'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 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.
