The strange transfiguration of Hannah Stubbs
“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.
CHAPTER XIX.
When Karl von Steinberg rushed from the séance room, it was with
the intention of seeking the open air. He felt as if he should be
stifled in the atmosphere of his wife’s boudoir--as if he could not
breathe in that dark and airless chamber, so fraught with treachery,