As is usual in such cases, the woman was the first to regain her presence of mind. The encounter was as unexpected to Hannah, as to the Baron, but she evinced no visible sign of surprise. She only stood quite still, as if she had never seen him before.
Von Steinberg, on the contrary, was nearly betraying her and himself. He stammered and stuttered and coloured rosy red, but at last managed to utter,
“Ah! Mrs. Brown! Of course! I think we have had the pleasure of meeting before,” and advanced towards her, holding out his hand.
Hannah accepted the hand, without comment.
“Met before!” exclaimed Mrs. Roster. “O! where? I flattered myself that I was the discoverer of Mrs. Brown’s remarkable talents,—at least in our own circle. I suppose then, Baron, that you have already been present at her marvellous séances.”
“Mrs. Brown is the widow of an old and dear friend of mine,” he answered, evasively.
“A widow!” echoed the lady of the house; “and does your husband ever return to you, Mrs. Brown? How intensely interesting! This will make the third time we have sat with her, Baron,” she continued to Von Steinberg, “and each time we have seen the form of a man whom no one in the party recognised. I wonder if it could have been Mr. Brown.”
“Hush!” said the Baron, cautiously, and indeed the pallor which had suddenly stolen over Hannah’s usually rubicund countenance, quite justified him in saying so.
“O! I am sorry!” returned Mrs. Roster, as she busied herself in pressing the medium to take some refreshment before she entered the séance room.
Hannah faintly asked for a glass of water, and sat down apparently exhausted in her chair. When the water was brought to her, she drank a little, and finally declaring she felt too ill to sit, and must postpone the séance to another day, she rose and quitted the room and house.
The disappointed sitters gazed at each other in consternation. Colonel Roster attributed all the blame to his wife.
“What on earth made you allude to her dead husband in so indiscreet a manner?” he demanded, sharply. “You have just spoilt our evening! What widow ever wanted the return of Number One, to spy out her doings with Number Two? We have no one but you to thank for this disappointment!”
“O! I am sorry,” cried his wife; “I thought as everybody’s relations came back through her, Mr. Brown would be sure to have done so. And it was only a surmise on my part after all. You say you know her, Baron! Is she always as sensitive as this?”
“By no means,” replied Von Steinberg, “and I think she must really be feeling ill. Besides, she has no reason to fear the return of her husband, who was very good to her! I cannot believe that your allusion had anything to do with her defalcation. She felt unequal to the sitting—that is all!”
“You take a load off my mind by saying so,” said Mrs. Roster, “and I can only hope that when she comes here again, you will be with us, as on this occasion.”
“You are very kind,” returned Von Steinberg, “but may I ask you one question? Mrs. Brown was going to sit with you professionally, of course! What is her fee? I should like to ascertain, for the information of my friends!”
“Two guineas!” replied the lady, without hesitation. “She did not ask more! I heard of her through my dressmaker, Mrs. Folkstone, but I understood that she gave her services somewhat secretly, and it was not to be talked about. I am so sorry you have missed seeing her—but perhaps you have sat with her already.”
“Once or twice,” said Von Steinberg, carelessly, and then the subject dropped.
His friends detained him so late that he could not get out to the cottage at Hampstead that night, or he certainly would have followed Hannah to her home, and asked the reason of what he had seen and heard. He could hardly understand why, but he disliked the idea of her selling her services to the public, exceedingly.
It was no matter to him that she was dowdily dressed, and known as “Mrs. Brown”;—he could not bear to think that she placed herself under such an obligation to strangers—that she should belong, as it were, to the public, when he wanted to have her entirely as his own.
His meditations that night revealed the truth to him. He was so fascinated by Hannah Ricardo, that he wished to marry her, and shield her for ever from the slights and obligations of the world. No one could have been more amazed than himself, when he had arrived at this conclusion. He had been a student of men and manners, but he had never lit on anything more incomprehensible than this before.
He wanted to marry Hannah Stubbs—he, who had so opposed the same idea in his friend. Ricardo had formed the wish, in order to keep Leonora by his side, whilst he, Von Steinberg, desired the same thing solely for Hannah.
He longed to possess this woman, with her overwhelming personality—her clumsy movements—her broad smile—her arch looks and witching eyes—for herself alone, and himself entirely.
He tried to recall her, as she used to be, but failed to do so. She seemed to have cast aside her chrysalis shell and emerged (in mind at least) a butterfly! And yet outwardly, there was no difference!
Where did the fascination lie? He could not determine, but felt that it was there, and that in her was contained the happiness of his future life.
He rose early, and was at the Hampstead cottage by eleven o’clock.
His first words to her were those of reproach.
“Hannah! how could you do this thing without letting me know? It nearly paralysed me to meet you at the Rosters last night in the capacity of a public medium. What would dear old Ricardo say, if he could know it?”
“Then he should have left me enough to exist upon,” replied Hannah, “Charlotte and I can’t live on dry bread—even if we got enough of that!”
“But I have asked you again and again, in case of need, to apply to me. What is the use of being your friend, if I may not have the pleasure of helping you out of your difficulties? You deprive me of one of the great privileges of friendship! And to sit when you are ill too! It is so unlike you to turn faint! You must have been sadly overworking yourself! Are you quite recovered this morning?”
“Quite, thank you,” replied Hannah, reservedly—reservedly on purpose to make him speak out.
“I am glad of that,” said Von Steinberg, “but to return to our subject;—I trust you do not intend to follow up Spiritualism as a means of livelihood for the future!”
Hannah lay back in her chair, lazily, and fixed her large, full eyes upon him.
“Why not?” she demanded.
“For a dozen reasons! Principally, because your husband so decidedly set his face against it, and then because I—I, who am your greatest and truest friend, Hannah, think it is beneath you, and degrades you.”
“But I must live!” persisted the woman.
“Are there not other ways? If your money will not suffice to keep you comfortably for a year or two——”
“And what after that?” she exclaimed.
The Baron hesitated. Should he make the fatal plunge?
“My purse is always open to you, Hannah,” he faltered.
“I have already told you, Baron, that I cannot consent to be a pensioner upon your charity,” she replied. “You speak of what the world will say! The world would talk a great deal more of your paying my bills, than it would of my giving séances to keep myself! It can never be! That is decided!”
“Then give me the right to empty the contents of my purse at your feet, Hannah,” cried Von Steinberg, losing control of himself. “Come to me as my wife, and the mistress of all I possess! Marry me—be the Baronne von Steinberg, and let us pass the rest of our lives together.”
“I could not give up my title of Marchesa for that of Baronne,” remarked Hannah, coolly.
“You may call yourself what you choose, so long as you will be my wife!” repeated the Baron. “Hannah! I have longed to ask you this ever since you were free. Crown my happiness by giving me your promise now!”
“It is too soon to think of such a thing,” argued Hannah—“only three months after my husband’s death!”
But her reluctance only urged him on to fresh entreaties. Perhaps she was clever enough to know it would!
“What does that signify?” he said, “what is Time to dear Ricardo now, and whose opinion do we care for, but his? He is happy, I am sure, and would wish to see you happy, and well provided for, too. Come! Hannah, do not let any absurd scruples stand in the way of my proposal. No one need even know when the ceremony takes place. We are both almost strangers in London!
“Who is to be the wiser what we do, or leave undone! Let me marry you quietly some morning, as poor Ricardo did, and carry you off at once to the Continent. There, we can stay a month, or a year, as pleases us best, and when we return, I will instal you as mistress of my house in Portland Place, and all I have. Come! is it a bargain?”
As Von Steinberg mentioned his property, Hannah’s eyes glistened with pleasurable anticipation. This was what she had been working for—what she had known she would gain at the last. She turned her voluptuous orbs upon him, and languidly held out her large hand.
The Baron seized it and kissed it with rapture. It would have signified nothing to him at that moment, had it been twice as large. The woman had magnetised his every sense, and he was a tool in her hands.
“And when shall it be, Hannah?” he asked, as soon as he had recovered his powers of speech. “To-day?—to-morrow?—it cannot be too soon.”
“Not for you, perhaps,” she replied, with all the airs of a grand lady, “but you forget, Baron, that I cannot start on a wedding-tour, in a black dress and a widow’s bonnet! You must be good enough to draw my small principal from the bank for me, and allow me a few weeks in which to spend it, so that I may be able to appear as your wife should do!”
“A few weeks!” exclaimed Von Steinberg, with really comical dismay, “I will send you the money this afternoon, and surely a few days should see you fully equipped. You need not wait to have things made in London. Get just what may be necessary for the moment, and buy your wardrobe in Paris!”
“In Paris!” exclaimed Hannah, “will you really take me to Paris?”
“Certainly! and to stay there if you desire it! There is no place on earth to which I would not take you, Hannah, if you told me to do so, but I think a residence in Paris will suit us both entirely.”
He lavished kisses on her flat, good-humoured face, and Hannah returned them in kind, for a passionate temperament was not the least of her virtues.
Before they parted that morning, it was decided that the marriage should take place privately in a fortnight’s time, and that they were to leave England the same day for the Continent. Hannah promised she would give no more public séances, and really looked quite handsome under the prospect of renewed happiness—not to say the acquisition of the house in Portland Place, and all its treasures, to which her eyes had so longingly turned.
Once more by himself at home, Karl von Steinberg had leisure to wonder if his action of the morning had been wise. Hannah had not proved, in all things, quite amenable to the discipline of his old friend, but then Ricardo was old—he told himself—and May and December never did hit it off well together yet. He was far more suitable in age to Hannah, and would prove a livelier companion.
It was astonishing to remember how young she was—only nineteen—and yet so worldly-wise in some things, and in others so quick and cunning! She had wonderfully developed since her marriage—no one would know her for the same girl—she doubtless possessed vast capabilities, which travel and his society would tend to unfold. The Baron quite anticipated bringing back an accomplished lady from the Continent.
And he was not far wrong! Hannah had developed powers of observation and attainment, which bid fair to let her stop at nothing short of excellence. Each time the Baron met her, face to face, the half-formed doubts which he held, as to the wisdom of the marriage, faded away, and left him with but one certainty—that he could not live without her. The plans they had formed, then, were faithfully carried out, and within a fortnight, the same Registrar who had married her to Signor Ricardo, transformed Hannah Stubbs into the Baronne von Steinberg—though (as she had previously informed her husband) she always intended to retain her old title of Marchesa di Sorrento.
Are the raptures which we anticipate in marriage, or any other exploit, ever realised to their full extent? As a rule, surely not, and Von Steinberg was no exception. Hannah remained the same after marriage as she had been before, but the novelty of possession soon wore off, and when that occurred, Von Steinberg of all men, with his cool, calculating German temperament, was the most likely to see the spots upon the sun.
However, they established themselves in Paris, and a few months of the gay city did wonders for his wife in the way of polish and manners. Naturally quick and cunning, and with a remarkable facility for the acquisition of languages, the Marchesa soon lost most of her vulgarisms and became quite au fait with great people and their ways.
The English who met her abroad, put all her eccentricities down to the fact that she was an Italian Marchesa, and the Parisians ascribed them to the misfortune of her having been born a Briton. But Hannah made the most of her opportunities. She went out whenever she was invited, mixing freely with foreigners, as well as her own countrymen, and in consequence, gathering knowledge and information wherever they were to be found.
By this means, when, after a year’s residence abroad, Baron von Steinberg brought his wife back to England, if not still in love with her, he had ceased to be ashamed of her. But the same perplexity which had puzzled him in Ricardo’s time, still stirred in his brain. What was it in Hannah that attracted him, spite of himself? Sometimes he felt ready to lay down his life for her—at others, he regarded her with disfavour, almost with repugnance!
But as the mistress of his house—the dispenser of his hospitality—she was perfect. She had a courteous and gracious manner, which she extended equally to peer and peasant, and which made strangers, who had never seen another side to her character, consider her the most charming hostess under the sun. Whilst when at other moments she spoke her mind freely—far too freely—concerning people and their actions, her visitors still ascribed it to her genuineness and total disregard of what the world might say, or think.
What astonished Von Steinberg more than anything else, was the complacency with which she accepted the fact of his wealth, and the nonchalance with which she treated his pictures, and statues, and hot-house flowers. She took everything that he gave her, as if she had been used to it all her life—she accepted it from him graciously, but she was not overwhelmed with gratitude for his generosity. He would not have had her betray her lowly birth and breeding, by expressing ignorance of such luxuries, but it amazed him, all the same.
He thought his wife had everything she could have expected, and a great deal more than she had any right to demand, but yet Hannah was not satisfied. As soon as they were settled in town, they commenced to give a series of magnificent parties, and their rooms were crowded with sycophantic guests, mostly of the middle class—the sort of people who will go anywhere—to whom a party means a dance, or a supper, and who care nothing who gives it, so long as it is given.
His visitors satisfied the Baron, but the Marchesa had higher views—she aspired to see the aristocracy sitting round her dinner-table, and quoting her hospitality as the freest in London—her cook as the best to be got anywhere. It was all very well, she thought, to be entertaining Colonel and Mrs. Langley, or Mr. and Mrs. Belleville, but what use were they to her in return?
She wanted Dukes and Duchesses and Earls and Countesses at her receptions, and to make them not only come, but ask to come. She racked her clever brain over this many a time and oft, without letting her husband into the secret, and one day the opportunity came to her.
She was receiving a number of ladies at afternoon tea, when the conversation suddenly turned on Spiritualism.
The Marchesa, who was leaning back on a settee, arrayed in a tea-gown of maize coloured satin, trimmed with costly lace, affected to know nothing of the matter.
“What is it?” she inquired, languidly, “nothing wicked, I hope, Mrs. Mostyn.”
“O! dear me, no! Marchesa, how could you imagine such a thing?” replied her guest. “It is only a game, you know! Sitting round a table and making it spin and answer questions, and all such nonsense!”
“It is a great deal more than that,” interposed an unmarried lady, named Selwyn, “it is a very serious thing! Spiritualism is raising the spirits of the Dead, and our clergyman, Mr. Tennant, says it is sorcery, and condemned by Scripture. My mamma will not hear of my having anything to do with it, which has been a great disappointment to me, for the Countess of Loreley——”
“Well! if you are interested in the pursuit, I am sure there can be no need to wait for your mamma’s permission,” interrupted Mrs. Mostyn, rudely, “you are surely old enough to judge for yourself. I do think it is so ridiculous of mothers, trying to keep their grown-up daughters in leading strings. Why! I had a couple of children before I was your age!”
“You were speaking of the Countess of Loreley,” said the Marchesa, with the apparent view of changing the conversation, “does her Ladyship take an interest in the subject?”
“O! yes, she is quite wild about it,” replied Miss Selwyn, who was looking red and confused from Mrs. Mostyn’s attack; “and mamma has prevented my going there as often as usual, in consequence. Lady Loreley is my godmother, you know, and I used to be always at her house, but now——”
“Has Mrs. Selwyn compelled you to give up the Countess’s acquaintance?” asked Hannah, indifferently.
“O! no, but I do not see her so often, and never when there is to be a séance! Very unfair, isn’t it? not that I care so much about the séance, but I would not lose Lady Loreley’s goodwill for all the world.”
“The Countess believes in Spiritualism then?”
“O! yes! entirely! She is always sitting with some medium or other, but she says they are very unsatisfactory. She told me yesterday, that she would give hundreds of pounds to find a medium, who could bring her little Rosie back to speak with her again.”
“Much better leave the poor child in peace—wherever she may be!” remarked Mrs. Mostyn with a sneer.
“Perhaps you have never lost a child, Mrs. Mostyn,” said the single lady.
“No! nor you either, I conclude, my dear,” replied the other, “but all this talk about Spiritualism is only got up for want of a better excitement. For my own part I don’t believe a word of it, and I am sure the Marchesa agrees with me!”
“One should be careful to reserve one’s opinion, when one has not inquired into a thing!” replied Hannah, as she reclined on her couch and gently fanned herself.
But when her visitors rose to depart, and Miss Selwyn was about to leave the room with the rest of the party, she detained her by a gentle pull at her sleeve.
“Wait a moment longer,” she whispered, “I want to speak to you,” and Miss Selwyn, who was only too pleased to be singled out for favour by the Marchesa, dallied with a book of engravings, which lay upon a side table, until the rest were gone.
“Tell me more about this poor Countess,” said Hannah, drawing nearer to her; “I feel so interested in any one who has lost a dear child—a girl, I think you said.”
“O! yes, Marchesa,” replied Miss Selwyn, “Lady Rose Charleville—such a dear little creature. She died of scarlet fever at seven years old, and though Lady Loreley has married daughters, she has never forgotten her. She always cries when Lady Rose is mentioned.”
“Poor dear!” said Hannah, sympathetically, “how I wish I could help her! And I think I could, if she would come and see me!”
“Could you really?” cried Miss Selwyn, clasping her hands, “O! Marchesa, how she would bless you for it! She would worship you! But how is it to be accomplished?”
“That is my secret, my dear! I know more of this matter than I chose to say in public, and if you like to bring your Countess here, I will introduce her to some one who may put her in the way of seeing her child again! But you mustn’t chatter on the subject, for if the Baron heard that I encouraged anything of the sort, he would be very angry. It is not only your mamma, Miss Selwyn, who disapproves of Spiritualism.”
“O! I know that, and I would not mention what you have told me for all the world. But when may I bring the Countess here!”
“On second thoughts, I think you had better tell her what I have said, and leave her to make her own appointment with me. I could not permit you to assist at our conference, you know, for fear of offending your mamma.”
“Perhaps it will be better not,” replied the girl, in a disappointed tone, “for I have promised mamma never to attend a sitting again. May I tell Lady Loreley that you will have the medium here to meet her, Marchesa? I shall see her this evening!”
“You had better say nothing, but what I have told you—that if she wishes it, I think I can help her to see her child again. Then she can make an appointment with me, or not, as she chooses!”
“Fancy! her not choosing!” exclaimed Miss Selwyn, “why, she will rush to you as soon as ever she can!”
And in effect, the very next day Hannah received a coronetted note from the Countess of Loreley, to say that, with her kind permission, she would call in Portland Place that afternoon.
No one who had seen the Marchesa, as she sat in her drawing-room, awaiting the arrival of the Countess of Loreley, would have recognised her as the maid-of-all-work, Hannah Stubbs, who had married Signor Ricardo, from Mrs. Battleby’s lodging-house, less than three years before. She wore a robe fashioned by a dressmaker, chosen for her by the Baron; her abundant hair had been arranged by her lady’s maid in the height of the prevailing style; she displayed one or two articles of costly jewelry; she was neither under, nor overdressed.
Her personal appearance, also, was wonderfully improved, Hannah was not yet twenty-one, but she looked thirty. Her figure was still unshapely and abundantly covered with flesh, but her skin was smoother, and her complexion and hands properly attended to.
She was still a coarse specimen of her sex—there have been such anomalies in this world as coarse and vulgar duchesses, and when bred to the position into the bargain—and she would never be really handsome, but there was a bonhomie in her expression, and a frank good-humour in her smile, which was, perhaps, all that remained of Hannah Stubbs in her composition.
Lady Loreley, who had been led by Miss Selwyn, to expect something altogether out of the common in the Marchesa di Sorrento, (—“Awfully good-natured, dear Lady Loreley, you know, but O! such a moving mass of flesh—like a female elephant—and says such queer things at times, but she thinks she can help you and so,” etc, etc,—) was quite taken by surprise, when Hannah, perfectly at her ease, but with unquestionable welcome beaming from her eyes, rose from the sofa to say how pleased she was to make her acquaintance.
The two women sat down to afternoon tea together, and were soon on friendly terms. Naturally, the topic which engrossed Lady Loreley’s thoughts was not long in coming to the front.
“Miss Selwyn delivered your most kind message to me, Marchesa,” commenced the bereaved mother, “and you must not be surprised at my availing myself of your kindness at so early a period. My dear child was my idol, the youngest of my large family, and I lost her in so cruelly sudden a manner. Only four days ill of scarlet fever, and she had gone from us. She could not stand up against it! She was always delicate, my poor little Rose! And is it possible that you can help me to see her? O! Marchesa!” cried the Countess, seizing her hands, “if you can, I shall be your debtor to the last day of my life. Only one glimpse, that is all I ask, one glimpse to assure me that she lives and that I shall meet her again, and I shall die content!”
The Marchesa did not release the Countess’s hands—on the contrary, she retained and pressed them firmly.
“Is your Ladyship aware of the method pursued in such cases? Do you know that the services of a materialising medium are necessary, and that often even they are not successful?”
“Yes! yes! but I should not mind how often I had to sit, if I only succeed at last! And expense is no object whatever! I have tried all sorts of mediums, dear Marchesa, but have never heard a word, nor seen a sign of her! O! it has been heart-rending—discouraging—but I shall never cease trying till I succeed!”
“I think I know a way by which you can see her!” replied Hannah, whose eyes had been dreamily fixed upon space for the last minute.
“Pray, pray, tell it to me!” exclaimed the Countess, with agitation.
“One moment! I must ask you first to bind yourself to the strictest secrecy! My husband, the Baron, is like many in the present day, most averse to my mixing myself up in Spiritualism with any but himself, and if he heard that you and I had been sitting together, he would certainly forbid me to help you any more!”
“I will be secret as the grave!” said Lady Loreley, fervently; “no one shall ever hear a word of it from me!”
“Not even the Earl, or Miss Selwyn?” asked Hannah.
“No one! Not even my nearest and dearest, unless you give me leave!” was the reply.
“Then you must come with me to my private boudoir,” said the Marchesa.
“What! is the medium there?”
“Yes! she will be there!” replied Hannah, as she rang the bell and desired the servant to deny her to any other callers.
Then, she led the way up to her little boudoir, round which the Countess looked curiously.
“You have successfully concealed your medium, dear Marchesa!” she said.
“No! Lady Loreley, she is in full view! I am the medium!”
Her visitor started with surprise.
“You! Are you jesting with me, Marchesa? Is it possible that you can call back the spirits of the Dead?”
“Just as possible as anybody else! No one can call them back, Lady Loreley! But they come all the same, when they get the opportunity! Are you nervous? Shall you be afraid to sit in the dark with me?”
“O! no! I don’t think so,” replied the Countess, who was already shivering with fright.
Hannah lowered the blinds, closed the dark red silk curtains, locked the door and taking a seat on the sofa, invited Lady Loreley to sit beside her and hold her hand.
“But don’t you require a table?” inquired the Countess.
“Not that I know of,” replied Hannah. “No spirit that has ever come to me, has made any request of the sort! I don’t even know if they use tables over there. Don’t you see a bluish mist rising, close by the window curtains? Don’t be frightened if I go to sleep. I generally do, but you will be quite safe. Nothing can hurt you.”
And as she was in the midst of talking thus, the Marchesa went under control and knew nothing more. When she awoke, she found the Countess of Loreley on her knees before her, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“O! you dear Angel!” she cried, “I can never, never thank you enough, for what you have done for me to-day. You are a wonder! a miracle! You must have been sent on earth by God, expressly to give comfort to broken-hearted mothers like myself!”
“Why! have you seen anything?” demanded Hannah, rousing herself from her benumbing trance.
“Seen anything!” echoed Lady Loreley, “I have seen that which has transformed me from a despairing woman to a happy one! I have seen my little Rose! You said you saw a bluish mist near the window. She walked straight out of that mist, and smiled at me! I spoke to her, and I thought her lips moved, but I could not hear any words, but she smiled at me—she stood there in her little white nightdress and bare feet, just as she was, dear darling! when I laid her in her coffin—and I know she lives, and I am happy once more—and O! dear Marchesa, what can I ever do to show my gratitude to you?”
“Only be quiet,” said Hannah, holding up her hand, “and say nothing to anybody. Come and see me sometimes, Lady Loreley, and the more intimate you become with me, the more clearly you will see your little Rose, and the more confidently will she come back to you! Did no one else appear?”
“No one whom I recognised! An old man’s face seemed hovering over your head, but it frightened me rather, and I did not look.”
At those words “an old man’s face”, the Marchesa seemed to shiver slightly, and her next injunction was delivered rather hurriedly,
“Now, mind, Countess, you must not breathe a word of what has occurred this afternoon to any one, or it will never happen again. The Baron would be so angry he would forbid my sitting with you at all! You can see that I say this for your sake, more than for my own.”
“O! yes, indeed,” said Lady Loreley, “but, Marchesa—I was going to ask you such a great favour! My eldest daughter, the Duchess of Penywern, lost her baby last year—such a splendid boy, heir, of course, to the title and estates, and she would give her life, I verily believe, to see him again.
“And my aunt, Lady John Valerian, who is most interested in Spiritualism, would consider it such an inestimable favour, if you would let her accompany me, next time I have the pleasure of visiting you! They would be as silent as myself concerning our visits here, I can assure you, and I am certain you would like them both—my daughter especially, who is a most amiable young woman.”
Hannah considered for a moment what she should reply. Here was the very thing which she had longed and striven for, dropping like a ripe plum into her mouth. A Countess—a Duchess—and the wife of a Lord! She must secure the lot, but not for séances in her private room—for exhibition at her public parties!
“You are asking a great deal, Lady Loreley,” she replied, with a pursed-up mouth, as though she were considering the possibility of granting her request. “If it depended on myself, I should only be too pleased to accede to your wishes, but, as I have already told you, my husband would not approve of my sitting with ladies of whom I know, as yet, so little.”
“O! but you must know more of us, dear Marchesa,” cried Lady Loreley. “You must come to my house and let me introduce you to my daughter and my aunt! What day are you at liberty to dine with us? Would next Thursday suit you? I have no engagement for that day! Then if you and the Baron will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner, I will have the Duchess and Lady John to meet you!”
“I believe we are at liberty for Thursday,” replied Hannah, with her air of grande dame, “but remember! Lady Loreley, the motive of your visit must be kept a dead secret, if you ever wish to see it renewed.”
“You may depend on my discretion, Marchesa!” replied the Countess, as she grasped her hand; “I can never, never thank you sufficiently for what you have done for me to-day, and I hope we shall be the most excellent friends in the future!”
So Lady Loreley took her leave, and that was the beginning of the Marchesa di Sorrento counting dukes and duchesses amongst her visiting acquaintances.
Secretly, but surely, the news flew amongst the aristocratic crowd, that this mysterious Marchesa, the nationality of whom no one could determine, was the most wonderful woman on the face of the earth, and many were the little private séances held by her in her boudoir, unknown to all but the favoured few, whom she admitted there.
As time went on and one lady asked to be allowed to bring her brother, and another entreated that her husband might be initiated into the occult mysteries of the Marchesa’s boudoir, gentlemen began to mingle with the lady sitters, and the séances became more general and more renowned.
Meanwhile Karl von Steinberg knew nothing of what went on during his absences from home, or that his wife ever sat for the amusement of the grandees who commenced to throng her receptions. He often wondered where she had picked them up, or how contrived to induce them to visit her, but he knew she was very clever, and admired her all the more for each fresh proof she gave him of it. He was not blind, however, to the kudos, which accrued to both of them, from the presence of the nobility in his wife’s drawing-rooms, and he evinced it by the frequency with which he showed himself there. He constantly found the Marchesa the centre of an adoring group of ladies, and an admiring crowd of men, and the fact bound him closer to her. We always like others to approve of what we like ourselves—so long as they do not go too far!
There was one man, however—an Italian of the name of Gueglielmo, whom Karl von Steinberg began to view with aversion. He used to take his stand behind the Marchesa’s sofa, and remain there the entire evening, whispering in her ear, or gazing at her face and figure. Once, Von Steinberg spoke to his wife about the too evident admiration of Signor Gueglielmo, and expressed his wish that she should discourage him a little, by directing her attention to the other gentlemen of the party.
“Discourage Gueglielmo!” she exclaimed tartly, “and why? Because he is the only one of my countrymen present! I shall do no such thing!”
Von Steinberg regarded her with surprise! She was beginning to use the same tone with him, that she had with his friend Ricardo.
“Your countryman!” he repeated; “what absurdity are you thinking of? Your being styled ‘Marchesa’ does not constitute you an Italian! He is neither your countryman nor mine, and I will not have him so much about the house. If you do not give him a hint on the subject, I shall!”
“Then you may do your dirty work yourself,” retorted Hannah. “I like him and I shall not tell him otherwise. He is Italian! He soothes me!”
“You will have to obey me all the same,” said the Baron, angrily. “If ever I catch him leaning over your sofa again in the open fashion he did last night, I’ll——”
“Run me through with a dagger, I suppose!” interposed Hannah, with the sudden, cunning, evil look in her eyes, which he could never understand.
“What made you say that?” he asked, quickly.
She shrugged her shoulders, and commenced to whistle a popular air.
Von Steinberg left the room in a rage. There were times—many times—when he almost hated his wife! She had never shown any disposition for flirting—it was not her proclivity—she was too heavy and indolent and inert to take the trouble to lay herself out to fascinate any man. He could not suspect her of it. And yet, had she been the most desperate coquette in the world, she could not have been more determined to have her own way about this man Gueglielmo. And the look in her eyes, when she suggested he might stab her! whence did it come? The idea perplexed him! Sometimes he wondered if Hannah were always herself, or if evil spirits took possession of her and controlled her expression and her words.
When he met her next, at dinner, all trace of the unpleasant interview they had held together, had passed away. Hannah was Hannah once more—placid and obtuse as a well-fed cow grazing in a meadow, and without a care or an ambition in the world.
Before their meal was concluded, the footman brought a somewhat soiled envelope to the Marchesa, on a silver tray.
She took it up and looking at the address carelessly, inquired: “Who brought this?”
“A young man, my lady!—looks as if he came from the country,” was the reply.
Hannah opened the letter and read it, then said in a loud voice,
“Tell this man I will not see him! I don’t know who he is! Send him away.”
“What is it, Hannah?” demanded Von Steinberg. She threw the envelope across the table to him.
“Only a begging petition! I receive them every day. It is no use answering these sort of people!”
The Baron glanced at the epistle, and frowned as he did so.
“My dear, you cannot have read this,” he said, in a lowered voice, “it is from Joseph Brushwood! He has bad news for you.”
“And who is Joseph Brushwood?” she asked; “I never heard the name before.”
Von Steinberg ordered the servants in attendance to quit the room, until he rang for them, and to detain the messenger downstairs.
“Or stay!” he corrected himself, “put him in the library, and say I will be with him presently!”
“So the petition is for yourself, after all!” remarked his wife, as they found themselves alone.
“My dear Hannah! what are you talking about?” said the Baron. “You cannot have read this letter. It is signed Joseph Brushwood, and is to say that he has some bad news about your mother, and wants to speak to you by yourself!”
“And I repeat, who is Joseph Brushwood?” demanded Hannah, with genuinely astonished eyes.
“Why! surely you cannot have forgotten Joe Brushwood coming up to town with your mother, when we were at Mrs. Battleby’s. Joe Brushwood, the young man to whom you were engaged, before you married dear old Ricardo! It is impossible that you can forget!”
“And he wishes to see me privately?” continued the Marchesa, with perfect calmness.
“Yes! I am afraid you must be prepared for a shock, Hannah, for he says he has come to town expressly to see you! Shall I accompany you?”
“No! I prefer to see him by myself!” replied Hannah, as she rose majestically from the table and proceeded to the library.
There she encountered Joe Brushwood, who had cast her off in the days gone-by, standing by the window and looking very sheepish. He was not altered in the least—a trifle stouter, perhaps, and a trifle coarser, but attired in his best velveteen coat and corduroy breeches, with a gaily flowered waistcoat. He started violently as he caught sight of Hannah.
He had heard that she had married a rich gentleman, but he had had no idea of encountering such magnificence as this. The Marchesa was arrayed in her ordinary dinner-dress, but it looked like a robe of state in the unsophisticated eyes of her former admirer.
“And what is it that you may want of me?” she demanded, with her grandest air, as she advanced upon the astonished Brushwood.
“Lor! Hannah!” he exclaimed—but she quickly brought her foot down upon such insolent familiarity.
“Who are you? How dare you address me in such terms? I am the Marchesa di Sorrento! You will have the goodness to call me ‘my Lady’, if you speak to me at all.”
“O! yes! certainly. I’m sure I begs your pardon,” replied Joe, as he nervously twisted his bowler hat round in his hands, “but I came up from Settlefield a purpuss this mornin’, and I’ve been walking round Lunnon for hours, trying to find out where you lived—”
“And what has all this to do with me?” demanded Hannah.
“O! I ain’t done yet!” continued the young man. “Your pore mother, she’s werry bad indeed, and she wants to see you terrible! I don’t know what’s the matter with her, but she’s going fast, the Doctor says, and times ’ave been werry bad this season, and your father says ’e don’t know ’ow ’e’ll bury ’er, without some ’elp. And so—as we ’eard as you was married to a rich gentleman, we made so bold as to come up—leastways I did—to arsk if you could spare ’em a trifle, and go down and see your pore mother afore she dies!”
Hannah let the whole of this long-winded speech come to a finish, before she collected her forces and answered it.
“You have made a mistake, young man,” she said at last, “I know nothing of Settlefield, or the people you are begging for. I am the Marchesa di Sorrento! Some one must have put you on the wrong scent for a joke! If your friends are in such want, you had better apply to their parish for relief! I have my own poor people to look after, and cannot afford to provide for strangers.”
Joe Brushwood scratched his head, and opened his eyes wide.
“But you was Hannah Stubbs—sure-ly!” he ejaculated, “as lived at Settlefield and was my young woman! Everyone knows you down there, as well as the village pump! And sure-ly, you won’t turn on your own mother now she’s sick and dying and in want! A fiver would set ’em right, but the times ’as been ’ard, and they’ve several mouths to feed, and if you are a Mar-cheesa you might ’ave ’uman feelings!”
“You are an insolent impostor!” cried Hannah, indignantly. “How dare you speak to me in that way? Your young woman, indeed! I should like the Baron to hear you! I don’t believe one word of your trumped-up story. I have no mother, nor father, and I never set eyes on you in my life before! If you presume to worry me again I shall give you into charge of the police.”
“And you denies of them?” replied the young man, reproachfully. “I’m not so surprised at your saying as you don’t know me, for I give you a nasty slap in the face larst time we met—but to deny the mother as bore you and she a’dying—and with hardly a rag to ’er back, or food to eat—well! I wouldn’t ’ave your ’eart, for ever so! that I wouldn’t!”
The Marchesa only replied by ringing the bell and summoning her footman.
“Show this man out,” she said, “and take care that he is never admitted again. He is an impostor, and he has insulted me.”
“Come! along with you!” cried the servant, as he hustled Joe from the room. “I’ll take good care you never shows your nose inside of our ’ouse again!”
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.
“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.”
“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.