An Unfinished Love Story Page #2

"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

								

of the cow, and watch Lizzie at her work; and each time she would, as
though in obedience to an influence she could not resist, turn her face
to him--having noted the pause in his milking. There was a wonder in her
expression--as if something had come into her life which she could not
realize--curiosity in his.

When the spare pail was full, he would follow her with it to the little
bark dairy; and she held out the cloth which served as a strainer whilst
he poured the milk in, and, as the last drops went through, their mouths
would come together.

He carried the slop-buckets to the pigsty for her, and helped to poddy
(hand feed) a young calf. He had to grip the calf by the nape of the
neck, insert a forefinger in its mouth, and force its nose down into an
oil-drum full of skim milk. The calf sucked, thinking it had a teat; and
so it was taught to drink. But calves have a habit, born of instinct, of
butting the udders with their noses, by way of reminding their mothers
to let down the milk; and so this calf butted at times, splashing sour
milk over Brook, and barking his wrist against the sharp edge of the
drum. Then he would swear a little, and Lizzie would smile sadly and
gravely.

Brook did not go away that day, nor the next, but he took the coach
on the third day thereafter. He and Lizzie found a quiet corner to say
good-bye in. She showed some emotion for the first time, or, perhaps,
the second--maybe the third time--in that week of her life. They had
been out together in the moonlight every evening. (Brook had been
fifteen years in cities.) They had scarcely looked at each other that
morning--and scarcely spoken.

He looked back as the coach started and saw her sitting inside the big
kitchen window. She waved her hand--hopelessly it seemed. She had rolled
up her sleeve, and to Brook the arm seemed strangely white and fair
above the line of sunburn round the wrist. He hadn't noticed it before.
Her face seemed fairer too, but, perhaps, it was only the effect of
light and shade round that window.

He looked back again, as the coach turned the corner of the fence, and
was just in time to see her bury her face in her hands with a passionate
gesture which did not seem natural to her.

Brook reached the city next evening, and, “after hours,” he staggered in
through a side entrance to the lighted parlour of a private bar.

They say that Lizzie broke her heart that year, but, then, the world
does not believe in such things nowadays.
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