An Unfinished Love Story

"An Unfinished Love Story" by Henry Lawson is a poignant narrative that explores the themes of love, loss, and the complexities of human relationships. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Australia, the story delves into the emotional struggles of its characters as they navigate their feelings and societal expectations. Lawson's evocative prose captures the beauty and heartache of love, making it a timeless tale about the unfinished aspects of romance and the enduring impact of unfulfilled connections.

• Short story

								
Brook let down the heavy, awkward sliprails, and the gaunt cattle
stumbled through, with aggravating deliberation, and scattered slowly
among the native apple-trees along the sidling. First there came an
old easygoing red poley cow, then a dusty white cow; then two shaggy,
half-grown calves--who seemed already to have lost all interest in
existence--and after them a couple of “babies,” sleek, glossy, and
cheerful; then three more tired-looking cows, with ragged udders
and hollow sides; then a lanky barren heifer--red, of course--with
half-blind eyes and one crooked horn--she was noted for her great
agility in jumping two-rail fences, and she was known to the selector as
“Queen Elizabeth;” and behind her came a young cream-coloured milker--a
mighty proud and contented young mother--painfully and patiently
dragging her first calf, which was hanging obstinately to a teat, with
its head beneath her hind legs. Last of all there came the inevitable
red steer, who scratched the dust and let a stupid “bwoo-ur-r-rr” out of
him as he snuffed at the rails.

Brook had shifted the rails there often before--fifteen years
ago--perhaps the selfsame rails, for stringy-bark lasts long; and the
action brought the past near to him--nearer than he wished. He did not
like to think of that hungry, wretched selection existence; he felt more
contempt than pity for the old-fashioned, unhappy boy, who used to let
down the rails there, and drive the cattle through.

He had spent those fifteen years in cities, and had come here, prompted
more by curiosity than anything else, to have a quiet holiday. His
father was dead; his other relations had moved away, leaving a tenant on
the old selection.

Brook rested his elbow on the top rail of an adjacent panel and watched
the cattle pass, and thought until Lizzie--the tenant's niece--shoved
the red steer through and stood gravely regarding him (Brook, and not
the steer); then he shifted his back to the fence and looked at her.
He had not much to look at: a short, plain, thin girl of nineteen,
with rather vacant grey eyes, dark ringlets, and freckles; she had no
complexion to speak of; she wore an ill-fitting print frock, and a
pair of men's 'lastic-sides several sizes too large for her. She was
“studying for a school-teacher;” that was the height of the ambition of
local youth. Brook was studying her.

He turned away to put up the rails. The lower rail went into its place
all right, but the top one had got jammed, and it stuck as though it was
spiked. He worked the rail up and down and to and fro, took it under his
arm and tugged it; but he might as well have pulled at one of the
posts. Then he lifted the loose end as high as he could, and let it
fall--jumping back out of the way at the same time; this loosened it,
but when he lifted it again it slid so easily and far into its socket
that the other end came out and fell, barking Brook's knee. He swore a
little, then tackled the rail again; he had the same trouble as before
with the other end, but succeeded at last. Then he turned away, rubbing
his knee.

Lizzie hadn't smiled, not once; she watched him gravely all the while.

“Did you hurt your knee?” she asked, without emotion.

“No. The rail did.”

She reflected solemnly for a while, and then asked him if it felt sore.

He replied rather briefly in the negative.

“They were always nasty, awkward rails to put up,” she remarked, after
some more reflection.

Brook agreed, and then they turned their faces towards the homestead.
Half-way down the sidling was a clump of saplings, with a big log lying
amongst them. Here Brook paused. “We'll sit down for a while and have a
rest,” said he. “Sit down, Lizzie.”

She obeyed with the greatest of gravity. Nothing was said for awhile.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the
ridge, which was growing dim. It looked better when it was dim, and so
did the rest of the scenery. There was no beauty lost when darkness hid
the scenery altogether. Brook wondered what the girl was thinking about.
The silence between them did not seem awkward, somehow; but it didn't
suit him just then, and so presently he broke it.

“Well, I must go to-morrow.”

“Must you?”

“Yes.”

She thought awhile, and then she asked him if he was glad to go.

“Well, I don't know. Are you sorry, Lizzie?”

She thought a good long while, and then she said she was.

He moved closer to the girl, and suddenly slipped his arm round her
waist. She did not seem agitated; she still gazed dreamily at the line
of ridges, but her head inclined slightly towards him.

“Lizzie, did you ever love anyone?”--then anticipating the usual
reply--“except, of course, your father and mother, and all that sort of
thing.” Then, abruptly: “I mean did you ever have a sweetheart?”

She reflected, so as to be sure; then she said she hadn't. Long pause,
and he, the city man, breathed hard--not the girl. Suddenly he moved
nervously, and said:

“Lizzie--Lizzie! Do you know what love means?”

She pondered over this for some minutes, as a result of which she said
she thought that she did.

“Lizzie! Do you think you can love me?”

She didn't seem able to find an answer to that. So he caught her to
him in both arms, and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. She was
agitated now--he had some complexion now; she struggled to her feet,
trembling.

“We must go now,” she said quickly. “They will be waiting for tea.”

He stood up before her, and held her there by both hands.

“There is plenty of time. Lizzie--”

“Mis-ter Br-o-o-k-er! Li-i-z-zee-e-e! Come ter yer tea-e-e!” yelled a
boy from the house.

“We must really go now.”

“Oh, they can wait a minute. Lizzie, don't be frightened”--bending his
head--“Lizzie, put your arms round my neck and kiss me--now. Do as I
tell you, Lizzie--they cannot see us,” and he drew her behind a bush.
“Now, Lizzie.”

She obeyed just as a frightened child might.

“We must go now,” she panted, breathless from such an embrace.

“Lizzie, you will come for a walk with me after tea?”

“I don't know--I can't promise. I don't think it would be right. Aunt
mightn't like me to.”

“Never mind aunt. I'll fix her. We'll go for a walk over to the
school-teacher's place. It will be bright moonlight.”

“I don't like to promise. My father and mother might not--”

“Why, what are you frightened of? What harm is there in it?” Then,
softly, “Promise, Lizzie.”

“Promise, Lizzie.”

She was hesitating.

“Promise, Lizzie. I'm going away to-morrow--might never see you again.
You will come, Lizzie? It will be our last talk together. Promise,
Lizzie.... Oh, then, if you don't like to, I won't press you....  Will you
come, or no?”

“Ye-es.”

“One more, and I'll take you home.”

It was nearly dark.

Brook was moved to get up early next morning and give the girl a hand
with the cows. There were two rickety bails in the yard. He had not
forgotten how to milk, but the occupation gave him no pleasure--it
brought the past near again.

Now and then he would turn his face, rest his head against the side

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