CHAPTER X.
Notwithstanding her acquiescence, Hannah displayed such genuine terror at the idea of entering the dark séance room, that Ricardo had pity on her, and held a sitting downstairs first, at which he consulted “James” as to what was best to be done. By his advice, the black hangings were taken down, and a cabinet formed by a curtain hung across one corner of the apartment, behind which was placed a chair. A lamp was lit and the two men were directed to sit at the table, holding Hannah’s hands in either of theirs. Feeling herself in the presence of her husband and his friend, the girl’s fears were allayed, and in a few minutes, she went under control, and wresting her hands from their grasp, rose and entered the cabinet of her own accord. Then “James” told Ricardo and Steinberg to lower the light until it was a mere glimmer—to close the door—and to seat themselves at the further end of the little chamber.
Steinberg was earnest in his pursuit of Science—Ricardo, in his pursuit of Leonora—so they did as they were directed, and waited patiently for the result. In an incredibly short space of time, the curtain was shaken—then pulled asunder—and the laughing, mischievous face of Leonora peeped out. The Professor was in ecstasy. He knelt down upon the bare floor, as though he were worshipping a divine creature. But his adoration was not given, because the appearance of a spirit from the dead endowed him with the blessed certainty of Everlasting Life, but because the materialised spirit was the creature of his imagination. Steinberg, on the other hand, regarded the appearance of Leonora with unstinted wonder and satisfaction, simply because her coming was another step gained in the difficult task which he had set himself to learn. As a Spirit, he hailed her advent with the keenest interest—as a Woman, he did not admire either her person or herself. She evinced none of the sorrow which a wife, whose thoughtlessness at the least, had led her husband into a serious crime, might have been supposed to feel—neither did she exhibit much pleasure at meeting him again. Her behaviour was more that of a coquette, who wished to regain the admiration she had forfeited, than of a loving woman. She smiled and beckoned to Ricardo, but as soon as he approached the cabinet, she would dart inside and be lost to view. Apparently she was, or had been, a very handsome woman, but there was nothing attractive in her appearance. Her large black eyes were void of tenderness—her smiles were affected—each motion of her supple body seemed made in order to raise Ricardo’s ardour, without gratifying it. Had she not been his friend’s wife, the Doctor would have called her by some opprobrious epithets—as it was, he regarded her simply as a curiosity, and hailed her coming only because she came.
The advent of Mrs. Carlile had a different effect upon him. She had been only his friend—scarcely that. Had she lived, he would have spoken of her as his patient. But her unfortunate and early death, occurring, as it did, under his own hands, had invested her memory with a certain tender compassion, which gave him the right, as it were, to hail her as a friend from the other Land. She came, not only to convince him of the Great Truth, but to console and comfort him under his disappointment. She came with pity and forgiveness beaming from her eyes, and trembling on her lips, and made him feel, each time he saw her, that Earth was valueless and the next World the Haven to which we must look for consolation.
The sittings, once more begun, were continued steadily every evening. Neither Ricardo, nor Steinberg, were aware of the danger that might accrue to the medium from these frequent séances. Hannah did not seem to suffer from sitting, and once she had overcome her childish fear of the Invisibles, declared herself ready to gratify their curiosity, whenever they asked her to do so.
Doctor Steinberg was only at home three evenings in the week, but the Professor sat with his wife, whether his friend joined them or not, and frequently in the daytime he would take Hannah up into the séance chamber, and hold converse with Leonora all by himself.
She did not always come to him. These things are not ordered by our earthly wishes, and we have no control over them. Often, when Steinberg was anxiously awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Carlile—sometimes, when she had even promised to come to him—a figure would emerge from the cabinet, and on inspection prove to be that of an old man, utterly unknown to either of them—or a child would run across the room, as if in play, and, startled by their addressing it, run behind the curtain again and be seen no more. To the doctor, who looked upon these manifestations as fresh proofs of Immortality, one spirit was as good as another, but to the Professor, whose whole thoughts were fixed upon Leonora, such disappointments fell keenly, and he would not be satisfied until he had sat again to give Leonora an opportunity of manifesting her presence to him.
Accordingly, he took to having séances by himself, and Hannah, who had never objected to doing as he asked since that first day, became his willing victim. Indeed, the girl even seemed to grow to like being a medium—her low spirits disappeared—she often went singing about the house—and no more was heard of her false young man, nor of her mother.
One afternoon as the Professor sat alone in the séance chamber, with Hannah entranced behind the curtain, the now familiar form of Leonora stepped out of the cabinet. She was clothed in some soft, clinging white material which showed plainly the lissom figure beneath it—her dark hair was unbound and fell below her waist—her small white hand beckoned him to approach her. Ricardo crept on tiptoe to the dark curtain that divided them. He was quite alone—Steinberg was miles away and Hannah lay unconscious in her chair—there was none but Heaven to listen to what he might say to his lost wife.
“Leonora!” he exclaimed, “my one, only Darling! Come to me and lay your cheek on mine! Whatever you were, whatever you did, you are still the same to me—the peerless, beautiful bride, whom I held to my heart during so many blissful years! Do you remember the villa down in Parma, to which I took you for our honeymoon, Leonora? Do you recall the happy evening that we were first man and wife—how we wandered into the gardens, and sat down on a bank, covered with delicious violets whose breath intoxicated us with pleasure. You cast yourself across my knees, and laid your lovely head upon my breast—then I seemed to realise, for the first time, that you were all my own. Our lips met—I drank in your sweet breath, sweeter than the violets upon which we sat—and we mutually trembled with the ecstasy of the contact. Ah! Leonora, my dearest, that was twenty-five long weary years ago! I am an old man now, but I have never forgotten—I never shall forget! Come once more and press your sweet lips to mine as you did in that unforgotten moment, and I shall be rewarded for all the efforts I have made—the sacrifice I have gone through—in order to draw you once more to my heart again!”
The tantalising face peeped out from the curtain—the lips pouted—but as Ricardo drew near to kiss her, Leonora darted like an arrow into the cabinet and evaded him. It was like the cup of Tantalus, ever presented, brimming with sparkling liquid, only to be withdrawn as soon as approached.
The Professor breathed a heart-felt sigh as he leaned against the curtain, to see if he could hear any movement going on behind it. But all was still as the grave!
“My wife—my wife——” moaned the unhappy man, “speak to me, if you cannot touch me. I feel the reason. My contact is too earthly for you, pure as you have become!—the hands that slew you are too foul to clasp with yours. But tell me—Leonora! I am hanging on your words—tell me the whole truth. You know I could not be angry with you now! Were you guilty with Centi?”
The mobile face again appeared round a corner of the curtain, and the rosy lips murmured, “No!”
“No? O! my God! then I am a murderer of the deepest dye! I have slain my other half—she, whom I had sworn to love and cherish! What Hell will be deep enough for me? What devil urged me on to strike that fatal blow? Heavens! I can see it now, your pallid, startled face—the crimson blood that stained your white breast—that issued from your livid lips—can hear the sigh with which your pure spirit took wing, to bear witness against me before the Throne! O! Leonora, my wife! my angel! say that you forgive my rash act—my unfounded jealousy!”
The Spirit again appeared, and nodded its head solemnly.
“I knew you would forgive, dear Angel, who were so much too good for such a wretch as I am, but will Heaven forgive? that is the question? Shall I join you wherever you may be? Shall we be lovers and friends again in the Eternal World?”
But to this question there was no reply. Ricardo knelt where he had stood, and wept like a child. His life had been one long suffering for the awful deed he had committed, and now, to hear that it had been done in vain—that he had murdered an innocent woman—she, who, but for his insensate jealousy and fury, might have lived to be the mother of his children and the pride and comfort of his old age—was too much. It smote him to the ground, and struck a blow at his heart, from which he never recovered.
He felt that he could bear no more and left the séance room, without further comment. Even to Steinberg, he never revealed what had taken place between himself and Leonora that day, but he seized every opportunity of communicating with her, until he came to spend half his leisure moments in the séance chamber.
Doctor Steinberg perceived the alteration in his friend’s spirits, but attributed it to his health, which was not satisfactory. The Professor still went about his daily work, but he taught in a spiritless, listless fashion, and his pupils were not so quick to follow his instructions as they were wont to be. When he returned home, instead of interesting himself in a book, as he had been used to do, he would sit for hours with folded arms, silent and meditative. The only times when he evinced any enthusiasm, were those spent in the séance chamber, though Leonora came no oftener than the other influences who controlled Hannah, and when she did come, gave scarcely any information on subjects connected with her present life.
But if the Professor’s health and spirits appeared to fail, those of Mrs. Ricardo rose in proportion. She seemed to have entirely overcome her dread of the “sperrits” and “shadders” and “woices”, and often said it was unfair that the Doctor or the Professor did not sit in their turn, and let her share their privilege of interviewing the friends from the other World. From having been heavy and somewhat sullen, she developed quite a lively disposition, and Steinberg was astonished sometimes on reaching home, to hear her singing over her work, an accomplishment for which she had never exhibited any taste before.
She became less shy also of remaining in the society of her husband and his friend, and made a point of taking her meals with them, by which means she soon got in the way of joining in the conversation, and dropped many of her coarse sayings and mispronounced words.
She improved so quickly indeed, as to surprise Steinberg, who had imagined her hitherto to be one of the dullest mortals in creation. It was not long before he mentioned the subject to the Professor.
“How wonderfully Hannah has improved in her pronunciation, lately,” he remarked. “I couldn’t have believed it possible that any one could have made such rapid strides. Have you been giving her private lessons during my absence, Ricardo?”
“No! indeed,” answered the Professor, in the weary tone he had assumed of late, “I seldom see her, except in the séance room. Has she improved, Steinberg? I had not noticed it. But there was room for it, Heaven knows! I suppose it is listening to our conversation.”
“I suppose so too, but Hannah must be very clever naturally, to have caught our accent so soon. And she is so much more lively into the bargain. I heard her singing, or rather humming, the air of ‘Au clair de la lune,’ yesterday. Now, where can she have caught that up? It is essentially French. She must have heard you, or me, whistling it. And did you observe this evening that she has plaited that mass of hair of hers, and twisted it round her head at the back? We shall see her wearing kid boots with heels next. Bravo! Hannah!”
“You look at her more than I do,” replied Ricardo. “She is a good enough girl, and I have no fault to find with her. But I hope she will not get any extravagant ideas, because I cannot afford to humour them. I wonder who can have been putting such absurd notions into her head.”
“No one, unless it be yourself. You should feel flattered, Ricardo, that your wife shows any wish to please you. She is certainly vastly improved. You cannot find fault with her for that! What have you been doing with yourself to-day? Talking with Leonora, eh?”
“I entered the séance room, but she did not come,” replied Ricardo, in a discontented tone, “she has not been so regularly lately. I cannot understand the reason. Can it be any falling-off in the medium? Would her want of interest in Spiritualism account for it?”
“No! no! certainly not!” Steinberg quickly exclaimed. “How can you expect the poor girl to take any interest in it, when she is under control all the time, and knows nothing of what occurs. Hannah has more than once expressed her disappointment to me, that she should be so completely shut out from what seems to give us so much pleasure. I think it is most unselfish of her to sit so often and so cheerfully. Besides, she is as strong in health as ever! How can she be responsible for Leonora not coming so often?”
“I don’t know,” said Ricardo, peevishly, “but the fact remains. An old woman whom I cannot recognise, seems to have taken her place the last few days. I dare not show my impatience at the change, but I am longing all the time for her to go away and let my wife come instead.”
“Ah! my friend, you are not a Scientist! You do not pursue this interesting study in order to find out the secret of Everlasting Life, but only to gratify your personal longing to see your dead wife again. And now that she has come, you are less satisfied than before. What is the reason? Has she not spoken to you? Has she not solved the mystery that oppressed you? Are you not yet aware whether that blow was struck with justice, or not?”
“If I were, I should not feel inclined to discuss the question with one who was a stranger to her,” said Ricardo, in a tone very unlike himself. “The confidences which pass between husband and wife should be sacred.”
“I agree with you there, so let us say no more about it. You mooted the subject to me, or I should not have presumed to mention it again. But I think you sit too often. These researches, if carried to extremes, are apt to prove harmful to both mind and body. Come to the theatre with me this evening! It will divert you. I have a box for the Adelphi. Let us take Hannah with us. She is so much more lively lately, that I think it will interest her. She seems to be enjoying life, poor child, for the first time.”
The Professor being agreeable, Steinberg’s plan was carried out, and Hannah thoroughly enjoyed her evening. The Doctor was not mistaken. The change in her was quite as palpable as that in her husband. Live as long as she might, she would never have a lissom figure, nor a beautiful face, but a kind of brightness had settled over her features, which much redeemed their homeliness, and her attempts at tidiness did not at all events deteriorate from them.
She laughed and cried at all the right places throughout the melodrama and returned home in high good humour with both her friends.
But what still more surprised Steinberg, as time went on, was to see the gross humility that had overpowered the girl, entirely disappear, to give place to a species of pride in her attainments as a medium—as if she had suddenly waked up to a consciousness of the value she was to Ricardo, and the difficulty he would find in replacing her, if she were gone.
“I can’t sit to-day,” he overheard her say to the Professor, “so it’s no good your asking me! Can’t you see that I’m dead tired from sitting so long yesterday? Do you suppose that I don’t waste my strength, as well as yours, over these séances? And what is it all for?—so that you may see the woman you cared for, and talk love nonsense to her! I tell you, Professor, there ain’t many wives in this world who would do as much for their husbands. You treats me as if I had no feelings. I’m making a dress for Sundays, and haven’t been able to put a stitch in it all the week, so you must wait for your séance till I choose to give it you.”
“Very well,” Steinberg heard Ricardo answer meekly, “never mind, my dear! I’ll go for a little walk instead.”
As soon as he had left the house, Steinberg took Hannah to task for her treatment of him.
“I am surprised to hear you speak like that to your husband, Hannah! Do you know what I should have done if you had been my wife?”
“But I ain’t your wife,” replied Hannah, with a certain arch look that startled him—so little had he considered the girl capable of giving it with her usually dull, lack-lustre eyes.
“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 suddenly ceased, and drew from the inmost recesses of the drawer, a small card, yellow with age, which had become wedged at the back. She held it to the light with a discordant chuckle of triumph. On it was printed in flourishing Italian characters, “Marchese di Sorrento.”
“What is that?” she cried, holding it out to the Professor, “is that your name, or is it not?”
Ricardo was fain to confess the truth.
“Sit down, Hannah, my dear,” he said, “compose yourself, I beg of you! There is no need for you to be angry with me! Be patient and I will tell you the whole story.”
“Is that your name, or is it not?” repeated the girl, as she flourished the card in his face.
“Yes! yes! it is, will that content you? But I shall never use it again, Hannah! I have very good reasons for not doing so, and you must regard this discovery on your part as if it had never been. Do you understand me?”
“I don’t know as I do,” said Hannah; “this is your true name, you say?”
“Yes! I am the Marchese di Sorrento,” replied Ricardo, with some degree of pride, “but, as I said before, I have discarded the title and consider that it is no longer mine! I am sorry you ever found it out, my dear. I should never have told you myself, but as it is, you must forget it as soon as you can.”
“If it’s your name, it’s mine too,” said Hannah, with an obstinate look about the mouth.
“It would have been so, had I retained it,” interposed the Professor, quietly, “but since I choose to be known only as Signor Ricardo, my wife is Madame, or Mrs. Ricardo—nothing more!”
“If it’s mine, it’s mine,” returned Hannah, doggedly, “and I don’t see why I’m to be called out of my name! Why should Mrs. Barnett, the grocer’s wife, call me ‘Missus’, when she ought to say ‘my lady?’ I ’eard ’er telling another customer larst night, as I was a foreigner! Like ’er impidence! I’ll shew ’er if I’m a foreigner! I’ll make ’er say ‘my lady’ next time she speaks to me, or I’ll get all our things from Addison’s.”
“Hannah! Hannah! for Heaven’s sake, don’t make us the laughing stock of Hampstead,” exclaimed the Professor, in genuine distress, “however true the story may be, no one will believe it from your lips. They will ask you, if you are a lady, why you do all the house-work by yourself. Such people as you speak of, only value their acquaintances by the amount of money they may happen to possess.”
“And I don’t see why I shouldn’t ’ave a servant to help me!” replied Hannah, boldly. “If I’m a Markiness, it isn’t fit as I should cook and scrub and what not, making my ’ands filthy, and spoiling my complexion. I’ve been going to speak to you about that afore, Professor—I mean Markiss——”
“O! Hannah! for God’s sake, don’t call me by that name!” cried poor Ricardo, with both his fingers in his ears.
“Well! I’m sure!” exclaimed his wife. “I s’pose she called you by it, or summat very similar, but I ain’t good enough, eh? Well! since I’ve a right to it, I’m going to use it, and so I tells you straight, and the sooner you gets accustomed to it, the better. ’Tain’t much as I got by marrying of you, Markiss, so you might as well leave me the name. ’Twon’t bring in bread and butter anyway!”
“I know it, and what is the use of using a title which you cannot keep up in appearance? We have only enough money to live on, and I see no chance of our ever having more.”
“I don’t know about that!” replied the girl, with a cunning look, “I know of a way by which money could be made, and pretty sharp, too.”
“What do you mean? If you are correct, you will find me willing enough to take advantage of it!”
“Well! you just give out as I can make the sperrits and things walk about the room, and make folks pay to come and see them, and you’d make a fortune. I’ve ’eard Steinberg say so, times out of mind!”
“O! no! no!” exclaimed the Professor, in disgust. “What! make the vision of my Leonora common property? Let every Jack and Jill, who has the money to enable them, come and gape at her, sharers with me in this heavenly pleasure! Never! Hannah, never! I cannot prevent your adopting my title if you refuse to comply with my request that you should not do so, but I utterly forbid your turning your divine gift into a merchandise. I am afraid you have never estimated it at its real value!”
“No! I can’t say I see much fun in it myself,” replied Hannah, grinning, “but it got me out of a precious muddle, didn’t it? I don’t know what I should have done at that time, Professor, if you ’adn’t taken a fancy to sperrits and things!”
“You appear to have conquered all your fear of them, Hannah,” remarked the Professor, musingly. “You have altered in many ways lately! I never hear you object to the cabinet now, nor express terror of the spirits, in any way.”
“I’ve no call left to be feared of them,” replied his wife, still grinning, as if her mediumship were an excellent joke. “They’re allays after me, day and night! I’ve got so used to them, that I don’t take no more notice of them than I do of you. Let them go on with their larks, and leave me to go on with mine!”
“And your father and mother, and Joe, Hannah?” continued the Professor, a little wistfully; “do you never think of them now, either?”
It seemed as if he would have liked to hear her say that she still hankered after her people and her home. But her grin remained unabated.
“Not often,” she replied; “they ain’t no good to me now! As for Joe, he may go to the devil for aught I care!”
“O! hush! hush! hush!” cried the Professor.
“It’s of no use your saying, ‘ ’ush! ’ush! ’ush!’ to me, Sig-nor! You don’t want me to be ’ankering after a young man now that I’m the Markiness dee Sorrento, do you? Which I don’t, I’m sure! I often wonders ’ow I could ever ’ave fancied Joe, with his coarse ’air, and his pig’s eyes! I’m sure if I ’ad my rights and a ’ouse fit for a Markiness, I would never arsk ’im into it! I’d ’ave no one under a Barrow-knight, or a squire, within the walls. I should know ’ow to play my part, you bet, Professor—I means, Markiss!”
Ricardo sighed.
“Well! my poor girl, I fear you will never have the opportunity of trying it,” he said. “But will you give me a séance this evening! I feel rather low-spirited, and it will cheer me and do me good.”
“O! you can ’ave it and welcome,” replied Hannah, “but, I say Markiss, it do seem a pity now, to ’ave all this fuss, and two good hours wasted, only for you, don’t it? And if we ’ad a dozen or so of strangers with their ’alf guinea each, why, I’d make more in a night than you can do in a week.”
She hung coaxingly over him, as she spoke, but Ricardo put her away, as though the suggestion had come from the Evil One.
“I have said ‘No!’ already, and I would repeat it a thousand times!” he ejaculated. “You don’t know what you are talking of! Your insinuation is a desecration of the angel, for whom alone I value your services.”
“Didn’t she like being a Markiness?” asked Hannah, as she left the room to make some little preparations before the séance.
Her remark set Ricardo thinking how much all women are alike.
“How they love a title!” he pondered inwardly. “Although Leonora was of noble birth, I can well remember her pleasure, less roughly expressed than that of this poor untutored girl, but still the same, when she first assumed my name, and heard herself called Marchesa di Sorrento.
“And how proud I was of her, with her lovely face and swan-like figure, all life and grace! She looked a Marchioness, from the crown of her noble head to her dainty feet. But this poor, uncouth child of nature! I never thought of the disgrace to my title, when I married her! Steinberg reminded me of it, but I considered it dead, and myself only as a drudging teacher! How did she find out about it, I wonder! It is inconceivable—still more, that she should take such a keen pleasure in assuming it! Well! it is a misfortune, but I cannot prevent her! It is her name beyond all dispute, and if she will use it, she must!
“But how changed she has become during the last few weeks. Sometimes I regard her with amazement and cannot believe she is the same Hannah I married! Where is her timidity—her stolidity—her implacable good humour—her fear of me and Von Steinberg, flown? She has become brisk and pert, almost dominant in her manner—and at times I catch a look in her eye, as though her soul had but just waked up and was astonished at its own power. Yet with it all, I like her better—yes! there is decidedly something that I like better in Hannah now, than when I first married her!
“But this folly about assuming her title! How I wish Von Steinberg would hasten home, that he might reason her out of it!”
Here, his wife’s voice summoned him to the séance chamber, and he was soon absorbed in watching for the wonders which his sittings with her revealed to him.
One point had rather worried him lately, and that was the defection of his beloved Leonora, or rather, the little advance which she made towards development. Ricardo had imagined on commencing his studies in Occultism, that the apparitions would grow with the growth of his knowledge of them, and from being visible but silent, would progress in language, as in familiarity, until they would converse with him as easily as if they stood face to face on earth, or in Heaven.
He had a thousand things to ask of Leonora. He yearned to ascertain where she now lived—how she employed herself—what associates she had—and how her spirit life was sustained in her; above all, by what mystical wonder, she managed to leave her Heavenly dwelling-place and visit him in the little dark chamber, which he called his séance room, and through the instrumentality of so rough and untutored a medium as Hannah Stubbs.
But though he addressed such queries to the apparition of Leonora night after night, he never received any satisfactory reply. A shrug of the shoulders—a shake or nod of the head—a whispered “Yes!” or “No!” seemed to be the extent of information he could receive from her.
Naturally, having been her husband, he longed to touch her again, to put his lips to hers, or to grasp the little white hand which was invariably thrust through the curtain to greet him.
But such favours were sparingly accorded him. If he were permitted to touch her hand, it was only to pat the outside of it—if her face were advanced to meet his, it merely brushed his cheek, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing. And, as he had complained to Von Steinberg, her visits had become far less frequent than they had been at first. Strangers, in whom he felt but sparse interest, had taken her place and usurped the time and power, which he considered Leonora’s.
But this evening, after an interval of several days, she appeared. Her dark eyes peeped at him through a veil of gossamer, which fell to her feet, and her lissom form swayed itself to and fro, as though loath to leave the sheltering curtain.
Ricardo was in the lowest spirits. He could think of nothing but the subject that immediately disquieted him.
“My beautiful Marchesa!” he said, as Leonora’s form appeared at the entrance of the cabinet, “can you guess how distasteful it is to me to hear the title which you adorned, usurped by another? She a Marchesa! O! it is impossible!—degrading—poor uncouth, ignorant creature! she little knows the height to which she aspires. She could as soon sit as Queen, upon the throne of England! Forgive me, sweetest Love, that I should have given this ungainly servant the semblance of your position. But she is not my wife, Leonora! You know it! Her name is but an empty sound! I have been widowed since the fatal night that saw your pure spirit wing its flight to Heaven, and I shall remain widowed till we meet again. But tell me, dearest, what shall I do? What do you advise me to do? Is Hannah to have her own way in this, or not?”
The form of Leonora nodded its head.
“Is it part of my punishment for having sent you to your account, whilst still in the bloom of your youth and beauty, to have brought this trouble on my head? Must I endure it, as a penance, that shall bring me, all the sooner, to your dear feet?”
The figure nodded its head a second time.
“Then I will bear it—even to hear her called by the title which I was so proud to bestow upon you—if it will only reunite us one moment sooner than I hoped for.”
The Professor, in his anxiety to gain the approval of his former wife for all he did and said, did not consider that he put the words he wished to hear her say into her mouth, or, rather, that he accepted her acquiescence as a sign that she understood the case, and his reasons for it. If Leonora approved of Hannah being styled Marchesa di Sorrento, it should be exactly as she wished and vice versa. The next question was put with some amount of trepidity.
“And do you consider that she ought to have a servant?—that the work is too hard for her, and unbefitting her position as my wife? Ought I to allow her to make her powers public, or shall I keep them entirely for myself, as now?”
Leonora shook her head vehemently.
“It will not militate against our meeting, Leonora, nor interfere in any way with your appearance? Ah! my beloved, think what I have sacrificed, in order to obtain this great privilege! It would break my heart if you were to desert Hannah, because others kept you away.”
The figure bent forward until its lips touched the Professor’s face, and whispered,
“Better! much better!”
“Then it shall be so!” exclaimed Ricardo, though he sighed whilst he said the words; “I will put no further obstacle in the way of her wishes. Anything—anything—that shall make your path more easy to you, and bind us more nearly together. But O! my Leonora! how I long sometimes for the happy day when Death, like a kindly friend, shall lead me out of this world of perplexity, into the Land of Light, where I shall meet you again, in all the radiance of your spiritual youth and beauty!”
The Spirit patted him gently on the head, but Ricardo did not raise his face from his hands for the remainder of the séance. When Hannah came to herself, she found him sitting so, almost as lost to all external things as she had been.
CHAPTER XII.
A few weeks after the events related in the last chapter, as Mrs. Battleby was helping her wretched drudge to wash up the miscellaneous assortment of plates, dishes, cups, saucers and tumblers, sent down by her various lodgers, and harrying the girl’s soul out, by constant adjurations to make more haste, she was startled by the sound of a loud double knock on the front door.
“Now! ’oo on hearth can that be calling at this time o’ night?” she exclaimed testily, as she wiped her hands on her canvas apron. “ ’Ere, ’Liza, ’and me over that clean apron do, and don’t stand gaping at me there! I declare, you put me ever so much in mind of that great, hulking fool, Hannah Stubbs, which I’ve never forgiven ’er mother to this day for putting her upon me! It might be some one arter the hattics, for I’ve known ’em to come, when pressed, as late as ten o’clock at night. Now! go on with your washing-up, and don’t be a’follerin’ me to hear what they may say, for it’s no concern of yourn any way.”
Saying which, Mrs. Battleby left the lower regions and ascended to answer the hall door.
It was a dark night, and all she could distinguish at first was, that a female figure stood on the door steps.
“Who do you please to want, Ma’am?” she inquired.
“Is Mrs. Battleby at home?” asked the stranger, in her turn.
“Yes! Ma’am, I be Mrs. Battleby, but if it’s rooms as you want, I’ve none to let but the hattics, which was occupied last by a gentleman of very high degree!”
“Lor! Mrs. Battleby! I don’t believe you know me!” exclaimed the visitor, as she pushed her way into the passage, and leant up against the wall, laughing.
“Why, it’s never!—No! it can’t never be—Hannah Stubbs!” cried Mrs. Battleby, too much astounded to be angry at being taken in.
“Yes! it is,” replied Hannah, still laughing, “but I ain’t Hannah Stubbs no longer, Mrs. Battleby! I’m a married lady now, and able to hold my own with anybody. But ain’t you a’going to arsk me to take a chair? Ain’t the parlours vacant? Can’t we go in there?”
“The parlours!” repeated the landlady, with a sneer. “Well! I wonder what we’re coming to, next! I should ’ave thought as the kitchen was good enough for you, Hannah Stubbs, though you be married!”
“Well! then, let me tell you, Mrs. Battleby as it ain’t! And I’ll thank you not to call me out of my name. I’m married to a nobleman, and I’ll stick up for my rights. ‘My lady’ is the proper way for you to address me, Mrs. Battleby! I’m a Markiness!”
“A what!” exclaimed Mrs. Battleby, as she pushed her visitor into the back parlour, which lacked an inmate. “Are you mocking me, Hannah, or ’ave you gone clean off your chump? A markiness! You must be daft! They belongs to the highest of the haristocracy. What ’ave you been a’doing of, since you left this ’ouse?”
As she lighted the gas, and was enabled to have a good look at her late slavey, the landlady perceived there was a great difference in her appearance. Hannah wore the famous apple-green merino, with a silk mantle over it—a small black bonnet, crowned with scarlet poppies, and a pair of brown silk gloves. Altogether, though she did not look like a marchioness, she had the appearance of a very respectable servant.
“And now do tell me the rights of all this, for you’ve took my breath away,” said Mrs. Battleby. “What’s become of the poor Professor, and his friend the Doctor, and ’ave you left them for good, and where are you living now?”
She pushed Hannah into a chair and took one opposite herself, so eager was she to learn how this wonderful transformation scene had come about.
The Marchesa di Sorrento was wonderfully self-possessed. She drew off her silk gloves and folded them neatly on her lap—placed her umbrella in a safe position—and settled herself down for a good talk.
“I have not left the Sig-nor at all, Mrs. Battleby,” she commenced; “we’ve been married for a long time now, and our ’ouse is at ’Ampstead.”
“The Sig-nor has married you!” exclaimed the landlady, gasping in her surprise. “Why! I allays thought as ’e was a real gentleman! Actually married you! Well! wonders never cease!”
“A real gentleman,” cried Hannah, sharply, “I should think he was—a better gentleman than you’ll ever ’ave in your attics agen, Mrs. Battleby. He’s more than a gentleman, a good deal! He’s a real Markiss! What do you think of that! The Markiss dee Sorrento! And I’m a Markiness! The Markiness dee Sorrento! And that’s why you’ll ’ave to call me ‘my lady’ if ever you speaks to me agen, Mrs. Battleby.”
“I don’t believe as I could ever find it on my tongue to do it, Hannah—not if you was to give me a ’undred pounds,” said the landlady, as she sank back in her chair with surprise.
“Are you satisfied I speak the truth,” asked Hannah, presently, “or must I bring the Markiss here to tell you so, himself? He was always a Markiss, of course, but he didn’t choose to let on to you about it. But as soon as we was married, he told me the truth! It was a fine surprise for me, as you may be sure, but I’m quite accustomed to it now.”
“And he actually married you—that quiet old gentleman! Well! if you’d told me marriage was in his line, I’d ’ave said you was quite mistook. And the Doctor—what did ’e say to it, eh, Hannah?—I mean—my lady!”
“You don’t go to suppose as we asked the Doctor’s leave, or anybody else’s?” replied the Markiness, with a fine scorn; “the Markiss was old enough to know his own mind, I s’pose! And the Doctor ain’t a doctor any longer either! He’s a Baron—the Baron von Steinberg, and ’as come into a big fortune of thousands and thousands of pounds a year.”
“O! you don’t go to tell me as the Doctor’s a haristocrat, too?” cried Mrs. Battleby, who felt as if all her old acquaintances had suddenly drifted from her into realms above. “ ’E who was such a nice-speaking young gentleman! A Baron! Well! I never! And money into the bargain! No wonder as they both left the hattics!”
“The Baron ’as a lovely ’ouse in Portland Place,” continued Hannah, “the most beautiful ’ouse as you ever see—all statues and pictures and flowering plants. You can’t ’ear your feet in ’is carpets, and ’e keeps ten or twelve servants. He’s rolling in riches, is the Baron.”
“My!” gasped Mrs. Battleby, too exhausted by astonishment to be able to say any more.
“And you, my dear,” she resumed, after a pause, “ ’ow do you git on with the cooking and that? The Sig-nor, ’e wasn’t very particular, but if I remembers rightly, you didn’t know nothink of cooking, or of much else when you fust come to me—did you?”
“No! nor now either,” responded Hannah, with her grandest air, “I ’ave no call to do anything of the sort. My servant does all that for me!”
“Your servant! Lor! and you keep a servant!” echoed the landlady. “I never! But in coorse the Sig-nor, being a Markiss, would now, wouldn’t ’e? And ’ave you told all this to your pore mother and father, who ’ave been sadly about you, ever since you runned away from me!”
“No! Mrs. Battleby, and don’t mean to, neither! You don’t suppose as the Markiss would let such people as my mother and father come about the ’ouse! It would bemean his rank! They carst me off and they must keep to theirselves—as well as that ill-mannered young man Joseph Brushwood! I wouldn’t stop to speak to ’em, not if I met ’em in the road.”
“Well! Hannah, you ’ave grown ’igh,” replied the other, “but I ’opes as you’ve given up all them sperrits and devils and things as beset you ’ere. The Markiss won’t allow them about ’im, I expect!”
“You only says that because you’re so ignorant, Mrs. Battleby,” said the Markiness, tossing her head; “those who know about the matter says they’re Science, and all the aristocracy are running after them like mad! They call them ‘angels’ not ‘devils’, and they do say,” continued the girl, lowering her voice, and bending towards the landlady, “that Royalty’s crazy about it, too, and that if I chose to go to the Palace and show ’em what I can do, that I should be made a duchess in my own right!”
“O! Hannah—my lady—don’t you go for to do it!” cried Mrs. Battleby, “for what’s the good of being a duchess, if the Devil ’as got hold of you! Better remain as you are—a plain markiness! O! I ’ad ’oped as you’d given it all up and lived quiet and sober, like a married woman should!”
“O! that would never do!” replied Hannah, “Why! do you know, Mrs. Battleby, as it’s the best thing I’ve got! The Baron says I’m the grandest medium in the land, and there ain’t another as can make the sperrits walk out so soon, and so nateral like! His friends is all mad to meet me, and I’m to go to ’is ’ouse next week, and sit for the Russian Ambassador, and the Duke of Standingstone, and two foreign Princes! Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been so quick to take the Markiss, for I should ’ave ’ad no end of chances, if I ’adn’t been a married lady!”
“Ah! well! I ’opes it will all end satisfactory,” sighed Mrs. Battleby, “but it don’t seem right to me! Sperrits is sperrits all the world over, which we’re told not to meddle with in holy Scriptur, and I should never be surprised to ’ear as they’d taken you away with ’orns and a tail and a smell of brimstone!”
“I ain’t afeared of that!” said Hannah, “the sperrits are more afraid of me than I am of them!”
“Of you—who used to shriek if you saw ’em!” replied her companion, incredulously.
“I know! but they says as use is second natur. Anyways, I don’t mind ’em one pin now! The Doctor says they ’ave seen the most wonderfullest things through me—his dead patients and others—and that if anythink ’appened to the Markiss, my mediumship would be worth its weight in gold. So I’m not going to throw it away—you bet!”
“O! well! and I’m not the one to blame yer. We must all look arter ourselves in this world. But ’ow improved you are in your speaking, my dear! ’Ave you been to school since the Sig-nor married you?”
“Am I improved?” demanded Hannah, with a look of surprise; “I don’t see any difference myself! P’r’aps it’s talking so much with my ’usband—not that the Markiss is a great talker, but still I don’t hear anyone else.”
“You are altered in many ways,” continued the landlady, thoughtfully, “you’ve lost the scared look you used to ’ave on your face, and the dull look too, I may say, for we never considered you over-bright, you know, Hannah! But now—I ain’t good at describing—but you seem to me to have wakened up, as if you’d seen a lot of the world and its ways. And it’s improved you, Hannah—wonderful!”
“I’m glad of that,” replied the markiness, “for now that I am a lady, I has to speak like one. Well! I’ll say good-night to you now, Mrs. Battleby, for I must be going ’ome! But I thought, as you’d known the Markiss for so long, you’d like to hear the news, and that we’re all so ’appy together!”
Hannah had risen to go, but Mrs. Battleby detained her for a moment.
“You ’aven’t told me nothing of the Sig-nor’s ’ealth,” she said; “ ’as ’e got rid of them dreadful fainty attacks as used to take ’im sometimes, when ’e lived with me?”
“No! not quite! He had one yesterday. The Baron says it’s ’is ’eart, and that ’e’s ’ad it a long time. But all we ’ave to do is to be careful, and ’e’ll last as long as any.”
“And may I come up and see you some day, Hannah—my lady?” inquired the landlady. “I should like to ’ave a look at the Sig-nor, I must say.”
The Markiness dee Sorrento hesitated.
“I s’pose I must say ‘yes’, Mrs. Battleby, because of old times, but you must please not to call me ‘Hannah’ before my servant, or she may think it disrespectful. I ’ope you understand the motive!”
“O! yes, my lady—certainly, my lady!” replied Mrs. Battleby, as she curtsied the newly-made peeress out at the hall door, and retreated to the kitchen again, to try and solve the marvellous riddle which had been presented to her.
Meanwhile the marchioness took an omnibus back to Hampstead, where she found Karl von Steinberg, who had been home about a week, in close conversation with her husband.
“I am trying to combat Ricardo’s objection to your giving my friends a séance next week, Hannah!” he said, as she appeared, “but he is very obstinate! He seems to imagine that if your powers are made public, they will deteriorate in some way. I—on the contrary—think they will improve with practice, always provided that we see you are not overtaxed. And I shall be present to prevent that! I have not given up being a doctor, at all events for the benefit of my friends, though I have become a Baron!”
“Of course not!” replied Hannah, “and I’ve told the Markiss so a hundred times! Haven’t the sperrits said the same thing? They’re more likely to desert me, if I disobey their orders. Don’t waste no more time over the Markiss, Baron! I’m going to give your friends that séance next week, and as many more as you choose—so there’s an end of the matter!”
“But we must follow your husband’s wishes in this respect, Hannah,” said Von Steinberg. “I should not enjoy the séance, for one, if he disapproved of your giving it! He will never shut me out from your home sittings, I am sure, and if he is determined, my friends must go without it, or get another medium to sit for them!”
“And where will they find another like me?” replied Hannah, with that strange look in her eyes—half sensual and half cunning—which he had noticed before his departure for Germany. “You know yourself there is not such another in the country! No! I shall sit at your house next week, whatever any one says. Besides, if I do not, Leonora will not come again, and how will you like that, Markiss?”
“Did she tell you so?” cried Ricardo, in alarm.
“Indeed, she did! She says my gift was given me for the good of humanity and not merely to gratify your selfish wish to see her again.”
“O! I will not—I will not—be selfish then,” exclaimed the poor Professor. “Von Steinberg, she is right! This wonderful gift was never intended to be hidden under a bushel! I give my consent to her using it for the benefit of mankind. But—if you will forgive me—I will remain at home! I could not bear to see my Leonora disporting her lovely form for strangers to gaze at. No! let Hannah wait upon your friends, and I will stay here until my Angel deigns to come to me again.”
“But why should Leonora appear at all in my house, Ricardo?” remonstrated his friend, “if you do not care to attend the séance, you can at least bring your wife to my house and take her home.”
“No! no! I would rather that she went alone!” persisted the Professor.
“O! let him be!” cried Hannah, impatiently, “if the markiss has got a crotchet in his head, it’ll take more than you and me to dig it out again. It’ll be his own loss—not ours!”
At this Ricardo rose, and, without another word, walked up stairs to his own room.
“You are wrong, Hannah,” remarked Von Steinberg, “you have no right to speak before your husband like that! You should be doubly forbearing towards him just now, for I don’t think he is well.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asked the girl.
“His heart is weaker than usual, and he has other disorders which complicate it. I think your determination to assume his title has worried him more than you imagine. It rouses unpleasant memories in him, and keeps the Past always before his eyes. Besides, it is not yours to use! It was confiscated years ago by the Italian Government, and does not belong to Ricardo himself any longer!”
“O! that’s rubbish!” cried Hannah, “it wasn’t lawful of them to take it away, and so it’s his still! Besides, what ’arm does it do to anybody, my calling myself a markiness? It’s little enough I got by marrying ’im, I’m sure! He needn’t grudge me that!”
“You got an honest, brave, honourable gentleman, Hannah, which is a thing to be proud of!”
“But it won’t do me ’alf the good that being called ‘my lady’ will, all the same,” replied Hannah, with one of her cunning looks. “I mean to make my way in the world, Baron, for he won’t leave me much butter for my bread, and it’s the only crutch I’ve got to walk with! It’ll go down better than money with ’alf the fools I meet.”
“I think you’re a very clever woman,” said Von Steinberg, regarding her with admiration. “I had no idea when I first saw you, that you had such a quick wit and brain. And you are improving fast in your manner of talking! If it were not for dropping an h now and then, when you get excited, you might really hold your own with many a lady in the land!”
“I mean to, too, you bet!” said Hannah. “I ain’t—I mean, I haven’t—married an old man for nothing! I’ve got something to set against his age, eh, Doctor? And if you’ll stand my friend, and introduce me to some of the big people at your séances, you see if my ‘wonderful gift’ (as you call it) won’t land me some day in unexpected places.”
“By Jove! I believe you’re sharp enough for anything,” exclaimed Von Steinberg, “and if I can help you, I will! But it must be with Ricardo’s consent.”
“Didn’t you hear him give it? He’d sell me to the Devil, if it would bring his Leonora to him! He doesn’t care a hang about me! He only cares for her!”
“You mustn’t say that!” replied Von Steinberg, though he believed it to be true.
“And I’ll tell you a secret, Doctor! I don’t believe that Leonora will come to him much longer, either! She’s pretty well sick of being prayed and slobbered over, and called an angel! She wasn’t an angel—not by no manner of means—and it wearies her! She liked life, did Leonora—domestic happiness wasn’t in her line at all.”
“I believe you are correct there,” replied the Doctor.
“And can’t you see how sitting by himself, night after night, is drawing all the strength out of the Markiss. It doesn’t signify about my strength—he has never thought about that—so long as he can see Leonora—but it’ll chaw him up before long, if he don’t look out. It’ll be for his good to take me away a bit—mark my words!”
“By Jove! you’re right again,” replied her companion, “and it is wonderful I did not perceive the danger to him before! You’ve done Ricardo a great benefit by your astuteness, my dear, and I shall not fail to tell him so! But you are sure you have not hurt yourself! You do not feel at all weak, or ill—not as if a tonic, or stimulant of any kind, would do you good?”
“O! no! Doctor, I’m all right, thank you,” said Hannah, smiling at the anxiety depicted in his face; “only you get me to your fine house and it’ll do me all the good in the world!”
“I am delighted to think that you are coming,” said Von Steinberg, “and, Hannah, at this or any time, remember that anything I may have, or can procure, is at your service! I can never sufficiently thank you for the grand insight you have given me, through your mediumship, to the truth of Immortality, and anything I could do for you in return I should esteem a great favour!
“And now one word of advice, my dear girl, which I know you are too sensible to resent. Try to correct the few errors of grammar which you still retain, and the sooner will you gain admittance into the houses you aspire to be invited to, on an equal footing with their owners.”
Hannah stood, for a moment, as if dumbfoundered.
“I don’t get on as fast as I should, do I?” she said at length. “It seems queer, but there’s something in my tongue as won’t sound some words. I s’pose it’s all habit, and I haven’t much opportunity for improving myself now!”
“How’s that?”
“Why, the markiss has gone dumb! ’E never opens ’is mouth ’ardly from morning till night! ’Ow is a girl to learn anything from him? I can read a little, you know, Doctor, but not enough to improve myself, and I carn’t go back to school, now I’m a markiness!”
“No! you’re too old for that! Well! we must see what we can do together, Hannah, you and I! Your husband is out almost all day, so I could come over here sometimes, and give you a lesson in conversation, that is, if you really wish to learn.”
“I’d like to learn Italian with you,” said Hannah, softly.
Von Steinberg stared.
“Italian, my dear! What are you talking of? I think we had better get on with a little English first! When shall it be? Shall I come up to-morrow morning and begin our studies?”
Hannah approached him, and laid her hand gently on his arm.
“I shall like to learn with you!” she said, softly, in the same voice she had used a moment before. “You are good. I feel it! I shall love you for your kindness to me.”
Karl von Steinberg started away from her, as if he had been stung.
What was the expression in her face, which had so improved its expression? Rough Hannah Stubbs seemed to have gone away, and a gentle-featured, alluring woman to have stepped into her place. Her eyes, always beautiful, glowed with gratitude and sensibility—her touch was tender—her smile had become plaintive and appealing.
The doctor shook off her grasp rather rudely than otherwise, and, rising, declared it was time he returned home, and left the cottage without another word.