Part 80 (1/2)
”Nay, she'll be down-stairs with the company, won't she? Yes, Liza, you do grow more and more hansum every day.”
”Then you oughtn't to tell me so, mother. It'll only make me prouder than I am. Now, what do you want again? This is four times you've been here this week.”
”Is it, my dear? Well, you see, I've got some of them big mussels as you're so fond on, and I brought you a few to cook for your supper.”
”It's very good of you. Well, there; give them to me, and do please go.”
”Yes, my dear, there you are. That's right. Haven't got a bit o' cold meat, and a bit o' bread you could give me, have you, Liza?”
”No, I haven't, mother; and you ought to be ashamed to ask.”
”So I am, my dear, almost. But you have got some, or half a chicken and some ham.”
”Chicken! Oh, the idea!”
”Yes. There's a good girl; and if there's a bit o' cold pudden, or anything else, let's have it too. Put it all together in a cloth.”
”Now, mother, I won't. It's stealing, and I should feel as if I'd stole it.”
”Oh, what a gal you are, Liza! Why, didn't I wash, and iron, and bring home that last napkin, looking white as snow?”
”Yes, but--”
”And so I will this.”
”But you won't bring back the cold chicken and ham,” retorted Liza.
”Why, how could I, my dear? You know they won't keep.”
”Well, once for all, mother, I won't, and there's an end of it.”
”You'll break my heart, Liza, 'fore you've done,” whimpered the fish-woman. ”Think o' the days and days as I've carried you 'bout in this very basket, when I've been out gathering mussels or selling fish.”
”Now, don't talk stuff, mother. You weared out half-a-dozen baskets since then.”
”P'r'aps I have, Liza, but I haven't weared out the feeling that you're my gal, as lives here on the fat o' the land, and hot puddens every day, and refuses to give your poor mother a bit o' broken wittle to save her from starving. Oh!”
”Mother, don't?” cried Liza, stamping her foot. ”If you cry like that they'll hear you in the parlour.”
”Then give me a bit o' something to eat, and let me go.”
”I won't, and that's flat, mother.”
”Then I shall sit down on the front door-step, and I'll wait till Miss Louy comes; and she'll make you give me something. No, I won't; I'll stop till cook comes. Where is she?”
”A cleaning herself.”
”Then I shall wait.”
”Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Liza, stamping about, and speaking in a tearful whisper. ”I do wish I never hadn't had no mother, that I do.”
”There's a ungrateful gal,” said the fish-woman; ”and you growed up so beautiful, and me so proud on you.”