The strange transfiguration of Hannah Stubbs
And so Joe Brushwood found himself upon the doorstep in shorter time
than it takes to write the words.
The Marchesa joined her husband in the drawing-room, triumphant.
“Well! what had he to say to you?” demanded the Baron, as she entered.
“Nothing! It was all a hoax! No more Joseph Brushwood--whoever he may
be--than you are! A fellow with a begging letter, and who became so
insolent when I refused to give him money, that I was obliged to ring
for Watson to show him the door!”
“You were quite right to refuse,” said the Baron, “I hate these
begging letter writers. But how could he have got hold of the name of
Joseph Brushwood?”
“Invented it, most likely!” replied Hannah, as she commenced to read
the evening papers.
“But, my dear, that was the name of the young man you were engaged
to,” began Karl von Steinberg. “Surely, you must remember!”
“No! I don’t, and I don’t want to,” persisted his wife, “I never think
of that horrible time! It is past now! I wish nothing better than to
blot out the memory that it ever existed.”
She returned to the perusal of her paper, and her husband, after
regarding her for a few moments as if she were some extraordinary
animal whom he could not possibly understand--left the room quietly,
and went to his club.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“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.”