drinkin'! Mind," says I, "I don't say I'm a teetotaller - I'm not, I
'ave my glass of beer, and I like it. I couldn't do withaht it, wot
with the work I 'ave, I must 'ave somethin' ter keep me tergether. But
as for drinkin' 'eavily! Well! I can say this, there ain't a soberer
woman than myself in all London. Why, my first 'usband never touched a
drop. Ah, my first 'usband, 'e was a beauty, 'e was."'

She stopped the repetition of her conversation and addressed herself
to Liza.

''E was thet different ter this one. 'E was a man as 'ad seen better
days. 'E was a gentleman!' She mouthed the word and emphasized it with
an expressive nod.

''E was a gentleman and a Christian. 'E'd been in good circumstances
in 'is time; an' 'e was a man of education and a teetotaller, for
twenty-two years.'

At that moment Liza's mother appeared on the scene.

'Good evenin', Mrs. Stanley,' she said, politely.

'The sime ter you, Mrs. Kemp.' replied that lady, with equal courtesy.

'An' 'ow is your poor 'ead?' asked Liza's mother, with sympathy.

'Oh, it's been achin' cruel. I've hardly known wot ter do with
myself.'

'I'm sure 'e ought ter be ashimed of 'imself for treatin' yer like
thet.'

'Oh, it wasn't 'is blows I minded so much, Mrs. Kemp,' replied Mrs.
Stanley, 'an' don't you think it. It was wot 'e said ter me. I can
stand a blow as well as any woman. I don't mind thet, an' when 'e
don't tike a mean advantage of me I can stand up for myself an' give
as good as I tike; an' many's the time I give my fust husband a black
eye. But the language 'e used, an' the things 'e called me! It made me
blush to the roots of my 'air; I'm not used ter bein' spoken ter like
thet. I was in good circumstances when my fust 'usband was alive, 'e
earned between two an' three pound a week, 'e did. As I said to 'im
this mornin', "'Ow a gentleman can use sich language, I dunno."'

''Usbands is cautions, 'owever good they are,' said Mrs. Kemp,
aphoristically. 'But I mustn't stay aht 'ere in the night air.'

''As yer rheumatism been troublin' yer litely?' asked Mrs. Stanley.

'Oh, cruel. Liza rubs me with embrocation every night, but it torments
me cruel.'

Mrs. Kemp then went into the house, and Liza remained talking to Mrs.
Stanley, she, too, had to go in, and Liza was left alone. Some while
she spent thinking of nothing, staring vacantly in front of her,
enjoying the cool and quiet of the evening. But Liza could not be left
alone long, several boys came along with a bat and a ball, and fixed
upon the road just in front of her for their pitch. Taking off their
coats they piled them up at the two ends, and were ready to begin.

'I say, old gal,' said one of them to Liza, 'come an' have a gime of
cricket, will yer?'

'Na, Bob, I'm tired.'

'Come on!'

'Na, I tell you I won't.'

'She was on the booze yesterday, an' she ain't got over it,' cried
another boy.

'I'll swipe yer over the snitch!' replied Liza to him, and then on
being asked again, said:

'Leave me alone, won't yer?'

'Liza's got the needle ter-night, thet's flat,' commented a third
member of the team.

'I wouldn't drink if I was you, Liza,' added another, with mock
gravity. 'It's a bad 'abit ter git into,' and he began rolling and
swaying about like a drunken man.

If Liza had been 'in form' she would have gone straight away and given
the whole lot of them a sample of her strength; but she was only
rather bored and vexed that they should disturb her quietness, so she
let them talk. They saw she was not to be drawn, and leaving her, set
to their game. She watched them for some time, but her thoughts
gradually lost themselves, and insensibly her mind was filled with a
burly form, and she was again thinking of Jim.

''E is a good sort ter want ter tike me ter the ply,' she said to
herself. 'Tom never arst me!'

Jim had said he would come out in the evening; he ought to be here
soon, she thought. Of course she wasn't going to the theatre with him,
but she didn't mind talking to him; she rather enjoyed being asked to
do a thing and refusing, and she would have liked another opportunity
of doing so. But he didn't come and he had said he would!

'I say, Bill,' she said at last to one of the boys who was fielding
close beside her, 'that there Blakeston - d'you know 'im?'

'Yes, rather; why, he works at the sime plice as me.'

'Wot's 'e do with 'isself in the evening; I never see 'im abaht?'

'I dunno. I see 'im this evenin' go into the "Red Lion". I suppose
'e's there, but I dunno.'

Then he wasn't coming. Of course she had told him she was going to
stay indoors, but he might have come all the same - just to see.

'I know Tom 'ud 'ave come,' she said to herself, rather sulkily.

'Liza! Liza!' she heard her mother's voice calling her.

'Arright, I'm comin',' said Liza.

'I've been witin' for you this last 'alf-hour ter rub me.'

'Why didn't yer call?' asked Liza.

'I did call. I've been callin' this last I dunno 'ow long; it's give
me quite a sore throat.'

'I never 'eard yer.'

'Na, yer didn't want ter 'ear me, did yer? Yer don't mind if I dies
with rheumatics, do yer? I know.'

Liza did not answer, but took the bottle, and, pouring some of the
liniment on her hand, began to rub it into Mrs. Kemp's rheumatic
joints, while the invalid kept complaining and grumbling at everything
Liza did.

'Don't rub so 'ard, Liza, you'll rub all the skin off.'

Then when Liza did it as gently as she could, she grumbled again.

'If yer do it like thet, it won't do no good at all. You want ter sive
yerself trouble - I know yer. When I was young girls didn't mind a
little bit of 'ard work - but, law bless yer, you don't care abaht my
rheumatics, do yer?'

At last she finished, and Liza went to bed by her mother's side.


7


Two days passed, and it was Friday morning. Liza had got up early and
strolled off to her work in good time, but she did not meet her
faithful Sally on the way, nor find her at the factory when she
herself arrived. The bell rang and all the girls trooped in, but still
Sally did not come. Liza could not make it out, and was thinking she
would be shut out, when just as the man who gave out the tokens for
the day's work was pulling down the shutter in front of his window,
Sally arrived, breathless and perspiring.

'Whew! Go' lumme, I am 'ot!' she said, wiping her face with her apron.

'I thought you wasn't comin',' said Liza.

'Well, I only just did it; I overslep' myself. I was aht lite last
night.'

'Were yer?'

'Me an' 'Arry went ter see the ply. Oh, Liza, it's simply spiffin'!
I've never see sich a good ply in my life. Lor'! Why, it mikes yer
blood run cold: they 'ang a man on the stige; oh, it mide me creep all
over!'

And then she began telling Liza all about it - the blood and thunder,
the shooting, the railway train, the murder, the bomb, the hero, the
funny man - jumbling everything up in her excitement, repeating little
scraps of dialogue - all wrong - gesticulating, getting excited and red
in the face at the recollection. Liza listened rather crossly, feeling
bored at the detail into which Sally was going: the piece really
didn't much interest her.

'One 'ud think yer'd never been to a theatre in your life before,' she
said.

'I never seen anything so good, I can tell yer. You tike my tip, and
git Tom ter tike yer.'

'I don't want ter go; an' if I did I'd py for myself an' go alone.'

'Cheese it! That ain't 'alf so good. Me an' 'Arry, we set together,
'im with 'is arm round my wiste and me oldin' 'is 'and. It was jam, I
can tell yer!'

'Well, I don't want anyone sprawlin' me abaht, thet ain't my mark!'

'But I do like 'Arry; you dunno the little ways 'e 'as; an' we're
goin' ter be married in three weeks now. 'Arry said, well, 'e says,
"I'll git a licence." "Na," says I, "'ave the banns read aht in
church: it seems more reg'lar like to 'ave banns; so they're goin' ter
be read aht next Sunday. You'll come with me 'an 'ear them, won't yer,
Liza?"'

'Yus, I don't mind.'

On the way home Sally insisted on stopping in front of the poster and
explaining to Liza all about the scene represented.

'Oh, you give me the sick with your "Fital Card", you do! I'm goin'
'ome.' And she left Sally in the midst of her explanation.

'I dunno wot's up with Liza,' remarked Sally to a mutual friend.
'She's always got the needle, some'ow.'

'Oh, she's barmy,' answered the friend.

'Well, I do think she's a bit dotty sometimes - I do really,' rejoined
Sally.

Liza walked homewards, thinking of the play; at length she tossed her
head impatiently.

'I don't want ter see the blasted thing; an' if I see that there Jim
I'll tell 'im so; swop me bob, I will.'

She did see him; he was leaning with his back against the wall of his
house, smoking. Liza knew he had seen her, and as she walked by
pretended not to have noticed him. To her disgust, he let her pass,
and she was thinking he hadn't seen her after all, when she heard him
call her name.

'Liza!'

She turned round and started with surprise very well imitated. 'I
didn't see you was there!' she said.

'Why did yer pretend not ter notice me, as yer went past - eh, Liza?'

'Why, I didn't see yer.'

'Garn! But you ain't shirty with me?'

'Wot 'ave I got to be shirty abaht?'

He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away quickly. She was
getting used to the movement. They went on talking, but Jim did not
mention the theatre; Liza was surprised, and wondered whether he had
forgotten.

'Er - Sally went to the ply last night,' she said, at last.

'Oh!' he said, and that was all.

She got impatient.

'Well, I'm off!' she said.

'Na, don't go yet; I want ter talk ter yer,' he replied.

'Wot abaht? anythin' in partickler?' She would drag it out of him if
she possibly could.

'Not thet I knows on,' he said, smiling.

'Good night!' she said, abruptly, turning away from him.

'Well, I'm damned if 'e ain't forgotten!' she said to herself,
sulkily, as she marched home.

The following evening about six o'clock, it suddenly struck her that
it was the last night of the 'New and Sensational Drama'.

'I do like thet Jim Blakeston,' she said to herself; 'fancy treatin'
me like thet! You wouldn't catch Tom doin' sich a thing. Bli'me if I
speak to 'im again, the - - . Now I shan't see it at all. I've a good
mind ter go on my own 'ook. Fancy 'is forgettin' all abaht it, like
thet!'

She was really quite indignant; though, as she had distinctly refused
Jim's offer, it was rather hard to see why.

''E said 'e'd wite for me ahtside the doors; I wonder if 'e's there.
I'll go an' see if 'e is, see if I don't - an' then if 'e's there, I'll
go in on my own 'ook, jist ter spite 'im!'

She dressed herself in her best, and, so that the neighbours shouldn't
see her, went up a passage between some model lodging-house buildings,
and in this roundabout way got into the Westminster Bridge Road, and
soon found herself in front of the theatre.

'I've been witin' for yer this 'alf-hour.'

She turned round and saw Jim standing just behind her.

''Oo are you talkin' to? I'm not goin' to the ply with you. Wot d'yer
tike me for, eh?'

''Oo are yer goin' with, then?'

'I'm goin' alone.'

'Garn! don't be a bloomin' jackass!'

Liza was feeling very injured.

'Thet's 'ow you treat me! I shall go 'ome. Why didn't you come aht the
other night?'

'Yer told me not ter.'

She snorted at the ridiculous ineptitude of the reply.

'Why didn't you say nothin' abaht it yesterday?'

'Why, I thought you'd come if I didn't talk on it.'

'Well, I think you're a - - brute!' She felt very much inclined to
cry.

'Come on, Liza, don't tike on; I didn't mean no offence.' And he put
his arm round her waist and led her to take their places at the
gallery door. Two tears escaped from the corners of her eyes and ran
down her nose, but she felt very relieved and happy, and let him lead
her where he would.

There was a long string of people waiting at the door, and Liza was
delighted to see a couple of niggers who were helping them to while
away the time of waiting. The niggers sang and danced, and made faces,
while the people looked on with appreciative gravity, like royalty
listening to de Reské, and they were very generous of applause and
halfpence at the end of the performance. Then, when the niggers moved
to the pit doors, paper boys came along offering _Tit-Bits_ and 'extra
specials'; after that three little girls came round and sang
sentimental songs and collected more halfpence. At last a movement ran
through the serpent-like string of people, sounds were heard behind
the door, everyone closed up, the men told the women to keep close and
hold tight; there was a great unbarring and unbolting, the doors were
thrown open, and, like a bursting river, the people surged in.

Half an hour more and the curtain went up. The play was indeed
thrilling. Liza quite forgot her companion, and was intent on the
scene; she watched the incidents breathlessly, trembling with
excitement, almost beside herself at the celebrated hanging incident.
When the curtain fell on the first act she sighed and mopped her face.

'See 'ow 'ot I am.' she said to Jim, giving him her hand.

'Yus, you are!' he remarked, taking it.

'Leave go!' she said, trying to withdraw it from him.

'Not much,' he answered, quite boldly.

'Garn! Leave go!' But he didn't, and she really did not struggle very
violently.

The second act came, and she shrieked over the comic man; and her
laughter rang higher than anyone else's, so that people turned to look
at her, and said:

'She is enjoyin' 'erself.'

Then when the murder came she bit her nails and the sweat stood on her
forehead in great drops; in her excitement she even called out as loud
as she could to the victim, 'Look aht!' It caused a laugh and
slackened the tension, for the whole house was holding its breath as
it looked at the villains listening at the door, creeping silently
forward, crawling like tigers to their prey.

Liza trembling all over, and in her terror threw herself against Jim,
who put both his arms round her, and said:

'Don't be afride, Liza; it's all right.'

At last the men sprang, there was a scuffle, and the wretch was
killed, then came the scene depicted on the posters - the victim's son
knocking at the door, on the inside of which were the murderers and
the murdered man. At last the curtain came down, and the house in
relief burst forth into cheers and cheers; the handsome hero in his
top hat was greeted thunderously; the murdered man, with his clothes
still all disarranged, was hailed with sympathy; and the villains - the
house yelled and hissed and booed, while the poor brutes bowed and
tried to look as if they liked it.

'I am enjoyin' myself,' said Liza, pressing herself quite close to
Jim; 'you are a good sort ter tike me - Jim.'

He gave her a little hug, and it struck her that she was sitting just
as Sally had done, and, like Sally, she found it 'jam'.

The _entr'actes_ were short and the curtain was soon up again, and the
comic man raised customary laughter by undressing and exposing his
nether garments to the public view; then more tragedy, and the final
act with its darkened room, its casting lots, and its explosion.

When it was all over and they had got outside Jim smacked his lips and
said:

'I could do with a gargle; let's go onto thet pub there.'

'I'm as dry as bone,' said Liza; and so they went.

When they got in they discovered they were hungry, and seeing some
appetising sausage-rolls, ate of them, and washed them down with a
couple of pots of beer; then Jim lit his pipe and they strolled off.
They had got quite near the Westminster Bridge Road when Jim suggested
that they should go and have one more drink before closing time.

'I shall be tight,' said Liza.

'Thet don't matter,' answered Jim, laughing. 'You ain't got ter go ter
work in the mornin' an' you can sleep it aht.'

'Arright, I don't mind if I do then, in for a penny, in for a pound.'

At the pub door she drew back.

'I say, guv'ner,' she said, 'there'll be some of the coves from dahn
our street, and they'll see us.'

'Na, there won't be nobody there, don't yer 'ave no fear.'

'I don't like ter go in for fear of it.'

'Well, we ain't doin' no 'arm if they does see us, an' we can go into
the private bar, an' you bet your boots there won't be no one there.'

She yielded, and they went in.

'Two pints of bitter, please, miss,' ordered Jim.

'I say, 'old 'ard. I can't drink more than 'alf a pint,' said Liza.

'Cheese it,' answered Jim. 'You can do with all you can get, I know.'

At closing time they left and walked down the broad road which led
homewards.

'Let's 'ave a little sit dahn,' said Jim, pointing to an empty bench
between two trees.

'Na, it's gettin' lite; I want ter be 'ome.'

'It's such a fine night, it's a pity ter go in already;' and he drew
her unresisting towards the seat. He put his arm round her waist.

'Un'and me, villin!' she said, in apt misquotation of the melodrama,
but Jim only laughed, and she made no effort to disengage herself.

They sat there for a long while in silence; the beer had got to Liza's
head, and the warm night air filled her with a double intoxication.
She felt the arm round her waist, and the big, heavy form pressing
against her side; she experienced again the curious sensation as if
her heart were about to burst, and it choked her - a feeling so
oppressive and painful it almost made her feel sick. Her hands began
to tremble, and her breathing grew rapid, as though she were
suffocating. Almost fainting, she swayed over towards the man, and a
cold shiver ran through her from top to toe. Jim bent over her, and,
taking her in both arms, he pressed his lips to hers in a long,
passionate kiss. At last, panting for breath, she turned her head away
and groaned.

Then they again sat for a long while in silence, Liza full of a
strange happiness, feeling as if she could laugh aloud hysterically,
but restrained by the calm and silence of the night. Close behind
struck a church clock - one.

'Bless my soul!' said Liza, starting, 'there's one o'clock. I must get
'ome.'

'It's so nice out 'ere; do sty, Liza.' He pressed her closer to him.
'Yer know, Liza, I love yer - fit ter kill.'

'Na, I can't stay; come on.' She got up from the seat, and pulled him
up too. 'Come on,' she said.

Without speaking they went along, and there was no one to be seen
either in front or behind them. He had not got his arm round her now,
and they were walking side by side, slightly separated. It was Liza
who spoke first.

'You'd better go dahn the Road and by the church an' git into Vere
Street the other end, an' I'll go through the passage, so thet no one
shouldn't see us comin' together,' she spoke almost in a whisper.

'Arright, Liza,' he answered, 'I'll do just as you tell me.'

They came to the passage of which Liza spoke; it was a narrow way
between blank walls, the backs of factories, and it led into the upper
end of Vere Street. The entrance to it was guarded by two iron posts
in the middle so that horses or barrows should not be taken through.

They had just got to it when a man came out into the open road. Liza
quickly turned her head away.

'I wonder if 'e see us,' she said, when he had passed out of earshot.
''E's lookin' back,' she added.

'Why, 'oo is it?' asked Jim.

'It's a man aht of our street,' she answered. 'I dunno 'im, but I know
where 'e lodges. D'yer think 'e sees us?'

'Na, 'e wouldn't know 'oo it was in the dark.'

'But he looked round; all the street'll know it if he see us.'

'Well, we ain't doin' no 'arm.'

She stretched out her hand to say good night.

'I'll come a wy with yer along the passage,' said Jim.

'Na, you mustn't; you go straight round.'

'But it's so dark; p'raps summat'll 'appen to yer.'

'Not it! You go on 'ome an' leave me,' she replied, and entering the
passage, stood facing him with one of the iron pillars between them.

'Good night, old cock,' she said, stretching out her hand. He took it,
and said:

'I wish yer wasn't goin' ter leave me, Liza.'

'Garn! I must!' She tried to get her hand away from his, but he held
it firm, resting it on the top of the pillar.

'Leave go my 'and,' she said. He made no movement, but looked into her
eyes steadily, so that it made her uneasy. She repented having come
out with him. 'Leave go my 'and.' And she beat down on his with her
closed fist.

'Liza!' he said, at last.

'Well, wot is it?' she answered, still thumping down on his hand with
her fist.

'Liza,' he said a whisper, 'will yer?'

'Will I wot?' she said, looking down.

'You know, Liza. Sy, will yer?'

'Na,' she said.

He bent over her and repeated -

'Will yer?'

She did not speak, but kept beating down on his hand.

'Liza,' he said again, his voice growing hoarse and thick - 'Liza, will
yer?'

She still kept silence, looking away and continually bringing down her
fist. He looked at her a moment, and she, ceasing to thump his hand,
looked up at him with half-opened mouth. Suddenly he shook himself,
and closing his fist gave her a violent, swinging blow in the belly.

'Come on.' he said.

And together they slid down into the darkness of the passage.


8


Mrs. Kemp was in the habit of slumbering somewhat heavily on Sunday
mornings, or Liza would not have been allowed to go on sleeping as she
did. When she woke, she rubbed her eyes to gather her senses together
and gradually she remembered having gone to the theatre on the
previous evening; then suddenly everything came back to her. She
stretched out her legs and gave a long sigh of delight. Her heart was
full; she thought of Jim, and the delicious sensation of love came
over her. Closing her eyes, she imagined his warm kisses, and she
lifted up her arms as if to put them round his neck and draw him down
to her; she almost felt the rough beard on her face, and the strong
heavy arms round her body. She smiled to herself and took a long
breath; then, slipping back the sleeves of her nightdress, she looked
at her own thin arms, just two pieces of bone with not a muscle on
them, but very white and showing distinctly the interlacement of blue
veins: she did not notice that her hands were rough, and red and dirty
with the nails broken, and bitten to the quick. She got out of bed and
looked at herself in the glass over the mantelpiece: with one hand she
brushed back her hair and smiled at herself; her face was very small
and thin, but the complexion was nice, clear and white, with a
delicate tint of red on the cheeks, and her eyes were big and dark
like her hair. She felt very happy.

She did not want to dress yet, but rather to sit down and think, so
she twisted up her hair into a little knot, slipped a skirt over her
nightdress, and sat on a chair near the window and began looking
around. The decorations of the room had been centred on the
mantelpiece; the chief ornament consisted of a pear and an apple, a
pineapple, a bunch of grapes, and several fat plums, all very
beautifully done in wax, as was the fashion about the middle of this
most glorious reign. They were appropriately coloured - the apple
blushing red, the grapes an inky black, emerald green leaves were
scattered here and there to lend finish, and the whole was mounted on
an ebonised stand covered with black velvet, and protected from dust
and dirt by a beautiful glass cover bordered with red plush. Liza's
eyes rested on this with approbation, and the pineapple quite made her
mouth water. At either end of the mantelpiece were pink jars with blue
flowers on the front; round the top in Gothic letters of gold was
inscribed: 'A Present from a Friend' - these were products of a later,
but not less artistic age. The intervening spaces were taken up with
little jars and cups and saucers - gold inside, with a view of a town
outside, and surrounding them, 'A Present from Clacton-on-Sea,' or,
alliteratively, 'A Memento of Margate.' Of these many were broken, but
they had been mended with glue, and it is well known that pottery in
the eyes of the connoisseur loses none of its value by a crack or two.
Then there were portraits innumerable - little yellow cartes-de-visite
in velvet frames, some of which were decorated with shells; they
showed strange people with old-fashioned clothes, the women with
bodices and sleeves fitting close to the figure, stern-featured
females with hair carefully parted in the middle and plastered down on
each side, firm chins and mouths, with small, pig-like eyes and
wrinkled faces, and the men were uncomfortably clad in Sunday
garments, very stiff and uneasy in their awkward postures, with large
whiskers and shaved chins and upper lips and a general air of
horny-handed toil. Then there were one or two daguerreotypes, little
full-length figures framed in gold paper. There was one of Mrs. Kemp's
father and one of her mother, and there were several photographs of
betrothed or newly-married couples, the lady sitting down and the man
standing behind her with his hand on the chair, or the man sitting and
the woman with her hand on his shoulder. And from all sides of the
room, standing on the mantelpiece, hanging above it, on the wall and
over the bed, they stared full-face into the room, self-consciously
fixed for ever in their stiff discomfort.

The walls were covered with dingy, antiquated paper, and ornamented
with coloured supplements from Christmas Numbers - there was a very
patriotic picture of a soldier shaking the hand of a fallen comrade
and waving his arm in defiance of a band of advancing Arabs; there was
a 'Cherry Ripe,' almost black with age and dirt; there were two
almanacks several years old, one with a coloured portrait of the
Marquess of Lorne, very handsome and elegantly dressed, the object of
Mrs. Kemp's adoration since her husband's demise; the other a Jubilee
portrait of the Queen, somewhat losing in dignity by a moustache which
Liza in an irreverent moment had smeared on with charcoal.

The furniture consisted of a wash-hand stand and a little deal chest
of drawers, which acted as sideboard to such pots and pans and
crockery as could not find room in the grate; and besides the bed
there was nothing but two kitchen chairs and a lamp. Liza looked at it
all and felt perfectly satisfied; she put a pin into one corner of the
noble Marquess to prevent him from falling, fiddled about with the
ornaments a little, and then started washing herself. After putting on
her clothes she ate some bread-and-butter, swallowed a dishful of cold
tea, and went out into the street.

She saw some boys playing cricket and went up to them.

'Let me ply,' she said.

'Arright, Liza,' cried half a dozen of them in delight; and the
captain added: 'You go an' scout over by the lamp-post.'

'Go an' scout my eye!' said Liza, indignantly. 'When I ply cricket I
does the battin'.'

'Na, you're not goin' ter bat all the time. 'Oo are you gettin' at?'
replied the captain, who had taken advantage of his position to put
himself in first, and was still at the wicket.

'Well, then I shan't ply,' answered Liza.

'Garn, Ernie, let 'er go in!' shouted two or three members of the
team.

'Well, I'm busted!' remarked the captain, as she took his bat. 'You
won't sty in long, I lay,' he said, as he sent the old bowler fielding
and took the ball himself. He was a young gentleman who did not suffer
from excessive backwardness.

'Aht!' shouted a dozen voices as the ball went past Liza's bat and
landed in the pile of coats which formed the wicket. The captain came
forward to resume his innings, but Liza held the bat away from him.

'Garn!' she said; 'thet was only a trial.'

'You never said trial,' answered the captain indignantly.

'Yus, I did,' said Liza; 'I said it just as the ball was comin' - under
my breath.'

'Well, I am busted!' repeated the captain.

Just then Liza saw Tom among the lookers-on, and as she felt very
kindly disposed to the world in general that morning, she called out
to him:

''Ulloa, Tom!' she said. 'Come an' give us a ball; this chap can't
bowl.'

'Well, I got yer aht, any'ow,' said that person.

'Ah, yer wouldn't 'ave got me aht plyin' square. But a trial
ball - well, one don't ever know wot a trial ball's goin' ter do.'

Tom began bowling very slowly and easily, so that Liza could swing her
bat round and hit mightily; she ran well, too, and pantingly brought
up her score to twenty. Then the fielders interposed.

'I sy, look 'ere, 'e's only givin' 'er lobs; 'e's not tryin' ter git
'er aht.'

'You're spoilin' our gime.'

'I don't care; I've got twenty runs - thet's more than you could do.
I'll go aht now of my own accord, so there! Come on, Tom.'

Tom joined her, and as the captain at last resumed his bat and the
game went on, they commenced talking, Liza leaning against the wall of
a house, while Tom stood in front of her, smiling with pleasure.

'Where 'ave you been idin' yerself, Tom? I ain't seen yer for I dunno
'ow long.'

'I've been abaht as usual; an' I've seen you when you didn't see me.'

'Well, yer might 'ave come up and said good mornin' when you see me.'

'I didn't want ter force myself on, yer, Liza.'

'Garn! You are a bloomin' cuckoo. I'm blowed!'

'I thought yer didn't like me 'angin' round yer; so I kep' awy.'

'Why, yer talks as if I didn't like yer. Yer don't think I'd 'ave come
aht beanfeastin' with yer if I 'adn't liked yer?'

Liza was really very dishonest, but she felt so happy this morning
that she loved the whole world, and of course Tom came in with the
others. She looked very kindly at him, and he was so affected that a
great lump came in his throat and he could not speak.

Liza's eyes turned to Jim's house, and she saw coming out of the door
a girl of about her own age; she fancied she saw in her some likeness
to Jim.

'Say, Tom,' she asked, 'thet ain't Blakeston's daughter, is it?'

'Yus thet's it.'

'I'll go an' speak to 'er,' said Liza, leaving Tom and going over the
road.

'You're Polly Blakeston, ain't yer?' she said.

'Thet's me!' said the girl.

'I thought you was. Your dad, 'e says ter me, "You dunno my daughter,
Polly, do yer?" says 'e. "Na," says I, "I don't." "Well," says 'e,
"You can't miss 'er when you see 'er." An' right enough I didn't.'

'Mother says I'm all father, an' there ain't nothin' of 'er in me. Dad
says it's lucky it ain't the other wy abaht, or e'd 'ave got a
divorce.'

They both laughed.

'Where are you goin' now?' asked Liza, looking at the slop-basin she
was carrying.

'I was just goin' dahn into the road ter get some ice-cream for
dinner. Father 'ad a bit of luck last night, 'e says, and 'e'd stand
the lot of us ice-cream for dinner ter-day.'

'I'll come with yer if yer like.'

'Come on!' And, already friends, they walked arm-in-arm to the
Westminster Bridge Road. Then they went along till they came to a
stall where an Italian was selling the required commodity, and having
had a taste apiece to see if they liked it, Polly planked down
sixpence and had her basin filled with a poisonous-looking mixture of
red and white ice-cream.

On the way back, looking up the street, Polly cried:

'There's father!'

Liza's heart beat rapidly and she turned red; but suddenly a sense of
shame came over her, and casting down her head so that she might not
see him, she said:

'I think I'll be off 'ome an' see 'ow mother's gettin' on.' And before
Polly could say anything she had slipped away and entered her own
house.

Mother was not getting on at all well.

'You've come in at last, you - - , you!' snarled Mrs. Kemp, as Liza
entered the room.

'Wot's the matter, mother?'

'Matter! I like thet - matter indeed! Go an' matter yerself an' be
mattered! Nice way ter treat an old woman like me - an' yer own mother,
too!'

'Wot's up now?'

'Don't talk ter me; I don't want ter listen ter you. Leavin' me all
alone, me with my rheumatics, an' the neuralgy! I've 'ad the neuralgy
all the mornin', and my 'ead's been simply splittin', so thet I
thought the bones 'ud come apart and all my brains go streamin' on the
floor. An' when I wake up there's no one ter git my tea for me, an' I
lay there witin' an' witin', an' at last I 'ad ter git up and mike it
myself. And, my 'ead simply cruel! Why, I might 'ave been burnt ter
death with the fire alight an' me asleep.'

'Well, I am sorry, mother; but I went aht just for a bit, an' didn't
think you'd wike. An' besides, the fire wasn't alight.'

'Garn with yer! I didn't treat my mother like thet. Oh, you've been a
bad daughter ter me - an' I 'ad more illness carryin' you than with all
the other children put togither. You was a cross at yer birth, an'
you've been a cross ever since. An' now in my old age, when I've
worked myself ter the bone, yer leaves me to starve and burn to
death.' Here she began to cry, and the rest of her utterances was lost
in sobs.

* * * * *

The dusk had darkened into night, and Mrs. Kemp had retired to rest
with the dicky-birds. Liza was thinking of many things; she wondered
why she had been unwilling to meet Jim in the morning.

'I was a bally fool,' she said to herself.

It really seemed an age since the previous night, and all that had
happened seemed very long ago. She had not spoken to Jim all day, and
she had so much to say to him. Then, wondering whether he was about,
she went to the window and looked out; but there was nobody there. She
closed the window again and sat just beside it; the time went on, and
she wondered whether he would come, asking herself whether he had been
thinking of her as she of him; gradually her thoughts grew vague, and
a kind of mist came over them. She nodded. Suddenly she roused
herself with a start, fancying she had heard something; she listened
again, and in a moment the sound was repeated, three or four gentle
taps on the window. She opened it quickly and whispered:

'Jim.'

'Thet's me,' he answered, 'come aht.'

Closing the window, she went into the passage and opened the street
door; it was hardly unlocked before Jim had pushed his way in; partly
shutting it behind him, he took her in his arms and hugged her to his
breast. She kissed him passionately.

'I thought yer'd come ter-night, Jim; summat in my 'eart told me so.
But you 'ave been long.'

'I wouldn't come before, 'cause I thought there'd be people abaht.
Kiss us!' And again he pressed his lips to hers, and Liza nearly
fainted with the delight of it.

'Let's go for a walk, shall we?' he said.

'Arright!' They were speaking in whispers. 'You go into the road
through the passage, an' I'll go by the street.'

'Yus, thet's right,' and kissing her once more, he slid out, and she
closed the door behind him.

Then going back to get her hat, she came again into the passage,
waiting behind the door till it might be safe for her to venture. She
had not made up her mind to risk it, when she heard a key put in the
lock, and she hardly had time to spring back to prevent herself from
being hit by the opening door. It was a man, one of the upstairs
lodgers.

''Ulloa!' he said, ''oo's there?'

'Mr. 'Odges! Strikes me, you did give me a turn; I was just goin' aht.'
She blushed to her hair, but in the darkness he could see nothing.

'Good night,' she said, and went out.

She walked close along the sides of the houses like a thief, and the
policeman as she passed him turned round and looked at her, wondering
whether she was meditating some illegal deed. She breathed freely on
coming into the open road, and seeing Jim skulking behind a tree, ran
up to him, and in the shadows they kissed again.


9


Thus began a time of love and joy. As soon as her work was over and
she had finished tea, Liza would slip out and at some appointed spot
meet Jim. Usually it would be at the church, where the Westminster
Bridge Road bends down to get to the river, and they would go off,
arm-in-arm, till they came to some place where they could sit down and
rest. Sometimes they would walk along the Albert Embankment to
Battersea Park, and here sit on the benches, watching the children
play. The female cyclist had almost abandoned Battersea for the parks
on the other side of the river, but often enough one went by, and
Liza, with the old-fashioned prejudice of her class, would look after
the rider and make some remark about her, not seldom more forcible
than ladylike. Both Jim and she liked children, and, tiny, ragged
urchins would gather round to have rides on the man's knees or mock
fights with Liza.

They thought themselves far away from anyone in Vere Street, but
twice, as they were walking along, they were met by people they knew.
Once it was two workmen coming home from a job at Vauxhall: Liza did
not see them till they were quite near; she immediately dropped Jim's
arm, and they both cast their eyes to the ground as the men passed,
like ostriches, expecting that if they did not look they would not be
seen.

'D'you see 'em, Jim?' asked Liza, in a whisper, when they had gone by.
'I wonder if they see us.' Almost instinctively she turned round, and
at the same moment one of the men turned too; then there was no doubt
about it.

'Thet did give me a turn,' she said.

'So it did me,' answered Jim; 'I simply went 'ot all over.'

'We was bally fools,' said Liza; 'we oughter 'ave spoken to 'em! D'you
think they'll let aht?'

They heard nothing of it, when Jim afterwards met one of the men in a
public-house he did not mention a meeting, and they thought that
perhaps they had not been recognized. But the second time was worse.

It was on the Albert Embankment again. They were met by a party of
four, all of whom lived in the street. Liza's heart sank within her,
for there was no chance of escape; she thought of turning quickly and
walking in the opposite direction, but there was not time, for the men
had already seen them. She whispered to Jim:

'Back us up,' and as they met she said to one of the men:

''Ulloa there! Where are you off to?'

The men stopped, and one of them asked the question back.

'Where are you off to?'

'Me? Oh, I've just been to the 'orspital. One of the gals at our place
is queer, an' so I says ter myself, "I'll go an' see 'er."' She
faltered a little as she began, but quickly gathered herself together,
lying fluently and without hesitation.

'An' when I come aht,' she went on, ''oo should I see just passin' the
'orspital but this 'ere cove, an' 'e says to me, "Wot cheer," says 'e,
"I'm goin' ter Vaux'all, come an' walk a bit of the wy with us."
"Arright," says I, "I don't mind if I do."'

One man winked, and another said: 'Go it, Liza!'

She fired up with the dignity of outraged innocence.

'Wot d'yer mean by thet?' she said; 'd'yer think I'm kiddin'?'

'Kiddin'? No! You've only just come up from the country, ain't yer?'

'Think I'm kidding? What d'yer think I want ter kid for? Liars never
believe anyone, thet's fact.'

'Na then, Liza, don't be saucy.'

'Saucy! I'll smack yer in the eye if yer sy much ter me. Come on,' she
said to Jim, who had been standing sheepishly by; and they walked
away.

The men shouted: 'Now we shan't be long!' and went off laughing.

After that they decided to go where there was no chance at all of
their being seen. They did not meet till they got over Westminster

1 2 3 4 5 6