“YET OFT O’ER CREDULOUS YOUTH SUCH SIRENS
TRIUMPH, AND LEAD THEIR CAPTIVE SENSE IN
CHAINS AS STRONG AS ADAMANT.”
The day after the marriage of Miss Tallant, Lieutenant Somerton sat in
Mrs. Dibble’s front parlour, discussing, with her interesting lodger,
the details of his scheme for the future.
Embellished with several pictures and vases, a lady’s easy chair, and
other little things which the Lieutenant had purchased from time to
time, the room looked quite neat and attractive.
They would be content, Paul was telling her, with something a little
better than this in their distant home, where they would begin the
world all afresh, and remember nothing but their own true love for each
other. “What an infatuated fool he must be, most renowned Asmodeo,”
Don Cleofas would say. “Why, the young woman is vulgar too. Do you not
notice how ignorant she is? And what shambling efforts she is making
to hide it?” “You forget that my business,” says Asmodeo, “is to make
ridiculous matches, marry maids to their masters, greybeards to raw
girls; and see here, you forget the cloak!” Refreshing his memory upon
these points, Don Cleofas would be satisfied of course; and so must
we; for Paul Somerton sees only charms in “Chrissy’s” defects. We need
hardly say that she had improved considerably in her manners since that
conversation with Dibble at Severntown; she had long since ceased to
call things “stunning” and “fizzing.”
That gentleman, who was enamoured of her dexterity at cards, had done
much to prune her exuberance of expression in this respect, and it
was wonderful how quickly she further improved during her stay with
Mrs. Dibble, not under the tuition of that elegant lady, but with the
inspiration of Paul’s books and her own cunning instinct.
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.
“Surely the man is not sober,” said the young lady in her finest style,
and with just a faint smile at Dibble’s bewildered look.
“It hain’t the voice quite,” said Dibble; “but it be Chrissy, you know;
she was the mysterious lady and----”
“And what?” exclaimed the Lieutenant.
Before Dibble had time to answer he caught “Chrissy’s” eye and its
sudden expression of warning, such as that which he remembered coupled
with her threats about the pistol; so he only stammered out something
about being mistaken, and begging pardon----
“You’re alwayth making thome mithtake or other,” said Mrs. Dibble;
“there, come along in the next room. I’m thorry I allowed him to come
in, Mithter Thomerton, but hith headth bewildered, no doubt, with
having been away from home tho much and having previouthly had my eye
on him: and what he would do without ith a mythtery to me.”
The Lieutenant said, “All right, Mrs. Dibble, don’t apologise,” and
poor Dibble slunk away into the kitchen and sat down, Mrs. D. following.
“There, Thomath, never mind,” said Mrs. Dibble in her blandest tones;
“come and tell me all about it.”
But Dibble remembered how clever that mysterious lady of the show was;
how fierce she was, and he trembled at the bare idea of her exercising
any of her black arts upon him, in case he should betray her secret.
It was quite clear that she did not wish him to know her; but he had
made no mistake at all, he was sure of that; and Mrs. Dibble was
sharp enough to see that there was some mystery here which she would
assuredly have cleared up before Dibble went to sleep that night.
An unfortunate night altogether was this for the “mysterious lady.” Mr.
Williamson had sent a messenger to the house for Lieutenant Somerton
soon after Dibble’s strange arrival, and Paul had taken a cab, as
requested, to the Temple, where he found the barrister in company with
an unknown gentleman.
“This is Mr. Bales, the detective officer, of whom you have heard me
speak,” said the barrister.
Paul bowed.
“My friend, Lieutenant Somerton,” said the barrister, introducing Paul.
The detective nodded in deliberate professional fashion.
“Mr. Bales has executed that old warrant to-day, and Shuffleton Gibbs,
_alias_ Mr. Jefferson Crawley, of Carr Court, Regent Street West, is
now in custody. (Paul looked a little bewildered, and sat down.) Mr.
Bales is a great friend of mine, and I tell him that it might not be
advisable after all this time to reopen the case. Mr. Bales fears that
we shall be compelled to proceed with it. But there is, it appears,
some other case against him, though not quite so clear as that of the
pocket-book. Mr. Bales will call here again in an hour before anything
further is done: meanwhile you and I will talk affairs over. Good-bye
for the present, Bales.”
The detective officer nodded in reply and left the room, and then Mr.
Williamson, alluding to that first gleam of suspicion in connection
with Paul’s attempt to borrow money, went on to tell his friend that
this woman whom Paul had made up his mind to marry was the wife of
Shuffleton Gibbs. He believed he should be able to produce the marriage
certificate. Gibbs knew where she was, and had told this to the
detective. He had found her out within a week of her disappearance,
through Macschawser, and he talked boldly of an action for abduction
and other tremendous things.
Paul would not believe a word of it. His friend had surely entered into
a plot against him. Then he remembered the strange conduct of Dibble,
and hesitated.
“I have only one duty to perform in this matter,” said the barrister,
“and that is to show you the character of the precipice upon which you
stand, and then leave you to your fate. Have you obtained the sanction
for your change of regiment?”
“Yes,” said Paul; “and the vessel sails next month.”
“For the Cape of Good Hope?”
“Yes.”
“Now, my dear boy, I know you believe in my friendship; will you permit
me to investigate this affair for you, and undertake to give the facts
proper consideration before you take further action?”
“I will,” said Paul, “provided that in all you do you respect her
feelings, and remember that I love this woman better than all the
world.”
Mr. Williamson shrugged his shoulders.
“I love her better than all the world, and I only consent to this
active interference because I know she will come out of the inquiry
clear. The idea of her being Gibbs’s wife is absurd,” Paul went on.
“But supposing it is true?” said the barrister.
“I will suppose nothing. Why do you try to bring unhappiness between
us? In less than a month we should have been on the sea to begin a new
life in a new country--turning our backs upon the past.”
“And upon your friends,” said the barrister. “You would be leaving
father and mother and sister and friends in the society of an abandoned
woman.”
“Mr. Williamson,” exclaimed Paul, “I will not stand this!”
“In the society of an abandoned woman,” repeated the barrister, “not
like those poor people in the picture ‘Seeking New Homes,’ with the
association of pure affection and honest noble aims of independence.
Your whole life would have been blighted, your family disgraced, and
yourself a miserable man.”
“I will not get into a passion with you,” said Paul, “but I cannot
stand this, so good-night;” and before the barrister had time to
intercept him, Paul rushed out of the room and hurried away into the
street.
Meanwhile Mr. Bales returned. The barrister informed him that he
thought it would be impossible to proceed with the case of conspiracy.
The officer said he had another charge against the prisoner upon which
he could secure a conviction, and so the two parted; the detective
to complete his entry in the police charge-sheet and arrange for the
appearance on the next day of certain witnessess, and Mr. Williamson to
the residence of Mrs. Dibble, where he at once introduced himself to
her interesting lodger as Lieut. Somerton’s friend.
He did not hesitate at all about the part he should play. Assuming the
position of Lieut. Somerton’s legal adviser, he told the lady that Paul
knew everything, and when she assumed an injured and indignant air,
he showed her a copy of that very marriage certificate which she had
burnt. Nay, more; he said that he knew where her father the showman was
to be found, and that her husband, who was in custody, had explained
everything to the policeman who had apprehended him.
And yet whilst the barrister was utterly crushing the girl, and even
threatening her with a police cell, he felt a strange interest in her.
The remembrance of a well-known face which had fascinated him when a
boy came so vividly into his mind as he stood before the showman’s
daughter, that he grew strangely embarrassed in his manner. Shortly,
his assumed austerity gave way, and he found himself speaking very
gently and tenderly.
The girl was quick enough to observe this, and she proceeded at
once to make capital out of it, appealing to his kindness and
sympathy, assuring him that she loved his friend with all her heart,
acknowledging to the full how she had deceived him, and then humbly
soliciting the barrister’s advice.
Old memories came back to the barrister as the woman continued to talk,
and her tears did not fail to soften the hues of that picture of old
which would rise up between himself and the humiliated woman before
him. Leading her on from one topic to another he induced her to narrate
her history, and by slow degrees she repeated to him the heads of the
story which she had told Dibble on the Severntown race-course. Feeling
sure that this would excite the barrister’s sympathy, she hoped that it
might in some way make him her friend.
Watching the effect of all she was saying, the girl perceived that
her listener was peculiarly touched; and when at the proper moment
she produced that little miniature which she had shown to Dibble, Mr.
Arundel Williamson, exclaiming “Good heavens, can it be possible!”
threw himself back in his chair and nearly fainted.
Fixing her eyes upon him as he grasped the locket, the woman, with the
cunning of the race-course and the lodging-house, the precocity of
poverty, and her fixed faith in Carkey’s prophecy about her parentage,
felt at once that the hour of discovery had come.
“You are my father!” she said, with an air of pride and triumph. “That
lady was your wife.”
“God help us!” said the barrister solemnly. “He visits the sins of the
fathers upon the children indeed!”
“You won’t drive me away now,” said the girl quickly; “you won’t try
to make him hate me, and put me in prison now. If you don’t like me
to be your daughter, let me go away with him; tell him all that about
Gibbs is a lie,--he will believe you--he will believe anything--don’t
separate us--I will never tell anybody you are my father.”
The barrister made no reply; he rocked himself to and fro in his chair,
and looked vacantly at the girl, as if he were in a dream.
“I am your father,” said the barrister presently; “there is no doubt
about that. The sin and the punishment are so equal, and the parentage
is so fearfully verified in your own career and conduct: there is
no cheating heaven, no tricking the law of punishment in this world.
God knows I have suffered too, without this additional pain and
degradation.”
“You’re ashamed of me, then?” said the woman. “Lieutenant Somerton is
not; let me go away with him.”
“Never!” exclaimed the barrister: “never!”
* * * * *
“Well, it thertainly ith the motht exthraordinary thing I ever heard
of,” whispered Mrs. Dibble to herself and Thomas in the passage after
she had been listening at the keyhole for nearly half an hour: “motht
wonderful. Now come here, thir, and juth tell me all you know about
that woman. It’s bad enough to have one’s money lotht and brought to
poverty, without secrets of this sort being kept away from the lawful
wife of your bootham, Mithter Dibble. You thall tell me every word
before you go to bed.”
Dibble struggled a little against this decree, but without avail.
Whilst he was telling his wife all that he knew about Christabel, Mr.
Williamson was endeavouring to bring that remarkable young woman to a
sense of her position. To what extent he succeeded we may hope to learn
hereafter.