OUR STORY.

Mataura Ensign, Issue 214, 12 November 1896, Page 3

OUR STORY.

. * 'LIZA. She was a thin slip of a girl with pale sallow cheeks and a , figure as fragile aa the flowers she carried in her basket. It was her eyes and her hands which marked her off from the common herd. Had these been of the regulation pattern, there was nothing to distinguish her from any dozen of her companions. But her eyes, whioh were brown in color, were large and lustrous, and had a provoking habit of drooping the lashes when she looked at one. Whether calculated coquetry or nativeborn manner were most concerned .would have puzzled an expert to decide. That it was " fetching " few men would venture to deny. Her hancLjtnall and well shaped, boasted thft-Taper fingers and filbert nails generally- associated with birth and breeding. She sold flowers in Cbeapside. Her station was the steps of the Peel Statue, and every morning, week in week oufc, as the clocks in the City were striking ten she would deposit ber basket at the . foot of the column and prepare for the business of the day. From ten to six she plied her wares diligently, pushing the sale with all the tact which a life's experience had taught her and all the wiles which a woman's wit could suggest. But each evening when the weary City was fast emptying and the bell of the great cathedral was still echoing overhead, her eye would sweep the long length of crowded asphalt with searching glances, and as she scanned fchg teeming multitude pouring westwards a spot of crimson would suddenly show in the wan white cheeks, and the dark brown orbs would flash and kindle with a curious mystic light. He always contrived to be in Cheapside between six and half-past. .It was their custom to walk together down Queen Victoria street to Blackfriars Bridge. At this point they separated — she crossing to the Surrey side, he taking a " turn " through Fleet street and the Strand below, following in tho same direction. They had commenced the practice in • mid-winter, had continued it throughout the spring, and now they had reached mid-summer. From afar she could distinguish his barrow among the throng of vehicles which filled the thoroughfare. When he had " doubled " the corner and got into the comparative " slack water " of the churchyard she crossed over and • joined him. A nod that was almost imperceptible, answered by a smile that was bright and sunny, was all the recognition that passed between them. The girl's glance wandered involuntary to the. barrow. It was the season for cherries, and she noticed tbe long array of empty baskets. " Been 'avin' a good day, Joe, ain't yer ?'* " Middlin'-like." "Wy^y 'ain't on'y one 'molly' left." y^— "P'raps I've been givin 'em away." The tone was unmistakably surly. For the next thirty yards they walked on in silence, the girl watching the man furtively, the man pushing the barrow languidly and staring strenuously at nothing. " Ha' yer thort on wot I tole yer ?" he asked presently, as the girl stepped off the pavement to avoid collision with a parcels boy. The light that had lightened them died out of her eyes, the color which had come into her cheeks forsook them, her mouth grew hard, and her face lost at once its youth and animation. The man continued to stare into vacancy and walk mechanically after his barrow. " I can't do ut, Joe. I can't do.ut. I ain't got no rest these two nights — but I can't do ufc." The words came with difficulty, and the voice palpitated with emotion. The man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. " Wot's the good uv 'im, eh ? A j dod'rin' ole lunatic. Wot's tbe use uv 'im ter anybody ? He orter been dead years ago." " He's me father, Joe," she murmured reproachfully. " Father be blowed ! He's done a lot fer you, ain't he ? Y'orfc- ter feel proud uv 'im, didn't yer ? Pinchin' his gal's money — drinkin' till he's got the ' devils ' an' talkin' ' Tommy rot ' 'bout bein' a genelman and the son of a genelman. W'y he ain't got no more decency 'an a pig. When he can't gorge hisself no loner a pig 'ill lie in the swill trough, and when your genelman father's had a skinful he'll sore by the hour 'longside a quart pot." He stole a glance at the girl out of the corner of his eye. The busy bustling life of London eddied round them ; the roar of the great Babylon was in their ears ; but not Strephon and Chloris, in the sweet seclusion of idyllic lanes, could have been more oblivious to the passing moment than this pair of City lovers in the hot and crowded streets. "P'raps he ain't as good as he might be. But there's wuss about, an' — he wern'fc allays so, Joe." " Ob, if yer likes to put up wiv 'im, 'Liza, so do. 'Tain'fc no concern o' mme — is it ?" he added moodily. "I can't sen' 'im to the workus, Joe." - " But yerxan sen' me ter the devil 1" be snapped sharply ; and an ugly look leapt into his eyes. They passed under the railway bridge which spans the lower end of Queen Victoria street, and reached the point where they usually parted. The girl stopped, but the man went on. " Are'nt yer goin' ter sell out, Joe ?" she queried timidly as he turned in the direction of the river. . "Wot for?" The tone and the manner puzzled hor more than the words. For a moment they stood confronting each other, the face of the man working convulsively and the girl's * ' features contracted with pain. Blackfriars Bridge was crossed in silence. Turning in Stamford street she whispered hoarsely, " I'm sorry for yer, Joe ; but if it's hard on you, it's rough on me. Anythin' as you ars'd me to do, Joe— anythin' as I cud do o' meself like — I'd do ut, mate, without sayin' why or wherefore. But sen' the ole man to the workus —I can't do that, lad. I know yer think I orter ; but I can't, Joe — I can'fc do ut." " A pretty fool yer made o' me now, — in't yer ? I giv' yer up the booze an'

cut the tommies w'en I tuck up wiv 1 you, 'Liza ; but you'd see me at blazes suner 'an gi\' up that dru'ken old wagabone wot lives on yer, an' perwents yer 'avin a man as ud be good to yer." " It ud break me heart, Joe, ter 'aye I 'im die in the workus." j " Yer thinks a bloomin' sight more j uv a wrong nn than yer does uv a a right un," said the man savagely. i She gave him a look which must '• have convinced him of his error ; but blinded by passion he refused to see. I " Well," he snarled, " one of us 'as ' got ter scoot — him or me. There ain't i room fer two." The girl made no reply and they went. But silence was too oppressive and stifling. Near Waterloo station the man spoke again. " How much yer tuk, 'Liza ?" The question was abrupt, but the tone was friendly. It indicated a change of feeling. " Serving an' throe." He extended his hand. She put tho money into it without a word. " Meet me at the Garding in the mornin', 'Liza, and I'll stock the baskit far yer," said he, returning her ninepence. It was a curious transaction, but the explanation was probably to be found in the despairing utterances of the woman. " He's 'ad 'em awful bad agen, Joe. Lars night it were that dreadful " She stopped, warned by the cloud that was sweeping up over her companion's brow. The man's countenance had suddenly darkened, sparks from the nether fires danced in his eyes, the old, hard vindictive look had returned. "I wish he may die. I wish he wur dead !" he muttered fiercely. " Oh, Joe ! Joe, if yer love me, dun say thim words," entreated the girl. " I says 'em cos I loves yer ; cos it's on'y 'im wot's a keepin' yer frum a man as wants ter maike a 'appy woman uv yer. I says 'em cos I means 'em. No 'fence ter you, 'Liza." " Y'aint a bad sort, Joe," s aid the girl, turning her swimming eyes full on him ; " but yer a bit down on tbe ole man." He gave the barrow an unnecessarily vigorous shove. "I'mgoin' inter the 'Cut,' 'Liza," ter finish. No, I, ain't dun so dusty " — answering fcho question the girl had put to him half-an-hour before. " I started out with a .dozen, an' this yere's th' on'y one leff." He emptied the contents of the basket on the board. " I shall knock 'em in the ' Cut ' at freppence. 'Taint orfeu they see cherries like them in New Cut. They're City fruit, they are. Try 'em." He filled a bag and gave it to her. " I'll look roun' arter I clear out." As he walked away his eyes followed her. " She thinks a bloomin' sight too much, she do, o' that dru'ken ole scamp, her father," he growled, staring after tbe retreating figure ; " but I ain't all a fool, mate. Grit's wuth gold." In the third pair back of a tenement house in Lambeth a girl was kneeling by the side of a bed. A paper bag was lying on the coverlet, and some cherries had fallen on the floor. On the bed lay the body of a man. The room reeked with the fumes of whisky. The long lithe fingers of the gird's right hand were clasped convvlsively round the hand of the motionless figure extended on tbe bed. " Joe !" she moaned ; " Joe, lad, ye've got yer wish. The ole man'll never rile yer any more. I love yer, mate, dearer than life ; but its thim words o' yourn as I shall hear, an' not parson's, on the day yer takes me inter chuch."