CHAPTER XVII.
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.