Bridge, and thence they made their way into the park; they would lie
down on the grass in one another's arms, and thus spend the long
summer evenings. After the heat of the day there would be a gentle
breeze in the park, and they would take in long breaths of the air; it
seemed far away from London, it was so quiet and cool; and Liza, as
she lay by Jim's side, felt her love for him overflowing to the rest
of the world and enveloping mankind itself in a kind of grateful
happiness. If it could only have lasted! They would stay and see the
stars shine out dimly, one by one, from the blue sky, till it grew
late and the blue darkened into black, and the stars glittered in
thousands all above them. But as the nights grew cooler, they found it
cold on the grass, and the time they had there seemed too short for
the long journey they had to make; so, crossing the bridge as before,
they strolled along the Embankment till they came to a vacant bench,
and there they would sit, with Liza nestling close up to her lover and
his great arms around her. The rain of September made no difference to
them; they went as usual to their seat beneath the trees, and Jim
would take Liza on his knee, and, opening his coat, shelter her with
it, while she, with her arms round his neck, pressed very close to
him, and occasionally gave a little laugh of pleasure and delight.
They hardly spoke at all through these evenings, for what had they to
say to one another? Often without exchanging a word they would sit for
an hour with their faces touching, the one feeling on his cheek the
hot breath from the other's mouth; while at the end of the time the
only motion was an upraising of Liza's lips, a bending down of Jim's,
so that they might meet and kiss. Sometimes Liza fell into a light
doze, and Jim would sit very still for fear of waking her, and when
she roused herself she would smile, while he bent down again and
kissed her. They were very happy. But the hours passed by so quickly,
that Big Ben striking twelve came upon them as a surprise, and
unwillingly they got up and made their way homewards; their partings
were never ending - each evening Jim refused to let her go from his
arms, and tears stood in his eyes at the thought of the separation.

'I'd give somethin',' he would say, 'if we could be togither always.'

'Never mind, old chap!' Liza would answer, herself half crying, 'it
can't be 'elped, so we must jolly well lump it.'

But notwithstanding all their precautions people in Vere Street
appeared to know. First of all Liza noticed that the women did not
seem quite so cordial as before, and she often fancied they were
talking of her; when she passed by they appeared to look at her, then
say something or other, and perhaps burst out laughing; but when she
approached they would immediately stop speaking, and keep silence in a
rather awkward, constrained manner. For a long time she was unwilling
to believe that there was any change in them, and Jim who had observed
nothing, persuaded her that it was all fancy. But gradually it became
clearer, and Jim had to agree with her that somehow or other people
had found out. Once when Liza had been talking to Polly, Jim's
daughter, Mrs. Blakeston had called her, and when the girl had come to
her mother Liza saw that she spoke angrily, and they both looked
across at her. When Liza caught Mrs. Blakeston's eye she saw in her
face a surly scowl, which almost frightened her; she wanted to brave
it out, and stepped forward a little to go and speak with the woman,
but Mrs. Blakeston, standing still, looked so angrily at her that she
was afraid to. When she told Jim his face grew dark, and he said:
'Blast the woman! I'll give 'er wot for if she says anythin' ter you.'

'Don't strike 'er, wotever 'appens, will yer, Jim?' said Liza.

'She'd better tike care then!' he answered, and he told her that
lately his wife had been sulking, and not speaking to him. The
previous night, on coming home after the day's work and bidding her
'Good evenin',' she had turned her back on him without answering.

'Can't you answer when you're spoke to?' he had said.

'Good evenin',' she had replied sulkily, with her back still turned.

After that Liza noticed that Polly avoided her.

'Wot's up, Polly?' she said to her one day. 'You never speaks now;
'ave you 'ad yer tongue cut aht?'

'Me? I ain't got nothin' ter speak abaht, thet I knows of,' answered
Polly, abruptly walking off. Liza grew very red and quickly looked to
see if anyone had noticed the incident. A couple of youths, sitting on
the pavement, had seen it, and she saw them nudge one another and
wink.

Then the fellows about the street began to chaff her.

'You look pale,' said one of a group to her one day.

'You're overworkin' yerself, you are,' said another.

'Married life don't agree with Liza, thet's wot it is,' added a third.

''Oo d'yer think yer gettin' at? I ain't married, an' never like ter
be,' she answered.

'Liza 'as all the pleasures of a 'usband an' none of the trouble.'

'Bli'me if I know wot yer mean!' said Liza.

'Na, of course not; you don't know nothin', do yer?'

'Innocent as a bibe. Our Father which art in 'eaven!'

''Aven't been in London long, 'ave yer?'

They spoke in chorus, and Liza stood in front of them, bewildered, not
knowing what to answer.

'Don't you mike no mistake abaht it, Liza knows a thing or two.'

'O me darlin', I love yer fit to kill, but tike care your missus ain't
round the corner.' This was particularly bold, and they all laughed.

Liza felt very uncomfortable, and fiddled about with her apron,
wondering how she should get away.

'Tike care yer don't git into trouble, thet's all,' said one of the
men, with burlesque gravity.

'Yer might give us a chanst, Liza, you come aht with me one evenin'.
You oughter give us all a turn, just ter show there's no ill-feelin'.'

'Bli'me if I know wot yer all talkin' abaht. You're all barmy on the
crumpet,' said Liza indignantly, and, turning her back on them, made
for home.

Among other things that had happened was Sally's marriage. One
Saturday a little procession had started from Vere Street, consisting
of Sally, in a state of giggling excitement, her fringe magnificent
after a whole week of curling-papers, clad in a perfectly new
velveteen dress of the colour known as electric blue; and Harry,
rather nervous and ill at ease in the unaccustomed restraint of a
collar; these two walked arm-in-arm, and were followed by Sally's
mother and uncle, also arm-in-arm, and the procession was brought up
by Harry's brother and a friend. They started with a flourish of
trumpets and an old boot, and walked down the middle of Vere Street,
accompanied by the neighbours' good wishes; but as they got into the
Westminster Bridge Road and nearer to the church, the happy couple
grew silent, and Harry began to perspire freely, so that his collar
gave him perfect torture. There was a public-house just opposite the
church, and it was suggested that they should have a drink before
going in. As it was a solemn occasion they went into the private bar,
and there Sally's uncle, who was a man of means, ordered six pots of
beer.

'Feel a bit nervous, 'Arry?' asked his friend.

'Na,' said Harry, as if he had been used to getting married every day
of his life; 'bit warm, thet's all.'

'Your very good 'ealth, Sally,' said her mother, lifting her mug;
'this is the last time as I shall ever address you as miss.'

'An' may she be as good a wife as you was,' added Sally's uncle.

'Well, I don't think my old man ever 'ad no complaint ter mike abaht
me. I did my duty by 'im, although it's me as says it,' answered the
good lady.

'Well, mates,' said Harry's brother, 'I reckon it's abaht time to go
in. So 'ere's to the 'ealth of Mr. 'Enry Atkins an' 'is future missus.'

'An' God bless 'em!' said Sally's mother.

Then they went into the church, and as they solemnly walked up the
aisle a pale-faced young curate came out of the vestry and down to the
bottom of the chancel. The beer had had a calming effect on their
troubled minds, and both Harry and Sally began to think it rather a
good joke. They smiled on each other, and at those parts of the
service which they thought suggestive violently nudged one another in
the ribs. When the ring had to be produced, Harry fumbled about in
different pockets, and his brother whispered:

'Swop me bob, 'e's gone and lorst it!'

However, all went right, and Sally having carefully pocketed the
certificate, they went out and had another drink to celebrate the
happy event.

In the evening Liza and several friends came into the couple's room,
which they had taken in the same house as Sally had lived in before,
and drank the health of the bride and bridegroom till they thought fit
to retire.


10


It was November. The fine weather had quite gone now, and with it much
of the sweet pleasure of Jim and Liza's love. When they came out at
night on the Embankment they found it cold and dreary; sometimes a
light fog covered the river-banks, and made the lamps glow out dim and
large; a light rain would be falling, which sent a chill into their
very souls; foot passengers came along at rare intervals, holding up
umbrellas, and staring straight in front of them as they hurried along
in the damp and cold; a cab would pass rapidly by, splashing up the
mud on each side. The benches were deserted, except, perhaps, for some
poor homeless wretch who could afford no shelter, and, huddled up in a
corner, with his head buried in his breast, was sleeping heavily, like
a dead man. The wet mud made Liza's skirts cling about her feet, and
the damp would come in and chill her legs and creep up her body, till
she shivered, and for warmth pressed herself close against Jim.
Sometimes they would go into the third-class waiting-rooms at Waterloo
or Charing Cross and sit there, but it was not like the park or the
Embankment on summer nights; they had warmth, but the heat made their
wet clothes steam and smell, and the gas flared in their eyes, and
they hated the people perpetually coming in and out, opening the doors
and letting in a blast of cold air; they hated the noise of the guards
and porters shouting out the departure of the trains, the shrill
whistling of the steam-engine, the hurry and bustle and confusion.
About eleven o'clock, when the trains grew less frequent, they got
some quietness; but then their minds were troubled, and they felt
heavy, sad and miserable.

One evening they had been sitting at Waterloo Station; it was foggy
outside - a thick, yellow November fog, which filled the waiting-room,
entering the lungs, and making the mouth taste nasty and the eyes
smart. It was about half-past eleven, and the station was unusually
quiet; a few passengers, in wraps and overcoats, were walking to and
fro, waiting for the last train, and one or two porters were standing
about yawning. Liza and Jim had remained for an hour in perfect
silence, filled with a gloomy unhappiness, as of a great weight on
their brains. Liza was sitting forward, with her elbows on her knees,
resting her face on her hands.

'I wish I was straight,' she said at last, not looking up.

'Well, why won't yer come along of me altogether, an' you'll be
arright then?' he answered.

'Na, that's no go; I can't do thet.' He had often asked her to live
with him entirely, but she had always refused.

'You can come along of me, an' I'll tike a room in a lodgin' 'ouse in
'Olloway, an' we can live there as if we was married.'

'Wot abaht yer work?'

'I can get work over the other side as well as I can 'ere. I'm abaht
sick of the wy things is goin' on.'

'So am I; but I can't leave mother.'

'She can come, too.'

'Not when I'm not married. I shouldn't like 'er ter know as I'd - as
I'd gone wrong.'

'Well, I'll marry yer. Swop me bob, I wants ter badly enough.'

'Yer can't; yer married already.'

'Thet don't matter! If I give the missus so much a week aht of my
screw, she'll sign a piper ter give up all clime ter me, an' then we
can get spliced. One of the men as I works with done thet, an' it was
arright.'

Liza shook her head.

'Na, yer can't do thet now; it's bigamy, an' the cop tikes yer, an'
yer gits twelve months' 'ard for it.'

'But swop me bob, Liza, I can't go on like this. Yer knows the
missus - well, there ain't no bloomin' doubt abaht it, she knows as you
an' me are carryin' on, an' she mikes no bones abaht lettin' me see
it.'

'She don't do thet?'

'Well, she don't exactly sy it, but she sulks an' won't speak, an'
then when I says anythin' she rounds on me an' calls me all the nimes
she can think of. I'd give 'er a good 'idin', but some'ow I don't like
ter! She mikes the plice a 'ell ter me, an' I'm not goin' ter stand it
no longer!'

'You'll ave ter sit it, then; yer can't chuck it.'

'Yus I can, an' I would if you'd come along of me. I don't believe you
like me at all, Liza, or you'd come.'

She turned towards him and put her arms round his neck.

'Yer know I do, old cock,' she said. 'I like yer better than anyone
else in the world; but I can't go awy an' leave mother.'

'Bli'me me if I see why; she's never been much ter you. She mikes yer
slave awy ter pay the rent, an' all the money she earns she boozes.'

'Thet's true, she ain't been wot yer might call a good mother ter
me - but some'ow she's my mother, an' I don't like ter leave 'er on 'er
own, now she's so old - an' she can't do much with the rheumatics. An'
besides, Jim dear, it ain't only mother, but there's yer own kids, yer
can't leave them.'

He thought for a while, and then said:

'You're abaht right there, Liza; I dunno if I could get on without the
kids. If I could only tike them an' you too, swop me bob, I should be
'appy.'

Liza smiled sadly.

'So yer see, Jim, we're in a bloomin' 'ole, an' there ain't no way aht
of it thet I can see.'

He took her on his knees, and pressing her to him, kissed her very
long and very lovingly.

'Well, we must trust ter luck,' she said again, 'p'raps somethin' 'll
'appen soon, an' everythin' 'll come right in the end - when we gets
four balls of worsted for a penny.'

It was past twelve, and separating, they went by different ways along
the dreary, wet, deserted roads till they came to Vere Street.

The street seemed quite different to Liza from what it had been three
months before. Tom, the humble adorer, had quite disappeared from her
life. One day, three or four weeks after the August Bank Holiday, she
saw him dawdling along the pavement, and it suddenly struck her that
she had not seen him for a long time; but she had been so full of her
happiness that she had been unable to think of anyone but Jim. She
wondered at his absence, since before wherever she had been there was
he certain to be also. She passed him, but to her astonishment he did
not speak to her. She thought by some wonder he had not seen her, but
she felt his gaze resting upon her. She turned back, and suddenly he
dropped his eyes and looked down, walking on as if he had not seen
her, but blushing furiously.

'Tom,' she said, 'why don't yer speak ter me.'

He started and blushed more than ever.

'I didn't know yer was there,' he stuttered.

'Don't tell me,' she said, 'wot's up?'

'Nothin' as I knows of,' he answered uneasily.

'I ain't offended yer, 'ave I, Tom?'

'Na, not as I knows of,' he replied, looking very unhappy.

'You don't ever come my way now,' she said.

'I didn't know as yer wanted ter see me.'

'Garn! Yer knows I likes you as well as anybody.'

'Yer likes so many people, Liza,' he said, flushing.

'What d'yer mean?' said Liza indignantly, but very red; she was afraid
he knew now, and it was from him especially she would have been so
glad to hide it.

'Nothin',' he answered.

'One doesn't say things like thet without any meanin', unless one's a
blimed fool.'

'You're right there, Liza,' he answered. 'I am a blimed fool.' He
looked at her a little reproachfully, she thought, and then he said
'Good-bye,' and turned away.

At first she was horrified that he should know of her love for Jim,
but then she did not care. After all, it was nobody's business, and
what did anything matter as long as she loved Jim and Jim loved her?
Then she grew angry that Tom should suspect her; he could know nothing
but that some of the men had seen her with Jim near Vauxhall, and it
seemed mean that he should condemn her for that. Thenceforward, when
she ran against Tom, she cut him; he never tried to speak to her, but
as she passed him, pretending to look in front of her, she could see
that he always blushed, and she fancied his eyes were very sorrowful.
Then several weeks went by, and as she began to feel more and more
lonely in the street she regretted the quarrel; she cried a little as
she thought that she had lost his faithful gentle love and she would
have much liked to be friends with him again. If he had only made some
advance she would have welcomed him so cordially, but she was too
proud to go to him herself and beg him to forgive her - and then how
could he forgive her?

She had lost Sally too, for on her marriage Harry had made her give up
the factory; he was a young man with principles worthy of a Member of
Parliament, and he had said:

'A woman's plice is 'er 'ome, an' if 'er old man can't afford ter keep
'er without 'er workin' in a factory - well, all I can say is thet 'e'd
better go an' git single.'

'Quite right, too,' agreed his mother-in-law; 'an' wot's more, she'll
'ave a baby ter look after soon, an' thet'll tike 'er all 'er time,
an' there's no one as knows thet better than me, for I've 'ad twelve,
ter sy nothin' of two stills an' one miss.'

Liza quite envied Sally her happiness, for the bride was brimming
over with song and laughter; her happiness overwhelmed her.

'I am 'appy,' she said to Liza one day a few weeks after her marriage.
'You dunno wot a good sort 'Arry is. 'E's just a darlin', an' there's
no mistikin' it. I don't care wot other people sy, but wot I says is,
there's nothin' like marriage. Never a cross word passes his lips, an'
mother 'as all 'er meals with us an' 'e says all the better. Well I'm
thet 'appy I simply dunno if I'm standin' on my 'ead or on my 'eels.'

But alas! it did not last too long. Sally was not so full of joy when
next Liza met her, and one day her eyes looked very much as if she had
been crying.

'Wot's the matter?' asked Liza, looking at her. 'Wot 'ave yer been
blubberin' abaht?'

'Me?' said Sally, getting very red. 'Oh, I've got a bit of a
toothache, an' - well, I'm rather a fool like, an' it 'urt so much that
I couldn't 'elp cryin'.'

Liza was not satisfied, but could get nothing further out of her. Then
one day it came out. It was a Saturday night, the time when women in
Vere Street weep. Liza went up into Sally's room for a few minutes on
her way to the Westminster Bridge Road, where she was to meet Jim.
Harry had taken the top back room, and Liza, climbing up the second
flight of stairs, called out as usual.

'Wot ho, Sally!'

The door remained shut, although Liza could see that there was a light
in the room; but on getting to the door she stood still, for she heard
the sound of sobbing. She listened for a minute and then knocked:
there was a little flurry inside, and someone called out:

''Oo's there?'

'Only me,' said Liza, opening the door. As she did so she saw Sally
rapidly wipe her eyes and put her handkerchief away. Her mother was
sitting by her side, evidently comforting her.

'Wot's up, Sal?' asked Liza.

'Nothin',' answered Sally, with a brave little gasp to stop the
crying, turning her face downwards so that Liza should not see the
tears in her eyes; but they were too strong for her, and, quickly
taking out her handkerchief, she hid her face in it and began to sob
broken-heartedly. Liza looked at the mother in interrogation.

'Oh, it's thet man again!' said the lady, snorting and tossing her
head.

'Not 'Arry?' asked Liza, in surprise.

'Not 'Arry - 'oo is it if it ain't 'Arry? The villin!'

'Wot's 'e been doin', then?' asked Liza again.

'Beatin' 'er, that's wot 'e's been doin'! Oh, the villin, 'e oughter
be ashimed of 'isself 'e ought!'

'I didn't know 'e was like that!' said Liza.

'Didn't yer? I thought the 'ole street knew it by now,' said Mrs.
Cooper indignantly. 'Oh, 'e's a wrong 'un, 'e is.'

'It wasn't 'is fault,' put in Sally, amidst her sobs; 'it's only
because 'e's 'ad a little drop too much. 'E's arright when 'e's
sober.'

'A little drop too much! I should just think 'e'd 'ad, the beast! I'd
give it 'im if I was a man. They're all like thet - 'usbinds is all
alike; they're arright when they're sober - sometimes - but when they've
got the liquor in 'em, they're beasts, an' no mistike. I 'ad a 'usbind
myself for five-an'-twenty years, an' I know 'em.'

'Well, mother,' sobbed Sally, 'it was all my fault. I should 'ave come
'ome earlier.'

'Na, it wasn't your fault at all. Just you look 'ere, Liza: this is
wot 'e done an' call 'isself a man. Just because Sally'd gone aht to
'ave a chat with Mrs. McLeod in the next 'ouse, when she come in 'e
start bangin' 'er abaht. An' me, too, wot d'yer think of that!' Mrs.
Cooper was quite purple with indignation.

'Yus,' she went on, 'thet's a man for yer. Of course, I wasn't goin'
ter stand there an' see my daughter bein' knocked abaht; it wasn't
likely - was it? An' 'e rounds on me, an' 'e 'its me with 'is fist.
Look 'ere.' She pulled up her sleeves and showed two red and brawny
arms. ''E's bruised my arms; I thought 'e'd broken it at fust. If I
'adn't put my arm up, 'e'd 'ave got me on the 'ead, an' 'e might 'ave
killed me. An' I says to 'im, "If you touch me again, I'll go ter the
police-station, thet I will!" Well, that frightened 'im a bit, an'
then didn't I let 'im 'ave it! "You call yerself a man," says I, "an'
you ain't fit ter clean the drains aht." You should 'ave 'eard the
language 'e used. "You dirty old woman," says 'e, "you go away; you're
always interferin' with me." Well, I don't like ter repeat wot 'e
said, and thet's the truth. An' I says ter 'im, "I wish yer'd never
married my daughter, an' if I'd known you was like this I'd 'ave died
sooner than let yer."'

'Well, I didn't know 'e was like thet!' said Liza.

''E was arright at fust,' said Sally.

'Yus, they're always arright at fust! But ter think it should 'ave
come to this now, when they ain't been married three months, an' the
first child not born yet! I think it's disgraceful.'

Liza stayed a little while longer, helping to comfort Sally, who kept
pathetically taking to herself all the blame of the dispute; and then,
bidding her good night and better luck, she slid off to meet Jim.

When she reached the appointed spot he was not to be found. She waited
for some time, and at last saw him come out of the neighbouring pub.

'Good night, Jim,' she said as she came up to him.

'So you've turned up, 'ave yer?' he answered roughly, turning round.

'Wot's the matter, Jim?' she asked in a frightened way, for he had
never spoken to her in that manner.

'Nice thing ter keep me witin' all night for yer to come aht.'

She saw that he had been drinking, and answered humbly.

'I'm very sorry, Jim, but I went in to Sally, an' 'er bloke 'ad been
knockin' 'er abaht, an' so I sat with 'er a bit.'

'Knockin' 'er abaht, 'ad 'e? and serve 'er damn well right too; an'
there's many more as could do with a good 'idin'!'

Liza did not answer. He looked at her, and then suddenly said:

'Come in an' 'ave a drink.'

'Na, I'm not thirsty; I don't want a drink,' she answered.

'Come on,' he said angrily.

'Na, Jim, you've had quite enough already.'

''Oo are you talkin' ter?' he said. 'Don't come if yer don't want ter;
I'll go an' 'ave one by myself.'

'Na, Jim, don't.' She caught hold of his arm.

'Yus, I shall,' he said, going towards the pub, while she held him
back. 'Let me go, can't yer! Let me go!' He roughly pulled his arm
away from her. As she tried to catch hold of it again, he pushed her
back, and in the little scuffle caught her a blow over the face.

'Oh!' she cried, 'you did 'urt!'

He was sobered at once.

'Liza,' he said. 'I ain't 'urt yer?' She didn't answer, and he took
her in his arms. 'Liza, I ain't 'urt you, 'ave I? Say I ain't 'urt
yer. I'm so sorry, I beg your pardon, Liza.'

'Arright, old chap,' she said, smiling charmingly on him. 'It wasn't
the blow that 'urt me much; it was the wy you was talkin'.'

'I didn't mean it, Liza.' He was so contrite, he could not humble
himself enough. 'I 'ad another bloomin' row with the missus ter-night,
an' then when I didn't find you 'ere, an' I kept witin' an'
witin' - well, I fair downright lost my 'air. An' I 'ad two or three
pints of four 'alf, an' - well, I dunno - '

'Never mind, old cock. I can stand more than thet as long as yer loves
me.'

He kissed her and they were quite friends again. But the little
quarrel had another effect which was worse for Liza. When she woke up
next morning she noticed a slight soreness over the ridge of bone
under the left eye, and on looking in the glass saw that it was black
and blue and green. She bathed it, but it remained, and seemed to get
more marked. She was terrified lest people should see it, and kept
indoors all day; but next morning it was blacker than ever. She went
to the factory with her hat over her eyes and her head bent down; she
escaped observation, but on the way home she was not so lucky. The
sharp eyes of some girls noticed it first.

'Wot's the matter with yer eye?' asked one of them.

'Me?' answered Liza, putting her hand up as if in ignorance. 'Nothin'
thet I knows of.'

Two or three young men were standing by, and hearing the girl, looked
up.

'Why, yer've got a black eye, Liza!'

'Me? I ain't got no black eye!'

'Yus you 'ave; 'ow d'yer get it?'

'I dunno,' said Liza. 'I didn't know I 'ad one.'

'Garn! tell us another!' was the answer. 'One doesn't git a black eye
without knowin' 'ow they got it.'

'Well, I did fall against the chest of drawers yesterday; I suppose I
must 'ave got it then.'

'Oh yes, we believe thet, don't we?'

'I didn't know 'e was so 'andy with 'is dukes, did you, Ted?' asked
one man of another.

Liza felt herself grow red to the tips of her toes.

'Who?' she asked.

'Never you mind; nobody you know.'

At that moment Jim's wife passed and looked at her with a scowl. Liza
wished herself a hundred miles away, and blushed more violently than
ever.

'Wot are yer blushin' abaht?' ingenuously asked one of the girls.

And they all looked from her to Mrs. Blakeston and back again. Someone
said: ''Ow abaht our Sunday boots on now?' And a titter went through
them. Liza's nerve deserted her; she could think of nothing to say,
and a sob burst from her. To hide the tears which were coming from her
eyes she turned away and walked homewards. Immediately a great shout
of laughter broke from the group, and she heard them positively
screaming till she got into her own house.


11


A few days afterwards Liza was talking with Sally, who did not seem
very much happier than when Liza had last seen her.

''E ain't wot I thought 'e wos,' she said. 'I don't mind sayin' thet;
but 'e 'as a lot ter put up with; I expect I'm rather tryin'
sometimes, an' 'e means well. P'raps 'e'll be kinder like when the
biby's born.'

'Cheer up, old gal,' answered Liza, who had seen something of the
lives of many married couples; 'it won't seem so bad after yer gets
used to it; it's a bit disappointin' at fust, but yer gits not ter
mind it.'

After a little Sally said she must go and see about her husband's tea.
She said good-bye, and then rather awkwardly:

'Say, Liza, tike care of yerself!'

'Tike care of meself - why?' asked Liza, in surprise.

'Yer know wot I mean.'

'Na, I'm darned if I do.'

'Thet there Mrs. Blakeston, she's lookin' aht for you.'

'Mrs. Blakeston!' Liza was startled.

'Yus; she says she's goin' ter give you somethin' if she can git 'old
on yer. I should advise yer ter tike care.'

'Me?' said Liza.

Sally looked away, so as not to see the other's face.

'She says as 'ow yer've been messin' abaht with 'er old man.'

Liza didn't say anything, and Sally, repeating her good-bye, slid off.

Liza felt a chill run through her. She had several times noticed a
scowl and a look of anger on Mrs. Blakeston's face, and she had avoided
her as much as possible; but she had no idea that the woman meant to
do anything to her. She was very frightened, a cold sweat broke out
over her face. If Mrs. Blakeston got hold of her she would be helpless,
she was so small and weak, while the other was strong and muscular.
Liza wondered what she would do if she did catch her.

That night she told Jim, and tried to make a joke of it.

'I say, Jim, your missus - she says she's goin' ter give me socks if
she catches me.'

'My missus! 'Ow d'yer know?'

'She's been tellin' people in the street.'

'Go' lumme,' said Jim, furious, 'if she dares ter touch a 'air of your
'ead, swop me dicky I'll give 'er sich a 'idin' as she never 'ad
before! By God, give me the chanst, an' I would let 'er 'ave it; I'm
bloomin' well sick of 'er sulks!' He clenched his fist as he spoke.

Liza was a coward. She could not help thinking of her enemy's threat;
it got on her nerves, and she hardly dared go out for fear of meeting
her; she would look nervously in front of her, quickly turning round
if she saw in the distance anyone resembling Mrs. Blakeston. She
dreamed of her at night; she saw the big, powerful form, the heavy,
frowning face, and the curiously braided brown hair; and she would
wake up with a cry and find herself bathed in sweat.

It was the Saturday afternoon following this, a chill November day,
with the roads sloshy, and a grey, comfortless sky that made one's
spirits sink. It was about three o'clock, and Liza was coming home
from work; she got into Vere Street, and was walking quickly towards
her house when she saw Mrs. Blakeston coming towards her. Her heart
gave a great jump. Turning, she walked rapidly in the direction she
had come; with a screw round of her eyes she saw that she was being
followed, and therefore went straight out of Vere Street. She went
right round, meaning to get into the street from the other end and,
unobserved, slip into her house, which was then quite close; but she
dared not risk it immediately for fear Mrs. Blakeston should still be
there; so she waited about for half an hour. It seemed an age.
Finally, taking her courage in both hands, she turned the corner and
entered Vere Street. She nearly ran into the arms of Mrs. Blakeston,
who was standing close to the public-house door.

Liza gave a little cry, and the woman said, with a sneer:

'Yer didn't expect ter see me, did yer?'

Liza did not answer, but tried to walk past her. Mrs. Blakeston stepped
forward and blocked her way.

'Yer seem ter be in a mighty fine 'urry,' she said.

'Yus, I've got ter git 'ome,' said Liza, again trying to pass.

'But supposin' I don't let yer?' remarked Mrs. Blakeston, preventing
her from moving.

'Why don't yer leave me alone?' Liza said. 'I ain't interferin' with
you!'

'Not interferin' with me, aren't yer? I like thet!'

'Let me go by,' said Liza. 'I don't want ter talk ter you.'

'Na, I know thet,' said the other; 'but I want ter talk ter you, an' I
shan't let yer go until I've said wot I wants ter sy.'

Liza looked round for help. At the beginning of the altercation the
loafers about the public-house had looked up with interest, and
gradually gathered round in a little circle. Passers-by had joined in,
and a number of other people in the street, seeing the crowd, added
themselves to it to see what was going on. Liza saw that all eyes were
fixed on her, the men amused and excited, the women unsympathetic,
rather virtuously indignant. Liza wanted to ask for help, but there
were so many people, and they all seemed so much against her, that she
had not the courage to. So, having surveyed the crowd, she turned her
eyes to Mrs. Blakeston, and stood in front of her, trembling a little,
and very white.

'Na, 'e ain't there,' said Mrs. Blakeston, sneeringly, 'so yer needn't
look for 'im.'

'I dunno wot yer mean,' answered Liza, 'an' I want ter go awy. I ain't
done nothin' ter you.'

'Not done nothin' ter me?' furiously repeated the woman. 'I'll tell
yer wot yer've done ter me - you've robbed me of my 'usbind, you 'ave.
I never 'ad a word with my 'usbind until you took 'im from me. An' now
it's all you with 'im. 'E's got no time for 'is wife an' family - it's
all you. An' 'is money, too. I never git a penny of it; if it weren't
for the little bit I 'ad saved up in the siving-bank, me an' my
children 'ud be starvin' now! An' all through you!' She shook her fist
at her.

'I never 'ad any money from anyone.'

'Don' talk ter me; I know yer did. Yer dirty bitch! You oughter be
ishimed of yourself tikin' a married man from 'is family, an' 'im old
enough ter be yer father.'

'She's right there!' said one or two of the onlooking women. 'There
can't be no good in 'er if she tikes somebody else's 'usbind.'

'I'll give it yer!' proceeded Mrs. Blakeston, getting more hot and
excited, brandishing her fist, and speaking in a loud voice, hoarse
with rage. 'Oh, I've been tryin' ter git 'old on yer this four weeks.
Why, you're a prostitute - that's wot you are!'

'I'm not!' answered Liza indignantly.

'Yus, you are,' repeated Mrs. Blakeston, advancing menacingly, so that
Liza shrank back. 'An' wot's more, 'e treats yer like one. I know 'oo
give yer thet black eye; thet shows what 'e thinks of yer! An' serve
yer bloomin' well right if 'e'd give yer one in both eyes!'

Mrs. Blakeston stood close in front of her, her heavy jaw protruded and
the frown of her eyebrows dark and stern. For a moment she stood
silent, contemplating Liza, while the surrounders looked on in
breathless interest.

'Yer dirty little bitch, you!' she said at last. 'Tike that!' and with
her open hand she gave her a sharp smack on the cheek.

Liza started back with a cry and put her hand up to her face.

'An' tike thet!' added Mrs. Blakeston, repeating the blow. Then,
gathering up the spittle in her mouth, she spat in Liza's face.

Liza sprang on her, and with her hands spread out like claws buried
her nails in the woman's face and drew them down her cheeks. Mrs.
Blakeston caught hold of her hair with both hands and tugged at it as
hard as she could. But they were immediately separated.

''Ere, 'old 'ard!' said some of the men. 'Fight it aht fair and
square. Don't go scratchin' and maulin' like thet.'

'I'll fight 'er, I don't mind!' shouted Mrs. Blakeston, tucking up her
sleeves and savagely glaring at her opponent.

Liza stood in front of her, pale and trembling; as she looked at her
enemy, and saw the long red marks of her nails, with blood coming from
one or two of them, she shrank back.

'I don't want ter fight,' she said hoarsely.

'Na, I don't suppose yer do,' hissed the other, 'but yer'll damn well
'ave ter!'

'She's ever so much bigger than me; I've got no chanst,' added Liza
tearfully.

'You should 'ave thought of thet before. Come on!' and with these
words Mrs. Blakeston rushed upon her. She hit her with both fists one
after the other. Liza did not try to guard herself, but imitating the
woman's motion, hit out with her own fists; and for a minute or two
they continued thus, raining blows on one another with the same
windmill motion of the arms. But Liza could not stand against the
other woman's weight; the blows came down heavy and rapid all over her
face and head. She put up her hands to cover her face and turned her
head away, while Mrs. Blakeston kept on hitting mercilessly.

'Time!' shouted some of the men - 'Time!' and Mrs. Blakeston stopped to
rest herself.

'It don't seem 'ardly fair to set them two on tergether. Liza's got no
chanst against a big woman like thet,' said a man among the crowd.

'Well, it's er' own fault,' answered a woman; 'she didn't oughter mess
about with 'er 'usbind.'

'Well, I don't think it's right,' added another man. 'She's gettin' it
too much.'

'An' serve 'er right too!' said one of the women. 'She deserves all
she gets an' a damn sight more inter the bargain.'

'Quite right,' put in a third; 'a woman's got no right ter tike
someone's 'usbind from 'er. An' if she does she's bloomin' lucky if
she gits off with a 'idin' - thet's wot I think.'

'So do I. But I wouldn't 'ave thought it of Liza. I never thought she
was a wrong 'un.'

'Pretty specimen she is!' said a little dark woman, who looked like a
Jewess. 'If she messed abaht with my old man, I'd stick 'er - I swear I
would!'

'Now she's been carryin' on with one, she'll try an' git others - you
see if she don't.'

'She'd better not come round my 'ouse; I'll soon give 'er wot for.'

Meanwhile Liza was standing at one corner of the ring, trembling all
over and crying bitterly. One of her eyes was bunged up, and her hair,
all dishevelled, was hanging down over her face. Two young fellows,
who had constituted themselves her seconds, were standing in front of
her, offering rather ironical comfort. One of them had taken the
bottom corners of her apron and was fanning her with it, while the
other was showing her how to stand and hold her arms.

'You stand up to 'er, Liza,' he was saying; 'there ain't no good
funkin' it, you'll simply get it all the worse. You 'it 'er back. Give
'er one on the boko, like this - see; yer must show a bit of pluck, yer
know.'

Liza tried to check her sobs.

'Yus, 'it 'er 'ard, that's wot yer've got ter do,' said the other.
'An' if yer find she's gettin' the better on yer, you close on 'er and
catch 'old of 'er 'air and scratch 'er.'

'You've marked 'er with yer nails, Liza. By gosh, you did fly on her
when she spat at yer! thet's the way ter do the job!'

Then turning to his fellow, he said:

'D'yer remember thet fight as old Mother Cregg 'ad with another woman
in the street last year?'

'Na,' he answered, 'I never saw thet.'

'It was a cawker; an' the cops come in and took 'em both off ter
quod.'

Liza wished the policemen would come and take her off; she would
willingly have gone to prison to escape the fiend in front of her; but
no help came.

'Time's up!' shouted the referee. 'Fire away!'

'Tike care of the cops!' shouted a man.

'There's no fear abaht them,' answered somebody else. 'They always
keeps out of the way when there's anythin' goin' on.'

'Fire away!'

Mrs. Blakeston attacked Liza madly; but the girl stood up bravely, and
as well as she could gave back the blows she received. The spectators
grew tremendously excited.

'Got 'im again!' they shouted. 'Give it 'er, Liza, thet's a good
'un! - 'it 'er 'ard!'

'Two ter one on the old 'un!' shouted a sporting gentleman; but Liza
found no backers.

'Ain't she standin' up well now she's roused?' cried someone.

'Oh, she's got some pluck in 'er, she 'as!'

'Thet's a knock-aht!' they shouted as Mrs. Blakeston brought her fist
down on to Liza's nose; the girl staggered back, and blood began to
flow. Then, losing all fear, mad with rage, she made a rush on her
enemy, and rained down blows all over her nose and eyes and mouth. The

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