Isaac Dent did indeed feel himself a triumphant man. If such a nature
as his could possibly know anything of love, he had something which he
called by that name for the handsome girl whom he had deceived, and
whose happiness he had wrecked. His powers of loving, however, might
have been described as uncertain, dubious, and absolutely unworthy of
so high and sacred a name. But there was no doubt at all with regard to
his powers of revenge, or as to his cunning and double dealing.
It was the night before his wedding; and the prize--the choice, rich,
great prize of the bravest and most beautiful girl in the city--was
almost his. Will was safe in prison; Bet was safe at Warrington. One
week of happiness with her, and then he would secure for himself a good
berth on board a prosperous ship, and sail away, the luckiest fellow in
the land.
If Dent had a conscience at all, it was a very dull one, and it
certainly gave him no trouble some qualms that night. He still
possessed seven or eight pounds of the stolen money, and he intended to
have a right good time with Bet--to spend his ill-gotten wealth freely,
and to enjoy himself in a thorough manner for once in his life. He had
been to Warrington and made all final arrangements; and now, about nine
o'clock in the evening, he left his lodgings to fulfill an appointment
he had 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.