A few of the worst courts in Liverpool are absolutely without gaslight.
It was into one of these now that Bet ventured. She leaned her back
against the slimy, slippery, dirty wall, and breathed hard and fast.
Her father could not see her nor find her there, and she was in a mood
at that moment to fear no other living creature. Boys and men, girls
and women, talked and swore and quarreled and jostled one another in
the bad dark court. A lad of about twenty being pushed up against Bet,
seized her familiarly by the arm; she flung him off like a young fury,
and, wrapping her mother's plaid shawl which she wore about her
shoulders over her head, ran out into the street. Her father was gone.
Midnight was approaching, but the place was gayly lighted, for this was
Saturday night, and the women, who could only get what was left of
their husbands' earnings on their return from the public-houses, were
eagerly buying and chaffering, and making what preparations they could
for the coming Sabbath. No one molested or looked at Bet as she walked
rapidly back to Paradise Row. She reached her destination about
midnight, to find the whole house in what seemed to her the most awful
state of uproar. Shouts and eager voices filled the air; loud laughter,
screams of--"Hurrah! Well done! Do it again, Mother Bunch!" resounded
on all sides. The door of Mother Bunch's apartment stood wide open; the
small room was a blaze of gas and glowing from the heat of a great
fire; and in the middle, with her arms a-kimbo, her head thrown back,
and her bare feet twinkling merrily, stood Mother Bunch on a door,
dancing, to the cheers of the audience, an Irish jig. As she danced,
she sang; and it was to the tune of her merry voice and the movements
of her rapidly-revolving feet that the crowd of spectators laughed and
cheered.
"O, the shamrock, the shamrock, the green immortal shamrock--"
Mother Bunch sang these words with immense spirit, the Irish folks who
looked on and applauded joining heartily and with vociferous cheers in
the chorus. Bet had been dragged into the room, where she stood
moodily, her shawl thrown off her head and lying in picturesque soft
folds of color on her shoulders. Her handsome face attracted attention,
and several people looked at her wonderingly; and one very rough
looking man went up and addressed her.
Before Bet could reply, Mother Bunch had ceased dancing--had sprung off
the dislodged door, which had been placed on the ground for her
disposal.
"You leave this child alone, Dan Murphy; she isn't for the likes of you
even to walk on the same side of the street with. Whoever says a word
oncivil to this young girl shall have something to say also to Molly
O'Flaherty. Now, out with yiz, neighbors all; the entertainment's over,
and it's time for good folk to be in the land of dhrames. You stay
ahint with me, Bet, darlint--I have a word for your private ear."
It was quite evident that in Paradise Row Mother Bunch's smallest
command was law; in an incredibly short space of time the little room
was cleared, and Mrs. O'Flaherty and Bet were alone.
"Now, look you here, my love," said the Irishwoman, "you make what use
you can of this yere arum," and she stretched out a most powerful,
sinewy member for Bet's edification. "This arum shall come atween you
and trouble, Bet Granger. You ask anybody round what they know of
Mother Bunch, and a mimber such as this. You have no call to be
fretted, honey, with this atween you and mischief. So go up to bed now;
and swate dhrames to you, and the blessing of Molly O'Flaherty."
There was something so hearty in the voice, and so kindly in the gleam
of the Irishwoman's twinkling eyes, that Bet's overwrought heart was
strangely stirred. She stooped down and kissed Mother Bunch on her
forehead.
"I trust you," she said; "you're a safeguard to me and the little lads."
And then she went upstairs.
Meanwhile, Granger, being much too cowardly to follow his daughter into
what was known as one of the dark courts of Liverpool, shuffled back in
a discomforted and savage mood to his own superior place of residence
in Sparrow Street. There he found Dent awaiting him. Splendid jack-tar
as he was, no one could be more thoroughly disagreeable than Isaac Dent
when things, as he expressed it, "went agin' him." He did not care for
his long wait in Granger's dreary, fireless room; and he cared still
less for the remark with which Granger announced his return.
"It's all no go, Dent, my man. I telled her what we said I'd tell her,
and she went off in a mighty high tantrum. She's in Paradise Row with
Mother Bunch--she and the lads; and I don't know how I'm to get them
away from there. But," continued Granger, sinking into the first seat
he could find, and stretching out his muddy boots, "you're about right
on one point, old man--Will Scarlett's the lad of her choice, and not
you. Why, she let it out as glib and innocent-like as gel could. Will
Scarlett's the man, Dent; so you may put that in your pipe and smoke
it."
Dent's ugly face grew a deep, dull red; his small eyes seemed to recede
into his head, and grow deeper and more cunning. He did not speak at
all for a moment or two, and when he did, the flush was succeeded by a
more dangerous pallor.
"Look you yere, mate," he said--"you know a thing or two, and you has
gone pals with me in a thing or two. It's nought to me who Bet cares
about--she has got to be lawful wedded wife to me--or, or--you don't
handle the coin,--you don't handle none of the coin, Granger. And you
know a thing or two what would make it uncommon hot for you, if the
wind was to blow in a certain quarter. You understand, and no words is
needed. As to Will Scarlett, I checkmated him awhile back; so he don't
trouble me. I'll say good-night, now, pal."
"Yes, but what's a fellow to do?" said Granger, in an extremely grumpy
tone. "Bet's a strong lass, and a cute lass, and a cunning one; and she
have got that Irishwoman Mother Bunch to back her up. I don't see
what's to be done with a gel like Bet, if her will's fairly made up."
"I'd know what to do with her," grumbled Dent. He went as far as the
door, then he turned suddenly--"Mother Bunch don't find her her
bread-and-butter, I suppose?"
"No, no--Bet can do that for herself; she's a smart gel, and she have
got the best newspaper beat in Liverpool."
"Oh, the best beat, have she? And she's your daughter--not of age
yet--and she has carried the kids away from you--and she defies you,
and laughs in your face? You couldn't think of a means of starving her
out? Oh, no; not you! That good beat of hers--it were bought for her,
weren't it?"
"Yes, years agone. Her Mother seed to that."
"Seems to me that as Bet's yourn her newspaper beat is yourn too.
There's a tidy bit of money to be made out of such places once in a
way; and there's such a thing as starving the wildest and sauciest lass
in Liverpool into saying yea to your yea. A hint to the wise man is
enough. I'll wish you good-night, mate. Only if I don't get the girl
afore long, I takes the next berth that offers, and my money goes with
me. Good-night to you, mate."
Dent went downstairs, and a moment after was making his way home to his
lodgings. Bet had been perfectly right in speaking of this sailor as
bad and cruel. Will was more than justified in any suspicions he might
form against him. As Dent now walked through the streets his low type
of face looked very bad indeed; the expression of cunning--that most
unpleasant, that most diabolical of all expressions--was most apparent.
It was past midnight now, and he cast sinister glances behind and
around him. It would have been very unpleasant for him had certain
people--Will Scarlett, for instance--the least idea he was still in
Liverpool. Will, of course, supposed he was leagues away by now, snugly
ensconced in that berth which he, Will, had been so loath to part with,
on board the "Good Queen Anne." Will would indeed have opened his eyes
had any one told him that Dent had never gone near the ship, and that
the captain, after waiting and watching in vain for the bright young
sailor whose name he had entered on his log, was obliged to choose
another hand in a hurry, and knew nothing whatever of the able seaman
whom Will now supposed was admirably filling his post.
For Dent had never the least intention of going away in the "Good Queen
Anne." The one strongest desire of his life at present was to make
handsome Bet Granger his wife; and he certainly did not wish to give
Will a clear field in which he could woo and win her without danger or
difficulty.
Dent had laid his own plans with care, and he was by no means depressed
as to the possible result. When he reached his lodgings he lit a
candle, and, first carefully locking the door, and looking round him
with his most sinister glance, he lifted a loose board under his bed,
and took from the recess beneath a sailor's checked pocket
handkerchief. He opened it, and spread out on the table about twelve
sovereigns in shining gold. "Six for me," he said, "and six for
Granger, the day as Bet's mine. I ha' got a few shillings still, to
hold out, and Bet must be mine by-and-bye. Six sovereigns to spend on
our honeymoon, and then to find another berth in another ship. But Will
has got the notes. I might have made a better bargain with Will. Ten
pounds is a deal of money to give away. But never mind--never mind: I
have checkmated Will Scarlett with them notes."