure of
meeting before,” and advanced towards her, holding out his hand.
Hannah accepted the hand, without comment.
“Met before!” exclaimed Mrs. Roster. “O! where? I flattered myself
that I was the discoverer of Mrs. Brown’s remarkable talents,--at
least in our own circle. I suppose then, Baron, that you have already
been present at her marvellous séances.”
“Mrs. Brown is the widow of an old and dear friend of mine,” he
answered, evasively.
“A widow!” echoed the lady of the house; “and does your husband ever
return to you, Mrs. Brown? How intensely interesting! This will make
the third time we have sat with her, Baron,” she continued to Von
Steinberg, “and each time we have seen the form of a man whom no one
in the party recognised. I wonder if it could have been Mr. Brown.”
“Hush!” said the Baron, cautiously, and indeed the pallor which had
suddenly stolen over Hannah’s usually rubicund countenance, quite
justified him in saying so.
“O! I am sorry!” returned Mrs. Roster, as she busied herself in
pressing the medium to take some refreshment before she entered the
séance room.
Hannah faintly asked for a glass of water, and sat down apparently
exhausted in her chair. When the water was brought to her, she drank a
little, and finally declaring she felt too ill to sit, and must
postpone the séance to another day, she rose and quitted the room and
house.
The disappointed sitters gazed at each other in consternation. Colonel
Roster attributed all the blame to his wife.
“What on earth made you allude to her dead husband in so indiscreet a
manner?” he demanded, sharply. “You have just spoilt our evening! What
widow ever wanted the return of Number One, to spy out her doings with
Number Two? We have no one but you to thank for this disappointment!”
“O! I am sorry,” cried his wife; “I thought as everybody’s relations
came back through her, Mr. Brown would be sure to have done so. And it
was only a surmise on my part after all. You say you know her, Baron!
Is she always as sensitive as this?”
“By no means,” replied Von Steinberg, “and I think she must really be
feeling ill. Besides, she has no reason to fear the return of her
husband, who was very good to her! I cannot believe that your allusion
had anything to do with her defalcation. She felt unequal to the
sitting--that is all!”
“You take a load off my mind by saying so,” said Mrs. Roster, “and I
can only hope that when she comes here again, you will be with us, as
on this occasion.”
“You are very kind,” returned Von Steinberg, “but may I ask you one
question? Mrs. Brown was going to sit with you professionally, of
course! What is her fee? I should like to ascertain, for the
information of my friends!”
“Two guineas!” replied the lady, without hesitation. “She did not ask
more! I heard of her through my dressmaker, Mrs. Folkstone, but I
understood that she gave her services somewhat secretly, and it was
not to be talked about. I am so sorry you have missed seeing her--but
perhaps you have sat with her already.”
“Once or twice,” said Von Steinberg, carelessly, and then the subject
dropped.
His friends detained him so late that he could not get out to the
cottage at Hampstead that night, or he certainly would have followed
Hannah to her home, and asked the reason of what he had seen and
heard. He could hardly understand why, but he disliked the idea of her
selling her services to the public, exceedingly.
It was no matter to him that she was dowdily dressed, and known as
“Mrs. Brown”;--he could not bear to think that she placed herself
under such an obligation to strangers--that she should belong, as it
were, to the public, when he wanted to have her entirely as his own.
His meditations that night revealed the truth to him. He was so
fascinated by Hannah Ricardo, that he wished to marry her, and shield
her for ever from the slights and obligations of the world. No one
could have been more amazed than himself, when he had arrived at this
conclusion. He had been a student of men and manners, but he had never
lit on anything more incomprehensible than this before.
He wanted to marry Hannah Stubbs--he, who had so opposed the same idea
in his friend. Ricardo had formed the wish, in order to keep Leonora
by his side, whilst he, Von Steinberg, desired the same thing solely
for Hannah.
He longed to possess this woman, with her overwhelming
personality--her clumsy movements--her broad smile--her arch looks and
witching eyes--for herself alone, and himself entirely.
He tried to recall her, as she used to be, but failed to do so. She
seemed to have cast aside her chrysalis shell and emerged (in mind at
least) a butterfly! And yet outwardly, there was no difference!
Where did the fascination lie? He could not determine, but felt that
it was there, and that in her was contained the happiness of his
future life.
He rose early, and was at the Hampstead cottage by eleven o’clock.
His first words to her were those of reproach.
“Hannah! how could you do this thing without letting me know? It
nearly paralysed me to meet you at the Rosters last night in the
capacity of a public medium. What would dear old Ricardo say, if he
could know it?”
“Then he should have left me enough to exist upon,” replied Hannah,
“Charlotte and I can’t live on dry bread--even if we got enough of
that!”
“But I have asked you again and again, in case of need, to apply to
me. What is the use of being your friend, if I may not have the
pleasure of helping you out of your difficulties? You deprive me of
one of the great privileges of friendship! And to sit when you are ill
too! It is so unlike you to turn faint! You must have been sadly
overworking yourself! Are you quite recovered this morning?”
“Quite, thank you,” replied Hannah, reservedly--reservedly on purpose
to make him speak out.
“I am glad of that,” said Von Steinberg, “but to return to our
subject;--I trust you do not intend to follow up Spiritualism as a
means of livelihood for the future!”