The strange transfiguration of Hannah Stubbs
deceit, and crime.
He wanted to get out under God’s pure Heaven, to walk miles and miles
into the open country, and never go back to Portland Place again. But
when he reached the hall door, he encountered a long line of
carriages, drawn up in waiting for the aristocratic sitters, and he
feared lest the traces of what he was undergoing might be visible on
his features, and that he should betray himself before their servants.
So he turned back and sought his private sitting-room instead, and sat
down there, with his head buried in his hands, and tried to think.
What was this horrible thing that he had listened to?--could it
possibly be true? or had he been made the sport of some devil, who had
assumed the shape and features of his dear old friend?
But this idea, worthy only of such as have no knowledge of
Spiritualism, was soon routed from his mind by reason. He _knew_ that
it was Ricardo himself, who had spoken to him--Ricardo, with his
delicate aquiline features--his piercing eyes, overshadowed by bushy
brows--his sensitive mouth, and pointed beard and moustaches.
If a devil could assume his every attribute in the séance chamber,
then Von Steinberg might well doubt if the next acquaintance he met in
the street were truly himself, or a devil in his guise.
This apparition of his best friend had come again and again (as he had
heard on the testimony of strangers), and called his name, that he
might confide to him the awful story which was stirring his being to
its depths. He had told it to him--not for his own sake, the wrong was
over, for him--but lest Von Steinberg should fall into the same net in
which he had been caught. But could it--could it--_could it be true?_
Von Steinberg glanced round at the evidences of luxury which
surrounded him--the soft Persian carpet--the carved furniture--the
valuable paintings--the Venetian glass--and wondered what _more_ he
could have bestowed upon this woman, whom he first thought of
befriending for Ricardo’s sake--Ricardo, who she had sent into
Eternity!
It was not so much the horror of his friend’s death that oppressed
him--those who are convinced that the dead still live, come to look
very calmly on the separation, which more ignorant mortals regard with
fear--but the contemplated horror of living on with the woman who had
betrayed him! _That_ he felt to be impossible!
He could never again take Hannah in his arms and call her “wife”,
whilst the spirit of Ricardo stood between them and hurled another
name at her. What should he do? What was to be his next step? How were
matters to be arranged for the future? He wished at that moment that
he were a medium himself, and had the power to call back the spirit of
Ricardo, and ask his advice about it all.
After he had brooded over the terrible affair for some time, Von
Steinberg began to question whether, after all, he might not be
mistaken, or that Ricardo might have been so! He knew that spirits on
their first appearance after death, were often confused and but half
conscious--could not remember names or dates--nor recognise those to
whom they had been dear! But yet he had never heard of anyone making
a mistake on so important a subject as this.
Then, for his own doubts concerning it. He threw his thoughts back to
that time, just before Ricardo’s death, when Hannah had begun to
coquet with him, and he had been foolish and dishonourable enough to
meet her advances half-way--to the quarrels she had with her
husband--to Ricardo’s assurance to him that she made his life a hell,
and he could stand it no longer--to his hints about taking his
life--to his (Von Steinberg’s) cautions to Hannah on the same
subject--and then, to his friend’s sudden demise, to that awful night
when he was called to the Cottage and found the Professor, dead--by
his own hand as he then fully thought--and the subsequent decision he
had arrived at, partly because he believed it to be a duty on his
part.
But now, in a moment, the truth seemed to flash upon him, and he
wondered that he had been so blind as not to see it from the
beginning. Hannah had been discontented and repining from the time he
had come into his uncle’s property--she had coveted it--his own folly
had encouraged her to think she could gain it--Ricardo was the
obstacle, and so----Von Steinberg groaned within himself as he thought
these things, and that his dearest friend had paid the forfeit of his
own good fortune.
But it must be put an end to at once--his suspicions must be allayed,
or turned into certainties--he would not sleep one night under the
same roof as Ricardo’s murderess--there must be a separation between
them, now and for ever.
The house was again quiet, the guests had all departed, and Von
Steinberg took his way up to his wife’s room. He thought that Hannah
knew nothing of what had occurred, so he resolved not to be too
violent, but to extract the truth from her by degrees. He found her
standing by the side of her sumptuous bed, with its hangings of rich
brocade, looking rather white and weary, but with a sparkle of
determination in her eye, as if she guessed what was coming and had
her weapons ready. Von Steinberg for his part appeared completely
crushed--the revelation of the last hour had knocked all his manhood
out of him.
“Well!” began Hannah, abruptly, “and what may you want here?”
“I have come expressly to see you, Hannah! I wish to speak to you! Why
did you not tell me that you were giving these séances?”
“Because I do not acknowledge that it is any business of yours,” she
answered carelessly, “they are my own concern altogether!”
“Perhaps! but as I have asked you frequently to give me a sitting, and
you have systematically refused, it is strange that you should leave
me to hear that you are constantly holding these meetings, from a
stranger at my club.”
“Yes?” said Hannah, nonchalantly.
“Yes! and I know the reason of your reticence now, into the bargain,”
replied the Baron angrily. “Are you aware _who_ came back through you
this afternoon, and held converse with me?--_who_ told the story of
his death and why he had left this world so suddenly--_who_ has asked
for me again and again, in order to tell me the truth, but whom you
have kept away because you were afraid of what revelations he might
make?”
“Not in the least,” said Hannah, insolently, though her face had
become very fixed during her husband’s questions.
“You are lying to me--you _do!_” exclaimed the Baron, “I should have
gone on for the rest of my life, poor fool that I am! fancying that
you had come to regard the practice of Spiritualism as wrong and
harmful, and refraining from asking you to act contrary to your
principles, had it not been for the idle tongues of two men in the
club this afternoon, who were discussing these séances of yours
without knowing that I was within hearing. Though I could hardly
believe my ears, I returned home to find they were correct in what
they had said--and when I joined your circle, Ricardo came back to
me--Ricardo, your late husband and my dearest friend--Ricardo, whom
you----”
“Be careful what you say,” interposed his wife, “if you make
accusations against me, which you have no means of proving, I will
have satisfaction from you in a court of law. Professor Ricardo died
from the effects of poison, administered by his own hand--that was the
certificate of death I believe, written by yourself. What will people
say, if you deny it now?”
The Baron was staggered by her coolness and perspicuity! It was true;
he had no proofs to bring forward of his assertion.
“I would believe the word of my dead friend before the evidence of my
own senses,” he replied, less vehemently. “Ricardo was too good to you
during his lifetime to bring a false and unnecessary accusation
against you now! I may never be able to prove it, but I am as
convinced of the truth as if I had seen it done, and I will never live
with you again--so help me God!”
Still Hannah was perfectly unmoved.
“That is of little consequence to me,” she answered; “so long as you
make me a suitable allowance. But you will be forced to do that! I
will not consent to a separation, unless it is legally settled by
law!”
Karl von Steinberg gazed at her in silent amazement. Was she
bewitched?
“What has come to you in the last few months?” he said, “you are not
the same woman that you used to be!”
“How do you know what sort of woman I used to be?” she asked him,
quickly.
“I mean, when we first met you--poor Ricardo and I--at Mrs.
Battleby’s. You were modest and humble then--shy and retiring--you
were an amiable, good-humoured girl, only anxious to please and
oblige! Now--my God! what a difference!--I should never have known you
for Hannah Stubbs!”
“Who is Hannah Stubbs?” demanded the Marchesa.
“Enough of this folly,” exclaimed Von Steinberg, angrily, “don’t
pretend to misunderstand me! You have altered in every respect! I have
raised you to a position above that to which you were born, and your
head has been unable to stand the elevation. You have become vain,
haughty, arrogant, and insolent! Yet I could have borne all that and
only cursed my own folly for it, but this crime--no! no! I can never
live under the same roof with you again. We part to-night!”
“That is as you please!” cried the Marchesa, shrilly, “it will leave
me freer and more independent! I shall have more opportunities of
seeing Signor Gueglielmo, and my other friends!”
“No! by my faith you won’t!” exclaimed the Baron. “If the man ever
enters this house after I am gone, I will drag you and him into the
Divorce Court, and let my misery end there!”
“That is to be seen,” remarked the Marchesa.
“You defy me!” cried Von Steinberg, “_you_--who murdered my best
friend! Yes! we need not mince words here, Madame la Marchesa, the
time is past for that! Ricardo told me all--how you purchased the
arsenic (which I was fool enough to believe the poor fellow had
procured himself)--at the Hampstead chemist’s, under the pretence you
wanted it for vermin--and how you mixed it with the whiskey and water
which you persuaded him to drink because you said _I_ had ordered it!
You think you are so secure that you can defy and insult me! What if I
looked up that chemist and examined his books, and proved the date you
bought the poison from him to be that of your husband’s death? What
then, Madame la Marchesa?”
He had sprung forward as he spoke, and approached her so nearly that
the woman felt alarmed, but still her native insolence upheld her.
“What then?” she echoed. “Why! I would force you to declare that you
gained your information through Spiritualism, and make you the
laughing-stock of London. How would Spiritualistic detectives accord
with the English law, Baron von Steinberg, eh?”
“But you would leave the Court with an indelible stain upon your
character, and where would your friends be then?”
“I should go to Signor Gueglielmo, and in his beautiful Italy I should
soon forget that I had ever inhabited such a cold, gloomy, unsociable
country as this!”
“Signor Gueglielmo! You acknowledge he is your lover then?”
“_One_ of them!” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“Good Heavens! That I should have lived to hear you accuse yourself of
such baseness! Are you a woman, or a devil? Are you yourself, Hannah,
or does some evil spirit possess you, and obscure the humble virtues
you once had?”
“Do you think women are all fools?” she retorted, turning on him
fiercely, “are you men to take your pleasures as you will, and we to
be debarred from any? Why should I not have lovers. I am young and
beautiful.”
In saying these words, the Marchesa assumed such a coquettish air,
that solemn though the occasion was, Von Steinberg almost laughed.