She had often thought of that night when first she heard the name of Paul Somerton. “I know a young gentleman as would make such a sweetheart for you—such a sweetheart!” old Dibble had said. And her own remark—what if she should conjure into the basket that handsome Paul Somerton, who talked so fine! How strange that she had conjured him to her side! She wished she had seen him before she saw Crawley. Why did he not come into the Temple of Magic first? It was not her fault that he didn’t. She would have had him for her husband sooner than she would have had that mean sneak, Crawley, who cared nothing at all about her, and who never admired her at all after they were married. And what a funny thing that she should be living with Dibble’s wife! There were lots of murders and robberies, and other awful things in that tale in the Weekly Sensation, but her own story was certainly as strange as that of the young lady who was stolen by gipsies. She had not been confined in a castle, and left for dead in a cellar to be eaten by rats, been rescued by her father, and afterwards stabbed the villain who had run away with her at first: none of these things had come to pass yet in her history; but there was no knowing how soon they might.
She was prepared at any moment, she felt, to enter the next phase of her career, whatever it might be, and had gone so far in her imitative insane fashion, as to sleep with a dagger beneath her pillow; but she secretly hoped that nothing would occur to prevent her flying with Paul. In her own fashion, she loved this mad-headed soldier, and she dreaded the discovery of her wickedness and deception. If she had been brought up in a respectable home, with moral influences about her and a mother at her elbow, she might perchance still have done justice to her home education, as she did now; but it is not necessary that we should enter into speculations upon this point. Her story is before us, and it is the duty of the writer to tell it fairly, and leave the reader to form his own opinion about what education and good moral home influences might have done for this woman of the booth and the fair, the race-course and the gaming-room, who, with the brightness of youth still about her, managed, with siren-like skill, to look so innocent and attractive in the eyes of Paul Somerton.
The day after that grand wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square, Mrs. Dibble told Chrissy that her husband would be coming to pay her a visit in a week or two, and Chrissy knew that it was necessary she should leave Mrs. Dibble before that period: so she had talked of change of air, and Paul, given over to the reckless passion of his first love!—(Heaven save the mark!)—had resolved upon a quiet private wedding at Brighton that day week. The Lieutenant was just explaining his views when there came a loud knocking at the front door, and after considerable bustle and confusion in the little narrow passage, Mrs. Dibble burst into the room with her husband.
“Lor, Mithter Thomerton, Leftennant, thir, Thomath thaith he mutht shake hands with you, and he hath come before hith time, becauth it wath more convenient, and I’m sure you will excuthe him, when you think of old times and——”
“Of course, of course,” said Paul, wishing old Dibble at Hanover; “and how are you, Thomas? how do you do?”
Dibble made no reply, but allowed his hand to be shaken in the most condescending fashion, whilst he fixed his eyes upon the young lady.
“Why, deary me!” he exclaimed, all of a sudden, “Miss Christabel, how do you do? Well, who would ha’ thought as I should find you at Mrs. Dibble’s?”
The lady addressed looked at Mr. Dibble with the greatest possible astonishment, and then turned to Lieutenant Somerton, as if she sought some explanation of this extraordinary conduct.
“Daughter of the Northern magician, you know,” said Dibble, addressing the Lieutenant; “the cleverest young lady as ever I see. Lor’ bless you, I——”
“What the devil do you mean!” exclaimed the Lieutenant.