When Karl von Steinberg rushed from the séance room, it was with the intention of seeking the open air. He felt as if he should be stifled in the atmosphere of his wife’s boudoir—as if he could not breathe in that dark and airless chamber, so fraught with treachery, deceit, and crime.
He wanted to get out under God’s pure Heaven, to walk miles and miles into the open country, and never go back to Portland Place again. But when he reached the hall door, he encountered a long line of carriages, drawn up in waiting for the aristocratic sitters, and he feared lest the traces of what he was undergoing might be visible on his features, and that he should betray himself before their servants. So he turned back and sought his private sitting-room instead, and sat down there, with his head buried in his hands, and tried to think.
What was this horrible thing that he had listened to?—could it possibly be true? or had he been made the sport of some devil, who had assumed the shape and features of his dear old friend?
But this idea, worthy only of such as have no knowledge of Spiritualism, was soon routed from his mind by reason. He knew that it was Ricardo himself, who had spoken to him—Ricardo, with his delicate aquiline features—his piercing eyes, overshadowed by bushy brows—his sensitive mouth, and pointed beard and moustaches.
If a devil could assume his every attribute in the séance chamber, then Von Steinberg might well doubt if the next acquaintance he met in the street were truly himself, or a devil in his guise.
This apparition of his best friend had come again and again (as he had heard on the testimony of strangers), and called his name, that he might confide to him the awful story which was stirring his being to its depths. He had told it to him—not for his own sake, the wrong was over, for him—but lest Von Steinberg should fall into the same net in which he had been caught. But could it—could it—could it be true?
Von Steinberg glanced round at the evidences of luxury which surrounded him—the soft Persian carpet—the carved furniture—the valuable paintings—the Venetian glass—and wondered what more he could have bestowed upon this woman, whom he first thought of befriending for Ricardo’s sake—Ricardo, who she had sent into Eternity!
It was not so much the horror of his friend’s death that oppressed him—those who are convinced that the dead still live, come to look very calmly on the separation, which more ignorant mortals regard with fear—but the contemplated horror of living on with the woman who had betrayed him! That he felt to be impossible!
He could never again take Hannah in his arms and call her “wife”, whilst the spirit of Ricardo stood between them and hurled another name at her. What should he do? What was to be his next step? How were matters to be arranged for the future? He wished at that moment that he were a medium himself, and had the power to call back the spirit of Ricardo, and ask his advice about it all.
After he had brooded over the terrible affair for some time, Von Steinberg began to question whether, after all, he might not be mistaken, or that Ricardo might have been so! He knew that spirits on their first appearance after death, were often confused and but half conscious—could not remember names or dates—nor recognise those to whom they had been dear! But yet he had never heard of anyone making a mistake on so important a subject as this.
Then, for his own doubts concerning it. He threw his thoughts back to that time, just before Ricardo’s death, when Hannah had begun to coquet with him, and he had been foolish and dishonourable enough to meet her advances half-way—to the quarrels she had with her husband—to Ricardo’s assurance to him that she made his life a hell, and he could stand it no longer—to his hints about taking his life—to his (Von Steinberg’s) cautions to Hannah on the same subject—and then, to his friend’s sudden demise, to that awful night when he was called to the Cottage and found the Professor, dead—by his own hand as he then fully thought—and the subsequent decision he had arrived at, partly because he believed it to be a duty on his part.
But now, in a moment, the truth seemed to flash upon him, and he wondered that he had been so blind as not to see it from the beginning. Hannah had been discontented and repining from the time he had come into his uncle’s property—she had coveted it—his own folly had encouraged her to think she could gain it—Ricardo was the obstacle, and so——Von Steinberg groaned within himself as he thought these things, and that his dearest friend had paid the forfeit of his own good fortune.
But it must be put an end to at once—his suspicions must be allayed, or turned into certainties—he would not sleep one night under the same roof as Ricardo’s murderess—there must be a separation between them, now and for ever.
The house was again quiet, the guests had all departed, and Von Steinberg took his way up to his wife’s room. He thought that Hannah knew nothing of what had occurred, so he resolved not to be too violent, but to extract the truth from her by degrees. He found her standing by the side of her sumptuous bed, with its hangings of rich brocade, looking rather white and weary, but with a sparkle of determination in her eye, as if she guessed what was coming and had her weapons ready. Von Steinberg for his part appeared completely crushed—the revelation of the last hour had knocked all his manhood out of him.
“Well!” began Hannah, abruptly, “and what may you want here?”
“I have come expressly to see you, Hannah! I wish to speak to you! Why did you not tell me that you were giving these séances?”
“Because I do not acknowledge that it is any business of yours,” she answered carelessly, “they are my own concern altogether!”
“Perhaps! but as I have asked you frequently to give me a sitting, and you have systematically refused, it is strange that you should leave me to hear that you are constantly holding these meetings, from a stranger at my club.”
“Yes?” said Hannah, nonchalantly.
“Yes! and I know the reason of your reticence now, into the bargain,” replied the Baron angrily. “Are you aware who came back through you this afternoon, and held converse with me?—who told the story of his death and why he had left this world so suddenly—who has asked for me again and again, in order to tell me the truth, but whom you have kept away because you were afraid of what revelations he might make?”
“Not in the least,” said Hannah, insolently, though her face had become very fixed during her husband’s questions.
“You are lying to me—you do!” exclaimed the Baron, “I should have gone on for the rest of my life, poor fool that I am! fancying that you had come to regard the practice of Spiritualism as wrong and harmful, and refraining from asking you to act contrary to your principles, had it not been for the idle tongues of two men in the club this afternoon, who were discussing these séances of yours without knowing that I was within hearing. Though I could hardly believe my ears, I returned home to find they were correct in what they had said—and when I joined your circle, Ricardo came back to me—Ricardo, your late husband and my dearest friend—Ricardo, whom you——”
“Be careful what you say,” interposed his wife, “if you make accusations against me, which you have no means of proving, I will have satisfaction from you in a court of law. Professor Ricardo died from the effects of poison, administered by his own hand—that was the certificate of death I believe, written by yourself. What will people say, if you deny it now?”
The Baron was staggered by her coolness and perspicuity! It was true; he had no proofs to bring forward of his assertion.
“I would believe the word of my dead friend before the evidence of my own senses,” he replied, less vehemently. “Ricardo was too good to you during his lifetime to bring a false and unnecessary accusation against you now! I may never be able to prove it, but I am as convinced of the truth as if I had seen it done, and I will never live with you again—so help me God!”
Still Hannah was perfectly unmoved.
“That is of little consequence to me,” she answered; “so long as you make me a suitable allowance. But you will be forced to do that! I will not consent to a separation, unless it is legally settled by law!”
Karl von Steinberg gazed at her in silent amazement. Was she bewitched?
“What has come to you in the last few months?” he said, “you are not the same woman that you used to be!”
“How do you know what sort of woman I used to be?” she asked him, quickly.
“I mean, when we first met you—poor Ricardo and I—at Mrs. Battleby’s. You were modest and humble then—shy and retiring—you were an amiable, good-humoured girl, only anxious to please and oblige! Now—my God! what a difference!—I should never have known you for Hannah Stubbs!”
“Who is Hannah Stubbs?” demanded the Marchesa.
“Enough of this folly,” exclaimed Von Steinberg, angrily, “don’t pretend to misunderstand me! You have altered in every respect! I have raised you to a position above that to which you were born, and your head has been unable to stand the elevation. You have become vain, haughty, arrogant, and insolent! Yet I could have borne all that and only cursed my own folly for it, but this crime—no! no! I can never live under the same roof with you again. We part to-night!”
“That is as you please!” cried the Marchesa, shrilly, “it will leave me freer and more independent! I shall have more opportunities of seeing Signor Gueglielmo, and my other friends!”
“No! by my faith you won’t!” exclaimed the Baron. “If the man ever enters this house after I am gone, I will drag you and him into the Divorce Court, and let my misery end there!”
“That is to be seen,” remarked the Marchesa.
“You defy me!” cried Von Steinberg, “you—who murdered my best friend! Yes! we need not mince words here, Madame la Marchesa, the time is past for that! Ricardo told me all—how you purchased the arsenic (which I was fool enough to believe the poor fellow had procured himself)—at the Hampstead chemist’s, under the pretence you wanted it for vermin—and how you mixed it with the whiskey and water which you persuaded him to drink because you said I had ordered it! You think you are so secure that you can defy and insult me! What if I looked up that chemist and examined his books, and proved the date you bought the poison from him to be that of your husband’s death? What then, Madame la Marchesa?”
He had sprung forward as he spoke, and approached her so nearly that the woman felt alarmed, but still her native insolence upheld her.
“What then?” she echoed. “Why! I would force you to declare that you gained your information through Spiritualism, and make you the laughing-stock of London. How would Spiritualistic detectives accord with the English law, Baron von Steinberg, eh?”
“But you would leave the Court with an indelible stain upon your character, and where would your friends be then?”
“I should go to Signor Gueglielmo, and in his beautiful Italy I should soon forget that I had ever inhabited such a cold, gloomy, unsociable country as this!”
“Signor Gueglielmo! You acknowledge he is your lover then?”
“One of them!” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“Good Heavens! That I should have lived to hear you accuse yourself of such baseness! Are you a woman, or a devil? Are you yourself, Hannah, or does some evil spirit possess you, and obscure the humble virtues you once had?”
“Do you think women are all fools?” she retorted, turning on him fiercely, “are you men to take your pleasures as you will, and we to be debarred from any? Why should I not have lovers. I am young and beautiful.”
In saying these words, the Marchesa assumed such a coquettish air, that solemn though the occasion was, Von Steinberg almost laughed.
“And the men admire me! Is all my youth to be wasted in prudery and pretending I do not enjoy that which is the breath of my life—the admiration of the other sex? O! you needn’t glare at me like that! You need not attempt to strike me! I am well provided against your assaults! And you are not the only one who has suffered through my being femme galante! Sorrento writhed under the knowledge more than you do, and he tried to avenge himself on me, but you see it was useless! He believed me to be a model of all the virtues, to the day of his death—perhaps even now he does the same. But you men are all alike. Fools where you should be wise, and blind where you ought to see! Sorrento smiled when he should have been weeping, and struck when there was no cause. Do you remember the story of Centi?”
“The man for whose sake Leonora deceived poor Ricardo! Yes! I see now, he was right! You women are all alike! Born to lie and to deceive those who trust in you! He did well to send her out of a world which she disgraced.”
At this assertion, Hannah laughed jeeringly.
“O! she was none the worse for it, you may depend! When earthly lives are cut shorter than the Creator intended, either by our own hands, or those of others, they are not ended, though mortals may think so! We all live on this earth just as long as was originally meant for us—neither more nor less—in the flesh or out of it—but still here,—sometimes for our own punishment, sometimes for that of others, but still here,—here—where you and I stand to-day. Don’t waste your pity on Leonora, for she does not need it!”
“You defend her action—doubtless you sympathise with her crime,” said the Baron, sarcastically. “Perhaps you would wish to copy her example, that is, if you have not already done so!”
“You are right,” replied the Marchesa, “I sympathise with her deeply. She was young and beautiful and admired, and she loved life, and she hadn’t fair play. You think with me, surely, that Sorrento did her a grievous and irreparable wrong, in sending her so abruptly and cruelly from a world she loved!”
“I do not! I think that she was rightly served for her infidelity, and that she paid too little for her crimes. Her husband only took his just revenge. Such women are better out of the world than in it!”
“So that is your opinion,” said the Marchesa, looking him straight in the eyes, “what then of the way he met his own death? Was that not a just revenge also? a righteous retribution for the way he treated Leonora? Was I not justified (who met my death at his hands) in sending him also into another world, when it suited my convenience, and he interfered with my plans?”
“You—you?” stammered the Baron, falling back a pace or two. A light broke in upon him—a light which seemed to make both the Past and Present clear—which absolved the innocent and condemned the guilty.
“You are not Hannah Stubbs!” he exclaimed vehemently, as he sprang towards her, “I see it all now! You are a devil in human form, who has been traducing by your actions, one of the most simple and humble of God’s creatures! You are not Hannah Stubbs—it is but her carcase that you inhabit! You are Leonora d’Asissi! the false wife of the Marchese di Sorrento!”
The face of the Marchesa seemed to change to that of a fiend as he thus accused her—she drew herself up to her full height—her eyes blazed fury—her arm was raised as if to strike. But she braved the accusation out, returning it in full force upon herself.
“Go on! go on!” she cried, “you cannot say too much, nor yet enough to harm me! I am all you say, Leonora d’Asissi, the false wife of your dear friend—false to him, not with Centi only, but with everyone who caught my wandering fancy. He believed every word I chose to tell him, poor craven fool! who had the courage to avenge his wrongs, but not to rest satisfied with his victory.
“Yes! I am Leonora d’Asissi, in the ugly, uncouth form of Hannah Stubbs, but I have made her mine, and I will use her to the end—until it pleases me to give her up of my own free will! You may claim this rough body if you choose, but you must take my spirit with it. I will possess it and animate it with my words and graces, and make it copy my faults, and hate as I hated and love as I loved, until it ceases to exist. Have I not shown my power over it already? Who but I prompted her to poison Sorrento? to coquette with Gueglielmo? to defy you? to trick? to lie? to deceive? Who but I—I—I? and I will continue to make her follow my will, until she ceases to breathe!”
“You shall not! I defy you in my turn,” exclaimed Von Steinberg, “this country girl, uncouth and plain as she may be, is worth a thousand such as you, with all your wit and beauty, and devilish fascinations. She is my wife—I have promised to defend and protect her, and I will drive your hateful spirit from her body, if I have to set hers free, in order to accomplish it? By what right do you cling to a creature, who is so much your superior? In the name of the Holy Trinity, I command you to depart!”
Leonora laughed scornfully.
“And who gave me possession but yourself—you, and your dear friend Ricardo? How could I have obtained such powerful hold of her if you had not used this girl as an instrument to satisfy your curiosity concerning the mysteries of Spiritualism?—if you had not made her sit, night after night, to minister to your pleasure, until her brain and body were both so wearied, that it was an easy matter for me, or any other who had chosen, to oust her spirit and take its place. I obtained first possession and have kept it ever since.”
“But to what end? What pleasure could it give you, wretched woman, to add to your list of crimes, all of which you will have to expiate, when you might have been advancing in grace and penitence? What object had you in controlling this unfortunate child, who had never done you a wrong, and making her odious by the execution of your unholy wishes?”
“Because I am no longer able to commit crimes for myself—because the execution gives me a reflected satisfaction—because, above all, my thirst for revenge was ungratified, and I longed to make Sorrento feel the same misery he had inflicted upon me! That is why I returned, not to earth, for I have never left it, but to a human body, and if you wish to know who helped me to it, it was yourself. Now! do you understand?”
“Yes! but, by God, you shall persecute my poor wife no longer!” exclaimed Von Steinberg. “She is stupid and ignorant, but she shall not suffer for your crimes. I suspected her of murdering Ricardo—he thinks so even himself—but I will clear her from the imputation. You shall inhabit her body no more, from this time henceforward! It is uncouth, as you said, but it is too pure for such as you. Depart at once, I command you, and come here no more!”
“Command away!” cried Leonora, “it would take more than you to turn me out of my lodging-house! I have got too firm a hold upon your pure and unsophisticated wife! She didn’t seem so very pure, whilst she was holding her secret assignations, unknown to you, with Gueglielmo, did she? nor so unsophisticated when she gave séances to attract the aristocracy to her house, and bound them to secrecy because you so highly disapproved of such doings. She is a lovely tool, but I wish myself that she were a little more refined. It is so difficult to train her large, flat tongue to lisp the soft Italian syllables, or to play the coquette with those enormous hands of hers and those splay-feet. I have almost made myself a laughing stock sometimes, by forgetting they were not my own, and putting them forth for public admiration.
“But still she is useful, poor Hannah—very useful at times—and I have not the least intention of parting with her—not, at all events, my friend, until you desert her for another woman! Are you not surprised to hear me talk English so well? I learned most of that from you, when you used to come to the Cottage at Hampstead to give me lessons in etiquette, and sometimes in something else, eh, Baron? I don’t think your very dear friend Ricardo would have trusted you alone with his adored Leonora, had he known what a dangerous man you were!”
Karl von Steinberg was almost frothing at the mouth with rage that he knew no fit means of expressing. He felt like those unfortunates of whom we have read, who were tied hand and foot, whilst those they loved best were tortured before their eyes, and they had no power to redress their wrongs. He longed to shake Leonora out of Hannah’s body, but what force could he use against air? He covered his face with his hands and gave vent to a groan, which seemed to rend his heart-strings. The vicious Spirit reviled his discomfiture with a mocking laugh of confidence.
“That’s right! Groan away! That’s what all you mortals do, when you have committed the error and there is no remedy for it! Why didn’t you think of the consequences, when you made Hannah sit for you and the Professor, till she lost her spirits and her strength and her power to resist? And now you have had enough of me, and would like to send me flying! But you won’t! I’m in the body of your lawful wife, and if you don’t choose to live with me, you must make me a suitable allowance. I shan’t weep, I assure you. I shall much prefer it to your company! Bad taste in me, is it not? but the truth all the same!”
“Allowance! I would give my whole fortune to ensure this poor child being set free from your evil influence. My God! the injury I have done her! How can I know the extent of it, or if it will ever cease? Poor ignorant Hannah! Heaven forgive us for bringing you within the toils of such a devil as this!”
Leonora flaunted by him, and essayed to pass through the open door. But Von Steinberg prevented her. “No! by Heaven!” he cried, “if you will not quit her body, I can at least prevent your dishonouring it! If you will stay, you must, but you will remain a prisoner in one room, and no eye shall witness your infamy and my disgrace.”
He put forth his hand to detain her, but she rushed past him, to the landing.
The landing upon which their sleeping chamber opened, was a spacious platform, covered with a carpet of the softest dyes. It held a couple of settees—a towering palm in a majolica vase—a bronze statue, bearing a lamp—and a stand of flowering plants. Full, rich curtains drawn at the head of the staircase, partially concealed it from the public view, beyond which the marble stairs, supported by carved oak banisters, led down to the hall. It was a nook, fitted to form a boudoir in the warm weather, and was always heated in winter, like the rest of the house, by hot water pipes.
As the Marchesa rushed out upon this landing, the Baron, unable to deter her action, followed as quickly as he could. He was fearful of what she might do, or say. In her state of excitement, which bordered on insanity, she might inform the entire household that she was not the woman she appeared to be, and make them think she was a lunatic.
It was with the best intentions, therefore, that he pursued her.
“Leonora! Leonora!” he cried, “be careful! Come back, I entreat you, and let us argue this matter together.”
But the Marchesa ran to the head of the staircase, and defied him.
“What do I care?” she cried, “let them all hear! Let them all come, and I will tell them who I am, and what you are!”
She gave a kind of shrill cry, half of triumph and half of despair, as she concluded, and Von Steinberg already heard a bustle below stairs, as if the servants had been attracted by the noise and were hastening to the rescue. He advanced to her side and essayed to place his hand upon her mouth. She drew a knife at once from her pocket—he could see the flash of the blade as she grasped it in her hand. The instinct of self-preservation made him push her from him—she retreated towards the stairs and slipped on the yielding carpet, and before he could do anything to save her, the great unwieldy body, unable to recover itself, had rolled with a scream of terror, down to the very hall, where it lay inert and unconscious, crushed into a mass of senseless clay.
As the Baron realised the accident that had occurred, all his resentment was merged in compassion. He forgot the mocking evil spirit that had so lately defied and insulted him, and remembered only that here lay a suffering fellow-creature—a patient to be relieved.
His medical skill rose paramount to every other consideration, and he was at the foot of the stairs almost as soon as she was. Three or four servants appeared upon the scene—all had heard the heavy fall and the scream which had accompanied it. Karl von Steinberg turned the body gently over—it was totally unconscious and the limbs fell limply from it. He could not tell how much or how little she was injured—the first thing to do was to carry her upstairs again to her room—the next to dispatch a servant for the best surgeon in Town, to render his professional assistance.
Meanwhile the body of Hannah lay crumpled up upon the bed, and had not given a single sign of life. She was not dead, so far Von Steinberg was able to ascertain, but if she would ever regain her consciousness, he was unable to say. In a short time, he was joined by the famous surgeon who had fortunately been disengaged, and between them they undressed the poor mangled carcase, and ascertained the amount of injury done to it. It was fearful. One thigh had to be set—two ribs—the left arm—and an ankle. When the operations were completed, Hannah lay like a swathed mummy in her bed, with her body broken in all directions, and still unconscious.
“Will she recover?” demanded her husband, “will she ever speak, or open her eyes again? What is your opinion?”
“It is hard to say, Baron! You should know the lady’s constitution better than I can. She appears to have a powerful frame, if her physical strength corresponds with it, I should think it probable that she will regain her consciousness by and by—but as to recovery, I really should not like to express an opinion. You see for yourself the maimed condition she is in—all I can say is, that a cure is possible, but not at all probable. How did this sad event occur?”
“We were laughing and playing together on the landing,” replied Von Steinberg, unwilling to disclose the real cause of the accident to a stranger, “and the Marchesa went back towards the staircase and overbalanced herself. I made a rush, with the hope of catching her, but I was too late to prevent her falling. It is a terrible height, and she lighted on the marble floor at the bottom, with her head under her. I made sure at first, that she had broken her neck. I was going to add, ‘Thank God, it is not so,’ but I really do not know which would be worse!”
“No! no! you must not be so despairing as all that!” replied the other, “your wife may recover sufficiently to enjoy her life yet, and if not—at all events you would like to say a few words to her before she leaves you! Now, I will send you a good hospital nurse at once—one quite experienced in these cases—and I shall look in again before nightfall. You are, of course, perfectly competent to look after the case yourself, but we all like to take counsel with our friends on such occasions. For the present then, good-bye!”
He left Von Steinberg sitting by the side of their patient, and he did not stir thence until the nurse arrived. What strange thoughts coursed through his mind, as he held that silent, solitary vigil!
He looked at poor Hannah, bandaged from head to foot, with the deepest compassion. Was this to be the end of it? Was she to pay for the indulgence of other people’s curiosity, with her life?
The poor girl looked twice as distasteful in her mutilated condition than heretofore. Her dull, flat face had resumed its normal vacuous expression, whilst the rosy colour had fled from her cheeks, to be replaced by a livid, purplish hue. Her large, coarse hands lay outside the coverlet, and were discoloured and bruised, whilst her beautiful eyes—her sole point of attraction—were closed, and left her rugged features without expression.
Yet in Von Steinberg’s sight, she appeared more interesting now than she had done for a long time past. He gently raised her swollen hand and held it between his warm palms. How cold and heavy and sodden it felt, almost as if she were already a corpse. The livid face did not repulse him, as it had done when Leonora’s evil spirit animated it! It awoke no feeling in his breast but pity for a young life so spoilt and mis-used for the sake of others. He resolved that if she recovered he would take her away to some place far from London, and the inquisitiveness of strangers, and see if he could not contrive to let her pass the remainder of her life in peace and quietness, as Hannah Stubbs, ignorant and uncouth perhaps, but refreshingly simple and pure, after the experience he had lately had with her.
The time passed on, but the Baron still kept his place by the bedside. The servants came up to announce that his dinner was ready, but he declined to partake of it—the housekeeper begged her master to let her take his place if only for a few minutes, but he shook his head and told her to leave him to himself. The dusk deepened and they offered him lights—he said he preferred to sit in the dark till the nurse arrived. So the door was closed and he remained there by himself, musing sadly on the events of the day.
Suddenly, when he had spent some fifteen or twenty minutes in these reflections, not knowing how time went, he mechanically raised his eyes, and perceived, standing at the foot of the bed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her unbound hair, black as the raven’s wing, fell in thick masses below her waist—her large luminous eyes glowed like two fires—her white arms and hands were stretched towards him—whilst her gaze was wistful and melancholy. He stared at her in return, wondering who she could be, and whence she had come. Gradually, as he was looking at her, and just about to speak, he saw the melancholy look on her face change to a bewitching smile, the eyes sparkled like diamonds, the features assumed an arch expression—she changed from an angel to a devil—it was Leonora! Von Steinberg felt murderous—had she been mortal, he would have killed her!
“What are you here for?” he exclaimed. “Have you come to gloat over your cruel work? Get out of my sight, I command you, and never dare to trouble her or me again!”
Leonora gave her mocking smile as answer. The Baron felt in despair. “God Almighty!” he cried, clasping his hands and looking upwards, “deliver me and mine from the power of this mocking devil!”
As he pronounced the words, with all the fervour of which his soul was capable, the Spirit gave a shriek, and flew like lightning down the stairs. The sound was heard all over the house, and the housekeeper appeared again to inquire if her ladyship had stirred.
“No! Mrs. Marston,” replied the Baron, sorrowfully, “she lies in exactly the same state. I am beginning to give up all hope!”
“O! don’t say that, Baron! Whilst there’s life, you know, there’s always hope! But who was it, then, that screamed just now?”
“Screamed!” he echoed, “did you hear a scream?”
“Dear me, yes! we all heard it! I quite thought it was her ladyship coming to!”
“And did you meet anybody on the stairs?” asked Von Steinberg, with interest.
“Meet anybody! why, no! Baron! they’re all of them below, and I have given particular orders that they don’t stir, without my permission, lest they should disturb her ladyship. But there’s the bell. I shouldn’t wonder if that was the nurse! I’ll go and see!”
It proved to be the nurse, and Mrs. Marston returned with her to the bedroom. The new-comer regarded her patient in silence. It was not her business to pass an opinion of any kind, but an acute observer might have read from the expression of her eyes, that she had not much hope of a favourable ending to the case. As soon as she had taken over charge, Von Steinberg retired to his own room, leaving strict orders that he was to be called, if there was the slightest change.
His head was confused and dizzy—his heart alternately burning with indignation and sorrow—he felt as if he was the greatest sinner that had ever breathed.
He could not rest, but spent the evening pacing up and down the room, trying to think of some compensation for the unintentional wrong he had done. The surgeon came at midnight, and pronounced that there was no change in the Marchesa’s condition—gave a few directions to the nurse—and promised to visit his patient again on the morrow. Von Steinberg gave another look at the pale, uninteresting face that had almost become dear to him—pressed the lifeless hand—and cautioned the attendant to be sure and call him if necessary.
At about four in the morning, she tapped at his door.
“If you please, Baron, the lady has spoken, and seems to be looking for some one, but I’m afraid she is not yet in her right mind—a little light-headed, I mean, but you’d better come and see her.”
Von Steinberg hurried on his clothes and hastened to Hannah’s bedside.
Her eyes were open, and roving round the room in a strange, mystified manner, but when she caught sight of the Baron, she recognised him at once and gave a pitiful smile for welcome.
“Lor! Doctor, ’ave they sent for you? I’m sure I dunno what ’ave come to me, but I feels so bad—as if I was broke all over. Why did you bring me ’ere? Be it a horspital? And do the Professor know? I should like to see the Professor, Doctor, for I feel that bad, and ’e was very good to me!”
“Hush, Hannah! Hush! my dear!” said Von Steinberg, quickly, noting the bewildered look of the nurse at hearing a Marchioness talk in so uneducated a manner, “you shall hear everything when you are a little stronger! Yes! you have met with a bad accident, my dear, and I am afraid you will have to remain quiet for a few days, but you will get all right, if you will be patient. Here is your nurse, who will pay you every attention, and make you well as soon as she can, and I am here, too, to look after you!”
Hannah regarded him with the limp, stolid expression which he remembered so well of old, as if she were trying to follow the sense of what he said to her, without the capability of doing so.
“But where’s the Professor—my ’usband, you know! I wants to see ’im, ’e may be vexed ’cos I said I would get ’im a nice little supper—tasty, what he likes—and if I don’t get back in time, he won’t ’ave none.”
“Hannah! Ricardo cannot come to you just now! You must believe what I tell you! Nurse! have you any beef-tea ready? Give her a teaspoonful with a little brandy in it. She is growing faint.”
“O! I haches all hover!” groaned poor Hannah, as the weak tears oozed from her eyes with the pain she was enduring, “I shan’t be able to get the Professor’s meals, not for days and days, and ’e will be sorry when ’e ears I’m in the horspital. Was I run over, Doctor? I feels like it! just as if a great cart wheel ’ad gone right hover me, and crushed all my bones! O! it’s hagony!”
“I know it must be, poor child, but we are doing all we can to relieve you! Here! drink this!” said Von Steinberg, as he held the broth, into which he had dropped some sedative, to her lips, and stood by her, until she had dropped off into a moaning slumber.
In the morning, after the surgeon’s examination, the Baron anticipated his dictum.
“You need not attempt to buoy me up with false hopes,” he said, “for I can see the truth for myself. She will not get over it!”
“I fear not! She has a wonderful constitution—the strength of a lion—but there are internal injuries, and mortification has commenced, and a few hours (say twenty-four), must see it terminated. I cannot give you any hope!”
“Thank you for being candid! It is best to know the worst at once! I suppose we may give her anything she can take!”
“Just so, but I should advise the use of soporifics if great pain comes on, as it must, I fear, do!”
The men shook hands, and the Baron returned to Hannah’s side. At all events, he thought, she should not accuse him of inattention now. He found her again awake and restless, with bright feverish eyes and an anxious look on her features.
“Doctor!” she gasped, as soon as he appeared, “I shan’t get over this—I feel it! There’s a great fire inside of me, and my ’ead keeps going round. I’ve got my death some’ow, I know. And I must see my pore mother afore I dies!”
“Your mother, Hannah!” cried Von Steinberg, aghast.
“O! yes, Doctor, please!” replied the girl, weakly sobbing, “ ’cos she was very good to me, afore I took up with devils and things. She couldn’t abide woices nor shadders, couldn’t mother, and I was a bad gal, I feels it now, to go agen ’er! It cut me to the ’eart, when we parted so cruel, and if the Professor ’adn’t stood my friend, I dunno what I should ’ave done! And Joe too—my young man as was—he turned me off along of the same thing, and I dessay ’e was right, but I loved ’im true, Doctor—I told the Sig-nor so—and I should like to say good-bye to ’im also since I’m a’going!”
“But, Hannah, you must not talk like that! You’re in great pain, I know, but we will pull you through yet—see if we don’t!”
“No! you won’t,” replied the girl, shaking her head; “there’s a summat in my stummick, as tells me I shan’t never walk out of this ’ere bed. And so, if I could see my pore mother once more, Doctor, and—and—my young man, if so be ’e ain’t married another yet—it would make me easier than anythink else!”
“Then you shall see them, if it is in my power,” said Von Steinberg, as he rose to leave her.
“And the Professor, too, Doctor—my pore old ’usband,” added Hannah. “ ’E’ll miss me a bit, won’t ’e, cos we was always sich good friends—’e and I,—always sich good friends!” murmured the dying girl, in a faint voice.
Commending her to the care of the nurse, the Baron did what he considered was the last and kindest duty he could perform towards her, and that was to go down with all haste to Settlefield, and if possible bring her people up to London to see her once more.
He used the utmost expedition in accomplishing his errand, but it was some hours before he reached the village, and then it was to find the little cottage in darkness and mourning—Mrs. Stubbs having died the day before.
When the widower heard the errand on which Von Steinberg had come, he expressed a sort of rough regret at his daughter’s hopeless condition, but he did not volunteer to accompany him back to Town.
“You see, Sir, it’s loike this,” he argued, “the missus she would ’ave been very glad to see our Hannah afore she died, but it was not to be, and she lays dead in that theer room, and ’ave lef’ me with hall these childer on my ’ands, which I can’t leave ’em, not for Hannah, nor no one. You must please to tell ’er with my dooty as it is so, and p’r’aps when she’s strong and ’earty agen, she’ll remember her pore father and ’ow ’e ’as to work to maintain ’er brothers and sisters, and she rolling in riches, as you may say.”
“But she will never be strong and hearty again,” exclaimed Von Steinberg, impatiently. “I tell you that my poor wife is dying. She cannot last more than four-and-twenty hours!”
“Well! I couldn’t go so soon, if I wanted ever so,” replied the man. “Theer’s my lawful wife a’laying dead in that theer room, and I wouldn’t leave the ’ouse whilst she’s in it, not for a ’undred darters, be they whom they may!”
“Very well, then, it is of no use my staying here,” said the Baron, “but I thought you would have had a little more heart!”
“Our Hannah haven’t been sich a perticular good darter to us, Sir, arter all, you know! She wouldn’t give up them devils and things, as near broke ’er pore mother’s ’eart, and when she was married to rale gentlemen like Mr. Ricardo and yerself, she never come anigh us, nor sent us a word for years—not till she sent them twenty pounds, which I’m sure another little sum like that larst, would come in very convenient just now!”
Karl von Steinberg was too much irritated by his refusal to visit his dying child, to feel very liberally inclined towards the cold-hearted old grumbler just then.
“I cannot stay to hear any more of your troubles now,” he said, “for I must return to the side of my poor wife. By and by, perhaps, when I have time to think, I may help you a little, for her sake!”
He tore back to London as quickly as he could, half expecting to find that Hannah had left him also, without a last good-bye. But she was still alive, and in less pain—the cruel mortification had done its work—her spirit was holding on to earth by a single thread.
As he entered her room, he found both the nurse and housekeeper there, whilst Hannah was sitting up in bed, notwithstanding her splints and bandages, with a bright look of expectation on her face. He was just about to try and soothe her last moments with some pleasing fiction of her mother coming to her soon, when he was startled by hearing her exclaim, as she stretched out her arms towards the foot of the bed,
“O! mother! mother! I know’d as you’d forgive me at the larst! Ah! it is good to see you, mother, arter all these years! But don’tee cry! I shall soon be well again, now you’ve come to fetch me, and forgive me for them devils and things, and take me ’ome to live along of you!”
The plain face glowed with delighted anticipation—the swollen hands were stretched out with rapture—the eyes, lovely to the last, beamed upon the apparition that stood before her, and the spirit of Hannah Stubbs, with the most gratifying result of all her mediumship, flew into the arms of her waiting mother, whilst her body fell back lifeless on the pillows. She had passed away in total ignorance of all that had befallen her since she had left her mother’s care for that of Ricardo—she did not know that she had ever been obsessed by Leonora, or that her hand had committed a murder, or that she had been unfaithful, or insolent, or overbearing! Poor ignorant, innocent Hannah Stubbs! Stupid, plain and uninteresting, as she came from His hand, she returned to her Creator, to be beautified and refined and enlightened, under the process of her Father’s love!
THE END.
The Bernhard Tauchnitz (Leipzig, 1896) edition was consulted for the changes listed below.
Obsolete and inconsistent spellings (e.g. negociations, laughing stock/laughing-stock, needlework/needle-work, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Add ToC.
Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings.
[Chapter I]
Change “he and the Sig-nor will be closetted for hours together” to closeted.
[Chapter III]
“Is she very stupid. very clumsy, very impertinent?” change period to a comma.
(“It ain’t that, Sir,” she said, shaking her head, “In course I was) change the last comma to a period.
[Chapter IV]
“she must shake like an aspen leaf I found ’er in the kitchen” add period after leaf.
[Chapter V]
Change “you were to see Doctor Steinberg again tonight?” to to-night.
[Chapter VI]
“that it does not all proceed from giving her medecine!” to medicine.
“they found themselves once more closetted with Hannah Stubbs” to closeted.
[Chapter VII]
(don’t take ’eed to your ways,” retorted his irate adversary, “Me and) change the last comma to a period.
“doings of Satan—and no more will. this young man ’ere!” delete the period.
[Chapter VIII]
“If he had announccd that he intended to murder Hannah Stubbs” to announced.
[Chapter IX]
“continue to call her Hannah has usual” to as.
[Chapter XII]
“when pressed, as late as ten o’clock at night, Now! go on with” change the second comma to a period.
“and ’ave you left them for good. and where are you living now?” change the period to a comma.
[Chapter XIII]
“Karl van Steinberg alone remaining behind for a few minutes” to von.
“if her condition were normal. or if they could trace any” change the period to a comma.
[Chapter XIV]
(but English is so hard,” she added, pathetically,) change the third comma to a period.
[Chapter XV]
“against her; the would accept any explanation she chose to child give—she was only...” change the to she and delete child.
(“O! don’t speak of such a thing pray! I shouldn’t) add comma after thing.
[Chapter XVI]
“but all this talk about Spiritualism is only got up, for want of a better excitement.” delete the comma.
[Chapter XVII]
“I lost her in so cruelly sudden a manner Only four days ill” add period after manner.
[End of text]