If ever a girl ought to feel happy it should be on the eve of her
wedding-day. To a great many, however, this turning-point in life, this
step into a new and unknown world, is fraught with terror and distress.
Wedding bells do not always mean happiness.
Bet Granger was sitting alone in Jenny's attic. She was to be married
before the registrar to-morrow to Isaac Dent. He had made all
arrangements, and had come over from Liverpool that day to see his
promised bride. He had spent half an hour with Bet--had told her when
and where to meet him the next morning, and then had gone back to his
old haunts, a victorious and satisfied man.
When he left her, Bet had gone up to the attic, and had sat there ever
since without moving or speaking. Her hands were clasped loosely in her
lap, and her dull and heavy eyes were fixed on the fire. Jenny, finding
her poor company, had gone out, and Bet was quite alone. She was to be
a bride to-morrow,--Isaac Dent's bride. Her heart beat slowly and
calmly; there was nothing more now to hope for; she would keep her
promise, and she would try to endure the life which stretched before
her. After all, the mate of a sailor had some advantages,--she could
often be parted from her lord; he could go away on long voyages,--he
could be, he would be, he must be, months away from home; and during
that time the very winds that blew, the very breezes that fanned her
cheeks, would help to divide them--would help to show her how many
miles stretched between her and him.
Yes; the thought of the coming separation, of the certain and
inevitable separation, cheered Bet, and made her feel that her lot was
endurable.
She was to be a bride to-morrow! How strange! She felt accustomed now
to the idea of being almost a bride. It was only a few weeks back that
she sat in another attic waiting for the dawn of another wedding-day,
and the embrace of another bridegroom. She had not been happy
then,--she had been full of fear and apprehension; but the heart now so
queer, and dull and heavy, had beat fast, and the eyes had been bright
with intense excitement, and in her restless dread and earnest longing
she had paced the floor of Mother Bunch's attic until the very dawn.
Then she had been unhappy, but she had been alive. Now, what had come
over her? Had the spirit of the real Bet Granger gone away with Will
over the dancing sea? Had it refused to be parted from her true lover,
and was Isaac Dent only marrying a dead woman?
During the fortnight that Bet had spent at Warrington she had searched
high and low for her father and the boys. Of course, she had searched
in vain. It was quite possible for a clever man like Dent to furnish
her with endless clues which all led to nothing. His object was to give
her a reason for remaining in Warrington--his object was to keep her at
any hazard out of Liverpool. He knew that in Liverpool the knowledge of
his treachery towards Will could not long be concealed from her. She
would meet Hester Wright--she would meet one friend or another who
would certainly tell her that the lad for whom she had sold herself was
still in prison.
After they were married--oh! then it mattered nothing at all. Then his
triumph would be all the greater when the bad man showed her that,
although she was his absolutely, she had done nothing for Will by her
deed of self-sacrifice.
Jenny had been a good friend to Bet during the last fortnight. She knew
Dent, but did not admire him; and it was an unceasing puzzle to her how
any promise could bind Bet to such a man.
"You'll be his forever," she said. "Well, I wouldn't have him--not for
no price. I wouldn't be his wife, not if you was to pay me for it. And
the other lad, he'll come back from sea, and he won't like to see you
Isaac's wife. It's a wrong promise you ha' made, Bet Granger; and you
needn't go for to tell me nothing else. If I was you, I wouldn't keep
it. Don't 'ee, now, Bet--don't 'ee. Think of the other poor sailor
feller--how he'll look at yer when he comes back from sea!"
At first, when Jenny spoke like this, Bet had shut her up with a few
sharp words, but of late she had taken no notice; her face every day
had grown duller, and her words further apart. Her whole attitude was
so dull and lifeless that Jenny gave up teasing her; and finding that,
from being an entertaining companion, she was now one of the dullest,
left her a good deal to herself.
Bet sat on in the attic, and presently the fire went out, and only the
moonlight lit up her little dreary room. Bet closed her eyes, and fell
into a heavy doze; she slept for about ten minutes, and, whether that
sleep had refreshed her, and lifted a cloud from her brain, no one can
say, but she awoke in quite a different mood: the apathy and
indifference of the last few days had left her; she was once more
keenly alive, keenly suffering and rebellious.
The events of the two last months--all the story which had come to her
since her mother's death-kept flitting like a series of pictures before
her vivid imagination. She saw Will's face with a tender light in the
eyes; she felt his breath on her cheek, and her hand seemed again to be
clasped in his. Once more she heard Hester and Will singing together--
"I had a message to send her--
To be whom my soul loved best,
But I had my task to finish,
And she had gone home to rest."
Bet saw once more the little room in Sparrow Street, and the smile, the
look so full of satisfaction, on her dead mother's face.
"Oh, mother, mother!" she sobbed.
She fell on her knees, and the tears streamed through the fingers which
covered her face. "Oh mother! life ha' gone hard--bitter, bitter
hard--for poor Bet. I ha' broke my word to you--and the lads, I dunno
where they are. Oh, I'm good for nought--I'm good for nought--I wish I
were lying dead beside my mother!"
She sobbed and sobbed; and her tears, while they seemed to rend her
heart, brough a certain sense of lightness and relief.
"Mother, you was a good woman-you believed in religion and all that. I
didn't. I were allers a hard 'un--allers, and allers; but I'd give the
world,--mother, mother, hear me, hear me, ef you can, up in heaven with
God!--I'd give all the wide world to be _good_, GOOD, to-night!"
Again Bet seemed to hear Will and Hester singing to her--
"And I know that at last my message
Has passed through the golden gate,
And my heart is no longer restless,
And I am content to wait."
She rose to her feet. Her tears were over, her great grief was
lightened, but now a curious and inexplicable desire took possession of
her. She would not fail Isaac Dent. If she had broken every other
promise she would at least keep this one. She would marry him tomorrow,
and perhaps her mother's God would help her to be a good wife to him.
But she would--she must--go to Liverpool tonight. She had money enough
in her pocket to take her there; she looked at the coins, going close
to the window to see them the better in the moonlight, and saw that she
had sufficient to purchase a single third-class fare. How was she to
get back to Warrington in the morning? How was she to meet Dent at the
registrar's office? She did not know; she felt also that she did not
care. Already her marriage with Dent seemed to be removed into a dim
and intangible future. She would marry him,--oh, yes--but when and how
she did not know, she did not care. She could scarcely bring her
thoughts to bear on the great and terrible subject which an hour ago
had filled her whole horizon. Liverpool, the great city, was drawing
her, as though it was the voice of Will himself. She rose, brushed out
her hair, plaited it, and wound it in a great coronet round her
beautiful head, washed her face and hands, wrapped her mother's shawl
tidily round her, and ran downstairs.
At the door she met Jenny.
"Good-bye, dear," she said in a gentle tone. And she stooped and kissed
the little round-faced girl.
"Why, Bet, are you mad?" said Jenny. "Where are you going? How spry you
look! And your eyes are so bright! Oh, Bet, Bet! have you come to your
senses? Are you going to break your promise to Dent?"
"It is not that," said Bet. "I'll be here tomorrow morn. I won't fail
Isaac. I'll see you again to-morrow morning, Jenny, but I must go to
Liverpool to-night. My heart draws me--I must go. Good-bye,
Jenny--good-bye, dear."
Jenny looked after the tall, stately figure.
"Well, this _is_ a rum go," she muttered. "And ef she don't hurry
she'll be late. The last train goes at eight o'clock--she'll lose it ef
she don't run."
But Bet did not lose the train.