A Girl of the People, L. T. Meade [good e books to read .TXT] 📗

made with Granger, who was to meet him and was to have a good time with him at the Star and Garter.

Dent's lodgings were close to the docks; and to go from there to Granger's place in Sparrow Street he generally walked up a very narrow and very disreputable street. He could have gone around, going along Castle Street and down by Lime Street; but the other way was a great short cut: and to meet low people, to hear the voices of tipsy men and loud-voiced women gave him no manner of annoyance. At the time of this story there were some courts in Liverpool which at night-time were absolutely in the dark. Not a single ray of gaslight illuminated them. The doers of evil liked such places; and the courts at nightfall were often full, and sounds the reverse of edifying were apt to proceed from them.

David Street, the short cut which Dent was about to take to keep his rendezvous with Granger, possessed several such courts. It was not far from the Irish quarter, where Mother Bunch held undoubted sway. David Street was not quite so much dreaded as Paradise Bow; but, on account of these same dark courts, few respectable people would care to walk there after nightfall. Dent, however, could scarcely be reckoned amongst this class, and he stepped quickly now through the narrow street with its flickering gaslight reflecting a sombre glow on the puddles at his feet, and on the faces of the ragged children and men and women who jostled past him. The only bright places were the public-houses, where the hungriest and most despairing paused to look in and long for the brightness and warmth inside. Those who had pence in their pockets generally entered through the swinging doors; those who had not, looked in with growing envy and increasing despair on their faces.

Dent was by no means a sober person, and more than one public-house in David Street knew him well; but he was bound now for the more select Star and Garter, and did not pause before any of the swing-doors. The gas-lamps in David Street were few and far between, and Dent presently came to a part of the street which evidently remained after nightfall in a state bordering on darkness. He planted his foot in a puddle; he nearly slipped on a piece of orange-peel, and found himself swearing under his breath. The next moment, out on the still night air, floated a heavenly sound. It was a woman's voice, singing a rollicking sailor-song. Pure and limpid rose the notes—the air was very taking. There was a chorus to the song, in which many voices joined vigorously. Between the choruses came the single, sweet, captivating voice. Dent stood still. All these sounds came from one of the dark courts. He had a passion for music—he could sing a little himself; he found himself instinctively beating time with his foot, and adjoining in the chorus with his voice. He stood motionless. Instantly one or two other wayfarers did likewise. Dent became the nucleus of a little crowd—each passer-by added to it, all attracted by the voice which rose and fell, accompanied now and then by the rough choruses, but more often singing alone.

The crowd outside began to push towards the entrance of the court, and Dent went with them.

Just inside the court stood a broad-faced, burly-looking woman, holding a lantern in her hand. She flashed its light on each new-comer, and Dent felt dazzled for a moment with the strong glare which was turned upon his face. He thought he heard a chuckle—he was certainly pushed far into the court. The singing ceased,—a voice said: "Now! now, Hetty,—yes, it's all right, Hetty." He turned to go away; but, in what seemed less than an instant, his hands were tied behind him, his mouth gagged, and he was borne aloft in the arms of several people, who began to run with him, he did not know where.

CHAPTER XXXI.

When Bet got to Liverpool she went straight to Paradise Row. She intended to spend the night with Mother Bunch, to borrow a little money from her, and to return to Warrington by an early train in the morning. It was about half-past nine when she reached the Irishwoman's house. There was considerable noise and merriment going on within, and Bet heard the scraping of a fiddle, the air of an Irish jig, and the tap-tap of feet as they danced on the floor. She paused, with a sense of dismay stealing over her. Her nerves were highly-strung—she was in an excited, exalted state, and the loud mirth was particularly uncongenial. She wondered if she could slip upstairs unperceived—she wondered if her old attic were still unoccupied. The door of Mother Bunch's room was wide open—bright light streamed into the passage; but Bet making a dart rushed past the door, and went up the dark, broken, dangerous stairs. She reached the old attic, and then started back with an expression of dismay. It was undoubtedly occupied. A candle burned in a shaded corner; a clean bright little fire shone in the grate; a table, with a cloth on it, held medicine, and a glass; and on the bed where Bet herself used to lie slept a child. She was turning away, with a cold feeling round her heart—she had always fancied, doubtless without any reason, that Mother Bunch would keep the little attic vacant for her. She crouched down on the landing, waiting until the merriment should cease downstairs before she sought Mother Bunch.

Presently she heard the sleeping child stir restlessly, and moan in a very feeble manner. This sound smote on her heart.

"Whoever have the charge of that poor lamb don't set much store by it," she commented. "I'll go in and speak soft to the child. Dear heart, what a feeble moan—it might a'most be a baby."

She took off her heavy shoes, and crept back into the room. The outline of the form in the bed was not that of a very little child.

"About the age of the captain or the general?" murmured Bet. "I must be careful if the young 'un's weak not to startle the poor lamb."

She stirred the fire very gently, and seeing a little sauce-pan with something simmering in it on the hob, tasted it, and found it was beef-tea. She poured a little into a cracked tea-cup, and when the child moaned again—and this moan was even fainter than the last—went up to the bed, determined to act the part of the absent mother, who was so shamefully neglecting her sick child.

"Here, honey, take a sip," she said, and she put her strong firm arm under the restless little head. The small face was in shadow. Bet raised the head higher. "Drink, dearie," she said again. There was a pause. Bet's own face could be seen—Bet's own face could be recognized.

"Bet—Bet!" said the captain—"oh, Bet—I did ax God to bring you back to me!"

CHAPTER XXXII.

When Bet Granger ran past the open doorway of Mother Bunch's room she had very little idea that in a corner of that room, tied firmly into a chair, sat her bridegroom of to-morrow—Isaac Dent.

The gag had been removed from his mouth, but his hands were still firmly pinioned, and he was so securely strapped into the chair which held him that he could scarcely move a limb. Under these circumstances Dent did not show to advantage. There was none of that conscious innocence which gives to other men a certain nobility in the hour of trial. On the contrary, his face was blanched with the most unmistakable fear, and his restless shifting eyes looked no one member of the motley group who surrounded him full in the face.

To all appearance, however, these people did jot take the smallest notice of Dent. They left him in his corner, and eagerly pursued their own gay revelries, deaf to the sound of the piteous voice which he raised now and then. Patrick O'Flaherty, Mother Bunch's husband, played the fiddle with much spirit, but Mother Bunch herself was the real mistress of the ceremonies, footing it bravely in the jig, and letting her voice peal forth in such enthusiastic Irish songs as "The Shamrock," "Garryowen," "Saint Patrick's Day," and the like.

Hester Wright alone stood grave and silent at a little distance from Dent, She was impatient of the mirth, and there was a troubled, anxious look on her face. She did not join in any of the songs, and at last, going up to Mother Bunch, she said a few words in her ear.

"Right you are, child," replied the Irishwoman. "Frinds—we'll now, if you plaze, stop these tokens of mirth and victory, and attend to the business of the evening."

Instantly the fiddle ceased; the footsteps became motionless; the voices died into silence; and a little group of about twenty people formed a semicircle round Dent. Mother Bunch, who was in the centre of this group, stepped forward a pace or two. Her brawny arm was bare to the elbow. She raised it now with a slightly significant gesture.

"Child," she said, addressing the prisoner—for surely as such Dent had to consider himself now—"I ax you a plain question, and I ax it in the name of the frinds of love and order here assembled. Will you confess yourself a guilty man, and own to the maneness of your nature in concocting a plot to ruin the innocent boy, Will Scarlett? or will ye keep your lips shut, and feel the power of this right ahrum?" "You're all a set o' cowards," burst from Dent. "Let me go free, this minute—I'll have the law of you—I had nothing to say to Scarlett's imprisonment."

"Yes, you had, child; and there's no use in your going for to deny it. You stole the notes and the gold, and the purty bit of a purse, and you put the blame on Will, 'cause you wanted to get scot-free yourself, and you wanted to take his gurl from him. You're a bad boy, Isaac Dent, and you desarves the least taste in life of the rod. Come along, neighbors, hould him, and do your dooty."

Dent began to scream abjectly, and at this juncture Hester Wright stepped to the front.

"Isaac," she said, in her deep, grave voice, "you have got to submit. We plotted this, I and these good Irish friends of mine. I don't mean that Will Scarlett shall lie in prison for your good pleasure. I don't mean that his good lass shall give herself to you. We plotted this, and we means to see it through. You're a bad man. Isaac, and you deceived Bet, and pretended to set Will free, when you know that he lies still in prison. Bet would have married you, I don't know how soon,—perhaps to-morrow—perhaps the next day,—but now she shall never wed you, Isaac; for here you stay—here you stay, year in, year out, until you confesses the truth."

"Yes—here you stay," repeated the Irish voices in full chorus, and the women began to laugh, and the men to chuckle audibly.

"You don't mean it," said Dent. His white face grew several shades more chalky.

"Yes," continued Hester, "we do mean it. You have managed to escape the law, Dent, and you managed to put the best man in Liverpool under its ban. But we've made a law ourselves, and we'll carry it out on you. Here you stays until you confesses the truth about Will. It ain't no good for you to make a fuss, for the police they doesn't often walk down Paradise Row. Mother Bunch is the only policeman as has much power here. You had better submit, Isaac, for you ha' got no loophole to act contrarywise."

"And ef you felt this right ahrum, child, you mightn't like to feel it a second time," burst in Mother Bunch, as she brandished this powerful member in Dent's face.

"What am I to do?" he exclaimed. "I can't stay on here—I—I—just can't. You ha' got me in your power. You'll rue it some day. Er I say what you want me to say, I'll go to prison instead of Will. It ain't in reason to expect a feller to say a thing like that."

"Isaac," continued Hester, "we don't care nothing about punishing you. This is what you've got to do,—you've got to take Will out of prison, and let him marry his own true love. And you have got to do it in this way. I'm going now to fetch Miss Mary Vallence, the young lady whose purse you stole, and she'll take down your full confession in writing,—all about how you planned to ruin Will, all your reasons, and what you did with the rest of the money. She'll put it down on paper—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth;